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THE 



WORKS OF LORD BYRON 



IN VERSE AND PROSE, 




INCLUDING HIS LETTERS, JOURNALS, ETC 
WITH A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE, 



STEREOTYPE OF A. PBLL ft BROTHER. 

NEW-YORK ; 
GEORGE DEARBORN, PUBLISHER, 

71 TOIIN-STREET, CORNER OF GOLD. 



SOLT> DV COI.I.INS AND HANNAY. NEW VORK^-QRIOa AND EJJJOT, MIHADFLrUl \ 
AND CARTER, HENDEE AND CO , RORTON 
M DCCC XXXIII., 



^^\ 

<^'' 



<^ 



PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Poetical Works of Lord Byron have been pubUshed in a 
variety of forms — but at no time, or in any country, has a uniform 
edition of his Prose and Poetical Works been attempted before the 
present. The edition now publishing in London, by Murray, con- 
tains so much of Byron's Prose writing as is included in the Life by 
Moore. — In the American edition there is a great number of the 
Letters of Byron not in the English copy, including Letters to his 
mother. There is also in this edition a large collection of Poems 
not in any previous American orie ; many blanks are filled up, and 
explanatory notes added, which will be found of essential service to 
the reader. The present, therefore, is emphatically the first complete 
edition of the Poetical and Prose Works of Lord Byron. 

The Head of Byron, engraved for this edition, is from a painting 
by an American artist, and was considered by Byron and his friends 
as the best ever taken. 

New-York, Jan. 1833. 



contents; 



LETTERS, ETC. 



LIFE 



LETTERS. 

I. to Miss Pigot 
II. to Mr. Pigot . 

III. to Miss Pigot 

IV. to Mr. Pigot . 
V. to Mr. Pigot 

VI. to Mr. Pigot . 
VII. to Mr. Pigot 
VIII. to Miss Pigot 
IX. to the Earl of Clare . 
X. to Mr. Pigot . 
XI. to Mr. William Bankes 
XII. to Mr. William Bankes 
XIIL to Mr. Falknor . 
XIV. to Mr. Pigot . 
XV. to Miss Pigot 
XVI. fo Miss Pigot 
XVII. to Miss Pigot . 
XVIII. to Miss Pigot 
XIX. to Miss Pigot . 
XX. to Miss Pigot 
XXI. to Miss Pigot . 
XXII. to Mr. Dallas 

XXIII. to Mr. Dallas . 

XXIV. to Mr. Henry Drury 
XXV. to Mr. Harness . 

XXVI. to Mr. Harness 
XXVII. to Mr Becher . 
XXVIII. to Mr. Becher 
XXIX. to Mr. Jackson . 
XXX. to Mr. Jackson 
XXX r. to Mr. Jackson . 
XXXir. fo Mr. Becher 
XXXni. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
XXXIV. to Mrs. Byron 
XXXV. to Mr. Hodgson 
XXXVI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
XXXVII. to R. C. Dallas. Esq. 
XXXVni. foMrs. Byron 
XXXIX. to Mr. Harness 

XL. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
XLI. to Mr. William Bankes 
XLIl. to Mrs. Byron 
XLin. fo Mr. Henry Dniry . 
XLIV. to Mr. Hodgson 
XLV. to Mr. Hodgson 
XLVI. to Mr. Hudgson 
XLVII. to the Hon. Mr.'^. Byron 
XLVIH. toMr. Ri.shfon 
XLIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
L. to Mrs. Byron 
LI. to Mrs. Byron . 
LII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LIII, to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LIV. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 



PAGE 
XV 



LETTERS. 

LV. to Mr. Henry Drury . 
LVI. to Mr. Hodgson 
LVII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LVIII. to Mr. Henry Drury 
LIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LX. to Mrs. Byron 
LXI. to Mrs. Byron 
LXII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LXIII. to Mr. Hodgson 
LXIV. to Mrs. Byron 
LXV. to Mrs. Byron . 
LXVL to Mrs. Byron 
LXVII. to Mr. Hodgson . 
LXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 
LXTX. to Mr. Henry Drmy 
LXX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LXXI. to Dr. Pigot 
LXXII. to Mr. Scrope Davies 

LXXIH. to Bolton, Esq. 

LXXIV. to Mr. Bolton 
LXXV. to Mr. Bolton . 
LXXVI. to Mr. Dallas 
LXXVIL to Mr. Hodgson 
LXXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 
LXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
LXXX. to Mr. Dallas 
LXXXL to Mr. Dallas. . 
LXXXII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
LXXXHI. to Mr. Murray . 
LXXXIV. to Mr. Dallas 
LXXXV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
LXXX VI. to Mr. Murray 
LXXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
LXXXVIH. to R.C.Dallas, Esq. 
LXXXIX. toMr. Muriay . 
XC. to Mr. Dallas 
XCL loR.C. Dallas, Esq. 
XCH. to Mr. Dallas 
XCHI. to Mr. Dallas 
XCTV. toR. C.Dallas, Esq. 
XCV. to R.C.Dallas, Esq. 
XCVI. to Mr. Dallas 
XCVII. to Mr. Hodgson 
XCVHL to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
XCIX. foR.C. Dallas, Esq. 
C. to R.C.Dallas, Esq. 
CI. to R. C. Dallas, E.<q. 
CIl. to Miss Pigot 
CHI. Mr. Moore to Lord Byron 
CIV. to Mr. Mooro 
("V. to Mr. Mooro 
CVI. to Mr. Mooro 
evil. toMr. INToore 
CVIU. to Mr. Harness 
CIX. to Mr. Harness 
ex. to Mr. Hodtrson 



19 

20 

20 

21 

21 

22 

23 

23 

23 

24 

25 

25 

25 

26 

26 

26 

27 

27 

27 

28 

28 

28 

28 

29 

29 

29 

30 

30 

30 

31 

31 

31 

32 

32 

33 

32 

32 

32 

33 

33 

33 

34 

35 

35 

36 

36 

36 

36 

36 

36 

37 

37 

37 

37 

88 

S8^ 



viii 


CONTENTS. 






PAGE 




PAGE 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 




CXI. to Mr. Hodgson . 


39 


CLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray 


60 


CXII. to Mr. Harness 


. 39 


CLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


61 


CXIII. to Mr. Moore . 


39 


CLXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 


. 61 


CXrV. to Mr. Moore ^ . 


. 40 


CLXXXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


61 


CXV. to Robert Rushton* 


40 


CLXXXVIIT. to Mr. Murray 


. 62 


CXVI. to Robert Rushton . 


. 40 


CLXXXIX. to Mr. Ashe 


62 


CXVir. to Mr. Hodsson . 


40 


CXC. to Mr. Ashe , 


. 62 


CXVIII. to Master John Cowell . 


. 40 


CXCI. to Mr. Gait 


. 63 


CXIX. to Mr. Rogers. . 


41 


CXCII. to Mr. Leigh Hunt . 


. 63 


CXX. to Lord Holland . . 


• 41 


CXCIir. to Mr. Merivale 


63 


CXXL to Mr. Hodgson . 


41 


CXCIV. to Mr. Murray 


. 63 


CXXIL to Lord Holland 


. 4^ 


CXCV. to Mr. Moore 


63 


CXXIIL to Mr, William Bankes 


42 


CXCVI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 64 


CXXIV. to Mr. William Bankes . 


. 42 


CXCVII. to :\Ir. Murray . 


64 


CXXV. to Lord Holland . 


43 


CXC VIII. to Mr. Murray 


. U 


CXXVI. to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 


. 43 


CXCIX. to Mr. Murray . 


65 


CXXVn. to Lord Holland . 


44 


CC. to Mr. Murray 


. 65 


CXXVHL to Lord Holland 


. 44 


CCI. to Mr. Hodgson . 


66 


CXXIX. to Lord Holland . 


44 


CCIL to Mr. Moore 


. 66 


CXXX. to Lord Holland 


. 44 


CCIII. to Mr. Hunt 


66 


CXXXL to Lord Holland . 


44 


CCIV. to Mr. Murray 


. 67 


CXXXIL to Lord Holland 


. 45 


CCV. to Mr. Rogers . 


67 


CXXXni. to Lord Holland . 


45 


CCVI. to Mr. Rogers 


. 67 


CXXXIV. to Lord Holland 


. 45 


CCVII. to Mr. Moore 


67 


CXXXV. to Lord Holland . 


45 


CCVIII. to Mr. Dallas 


. 68 


CXXXVL to Lord Holland 


. 46 


CCIX. to * * * * . 


68 


CXXXVH. to Lord Holland . 


46 


CCX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 69 


CXXXVni. to Lord Holland 


. 46 


CCXL to W * * W * * Esq. 


69 


CXXXIX. to Lord Holland . 


47 


CCXII. to M. ]Moore . 


. 69 


CXL. to Lord Holland 


. 47 


CCXIII. to Mr. Moore 


70 


CXLL to Mr. Murray . 


47 


CC XIV. to Mr. Murray 


. 70 


CXLH. to Mr. INlurray 


. 47 


CCXV. to Mr. Murray . 


70 


CXLHL to Mr. William Bankes 


48 


CCXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 70 


CXLIV. to Mr. Murray 


. 48 


CCXVIL to Mr. Moore . 


71 


CXLV. to Mr. Murray . 


48 


CCXVIII. to Mr. Murray 


. 72 


CXLVL to Lord Holland 


. 48 


CCXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


72 


CXLVn. to Mr. Murray . 


49 


CCXX. to Mr. Murray 


. 72 


CXLVIH. to Mr. Murray 


. 49 


CCXXI. to Mr. IMurray . 


72 


CXLIX. to Mr. Murray . 


49 


. CCXXII. to :Mr. Murray 


. 72 


CL. to Mr. Murray 


. 49 


CCXXni. to Mr. Murray . 


73 


CLL .to Mr, William Bankes 


50 


CCXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 73 


CLHt to Mr. Murray 


. 50 


CCXXV. to Mr. INIoore 


74 


CLIIL to Mr. Rogers 


60 


CCXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 74 


CLIV. to :Mr. Murray 


50 


CCXXVIf. to Mr. Rogers . 


74 


CLY. to Mr. Murrav . 


51 


CCXXVin. to Mr. Rogers 


. 75 


CLVr. to Mr. Murrav 


. 51 


CCXXIX. to Mr. Moore 


75 


CLVn. to Mr. Murray . 


51 


CCXXX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 75 


CLVni. to W. Gifibrd, Esq. 


. 51 


CCXXXI. to Mr. Murrav . 


75 


CLTX. to Mr. Moore . . 


51 


CCXXXII. to Mr. IMurray 


. 75 


CLX. to Mr. Moore 


. 52 


CCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


76 


Cl-XI. to Mr. Moore . 


52 


CCXXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 76 


CLXn. to ?.Ir. Moore 


. 52 


CC XXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


77 


CLX in. to Mr. Moore 


53 


CCXXX^'I. to Mr. Murray 


. 77 


GLXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 53 


CCXXXVII. to Mr. Moore 


77 


CLXV. to Mr. Croker 


53 


CCXXX VIII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 77 


CLXVI. to Mr. Mmrav 


. 54 


CCXXXIX. to INIr. Murrav • 


78 


CLXVIl. to Mr. Murrav . 


54 


CCXL. to Mr. Murrav 


. 78 


CLXVHf. to Mr. Murrav 


. 54 


CCXLI. to :Mr. Moore' . 


78 


CLXIX. to Mr. Moore 


54 


CCXLIL to Mr. Moore . 


. 78 


CLXX. to INIr. Moore 


. 55 


CCXLIII. to Mr. IVIoore 


79 


CLXX[. to Mr. Moore 


58 


CCXLI V. to the c -unless of * * * . 


. 79 


CLXXII. to .Mr. Moore . 


. 56 


CCXLV. to Mr. Moore 


79 


CLXX 1 11. to Mr. r>Ioore 


56 


CCXLYI. to Mr. Hunt . 


. 80 


CL XXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 57 


CCXLVII. to Mr. iNIoore 


80 


(^LXXV. to Mr. Moore . 


57 


CCXLVIII. to Mr. Henrv Drury 


. 80 


CLXXVt. toMr.r^Ioore . 


. 57 


CCXLIX. to Mr. Cowell . . , 


80 


CLXXVII. to.. Ir. Moore 


57 


CCL. to Mr. Moore 


. 81 


CLXXVlir.toLeichH.ini 


. 58 


ecu. to Mr. Murray , 


81 


CLXXIX. toMr. Moore 


58 


CCLII. to Mr. Murray 


. 81 


CLXXX. to Mr. Murrav 


. 59 


CCLIII. to Mr. Nathan . 


81 


OLXXXI. loMr. GiiFord 


59 


CCLIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 81 


CLXXXIT, to Mr. Murray 


. 59 


CCLV. to Mr. Moore . 


81 


<:LXXXlIi. to Mr ■\Iurray . 


. GO 


CCI.VI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 82 





CONTENTS. 




iz 




PAGE 






PAGB 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 


, 




CCLVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 82 


CCCXXX. 


to Mr. Moore 


. . Ill 


CCLVIIl. to Mr. Moore 


. 82 


CCCXXXL 


to Mr. Murray 


. 112 


CCLIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 82 


cccxxxn. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 113 


CCLX. to Mr. Moore 


83 


cccxxxni. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 113 


CCLXI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 83 


CCCXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 113 


CCLXII. to Mr. Moore 


83 


cccxxxv. 


to Mr. Murray 


. . 114 


CCLXI II. to Mr. Moore . 


. 84 


CCCXXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. . 114 


CCLXIV. to Mr. Coleridge . 


84 


cccxxxvn. 


to Mr. Murray 


. . 114 


CCLXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 84 


cccxxxvm. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 115 


CCLXVI. to Mr. Moore 


85 


CCCXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 116 


CCLXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 85 


CCCXL. 


to Mr. Murray 


116 


CCLXVllI. to Mr. Hunt . 


85 


CCCXLI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 116 


CCLXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 85 


CCCXLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


116 


CCLXX. to Mr. Moore 


86 


CCCXLIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 117 


CCLXXI. to Mr. Sotheby .• 


. 87 


CCCXLIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


117 


CCLXXII. to Mr. Sotheby 


87 


CCCXLV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 117 


CCLXXIII. to Mr. Taylor . 


. 87 


CCCXLVL 


to Mr. Moore 


118 


CCLXXIV. to Mr. Murray 


87 


CCCXL VII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 118 


CCLXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 87 


CCCXL vni. 


to Mr. Murray 


118 


CCLXXVI. to Mr. Hunt . 


87 


CCCXLIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. . 119 


CCLXXVTI. to Mr. Hunt . 


, 88 


CCCL. 


to Mr. Murray 


119 


CCLXXVIII. to Mr. Hunt . 


88 


CCCLL 


to Mr. Murray . 


. .119 


CCLXXI X. to Mr. Moore . 


. 88 


CCCLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


120 


CCLXXX. to Mr. Hunt . 


89 


CCCLIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


. . 121 


CCLXXXI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 89 


CCCLIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 121 


CCLXXXII. to Mr. Moore 


90 


CCCLV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. . 121 


CCLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 90 


CCCLVI. 


to Mr. Murray 


121 


CCLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray 


90 


CCCLVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. . 122 


CCLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 90 


CCCLVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 123 


CCLXXXVI. to Mr. Moore 


91 


CCCLIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. . 123 


CCLXXXVn. to Mr. Hunt . 


. 91 


CCCLX. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


. 123 


CCLXXXVItl. to Mr. Rogers 


91 


CCCLXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 124 


CCLXXXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 91 


CCCXLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


124 


CCXC. to Mr. Hunt . 


92 


CCCLXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 124 


CCXCI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 92 


CCCLXIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


124 


CCXCII. to Mr. Murray 


93 


CCCLXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 125 


CCXCIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 93 


CCCLXVL 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


125 


CCXCTV. to Mr. Murray 


93 


CCCLXVII. 


to Mr. Rogers. 


126 


CCXCV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 93 


cccLxvni. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. . 126 


CCXC VI. to Mr. Murray 


94 


CCCLXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


127 


CCXC VII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 94 


CCCLXX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 127 


CCXCVIII. to Mr. Rogers 


94 


CCCLXXI. 


to Mr. Murray 


127 


CCXCIX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 94 


CCCLXXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 128 


CCC. to Mr. Murray 


94 


CCCLXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


123 


CCCI. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 95 


CCCLXXIV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 128 


CCCIl. to Mr. Murray 


95 


CCCLXXV 


to ♦ * * * . 


. 129 


CCCIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 96 


CCCLXXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 131 


CCCIV. to Mr. Murray 


96 


CCCLXXVIl. 


to Mr. Murray 


131 


CCCV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 96 


cccLxxvm. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. . 131 


CCCVI. to Mr. Murray 


96 


CCCLXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


132 


CCCVIl. to Mr. Murray 


97 


CCCLXXX. 


to Capt. Basil Hall 


. 132 


CCCVIU. to Mr. Moore . 


. 97 


CCCLXXXI. 


to Mr. Moore 


132 


CCCIX. to Mr. Moore 


98 


cccLxxxn. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 133 


CCC X. to Mr. Moore . 


. 99 


CCCLXXXUI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


133 


CCCXI. to Mr. Murray 


101 


CCCLXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 133 


CCCXII. to Mr. Murray . 


. . 101 


CCCLXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray 


134 


CCCXIIT. to Mr. Murray 


. 102 


CCCLXXXVL 


to Mr. Murray . 


. i;m 


CCC XIV. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 102 


CCCLXXXVII. 


to the Editor of Gall 


gnani's 


CCC XV. to Mr. Murray . 


102 




Messenger 


13^1 


CCCXVI. (oMr. Moore 


. 103 


CCCLXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 135 


CCCXVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 104 


CCCLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


135 


CCCXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. . 105 


CCCXC. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 136 


CCCXIX. to Mr. Murray 


. 105 


CCCXCI. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


136 


CCCXX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 106 


CCCXCU. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


. 136 


CCCXXI. to Mr. Murray 


. 106 


cccxcin. 


to Mr. Murray 


137 


CCCXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 107 


CCCXCIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


. 137 


CCCXXIH. to Mr. Mooro' 


. 107 


cccxcv. 


to Mr. Murray 


138 


CCCXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. . 108 


CCCXC VI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


. 138 


CCCXXV. toMr. Mniray 


108 


cccxcv 11. 


to Mr. Murray 


139 


CCCXXVI. to Mr. Moore 


. . 109 


cccxcvni. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 139 


CCCXXVTI. to Mr. Murray 


110 


CCCXCIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


189 


■CCCXXVIIl. to Mr. Roger.s . 


. . 110 


CCCC. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 140 


CCCXXI X. to Mr. Murray . 


111 


CCCCI. 


to ihc Countess Guicc 


Mola 110 



CONTENTS. 



LETTERS 

CCCCII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCIV. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCV. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCVI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCVH. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCVni. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCX. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCCXI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXn. to the Countess Guiccioli 
CCCCXHI. to the Countess Guiccioli 
CCCCXIV. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXVI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXVII. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCCXVni. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXIX. to Mr. Hoppner 

CCCCXX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXI. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCCXXn. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXrn. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCCXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXVII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXVin. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCC XXXI. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXXXn. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXXni. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXIV. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXXXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXXVII. to Mr. Murray . 
.CCCCXXXVni. to Mr. Murray . 
.CCCCXXXIX. to Mr. Moore 

CCCC XL. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXLI. to Mr. Moore 
<:CCCXLII. to Mr. Murray 
<:JCCCXLIII. to Mr. Moore 
.-CCCCXLIV. to Mr. Moore 

CCCC XLV. to Mr. Murray . 
43CCCXLVI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCC XL Vn. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXLVnL to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXLIX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCL. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLI. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLU. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLHI. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLIV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLV. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLVL to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLVn. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLVHI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLIX. to Mr. Moore 

CCCCLX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXn. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXIIL to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXIV. to Mr. Murray 

CCCCLXV. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXVI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXVn. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCCLXVHL to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXIX. to Mr. Moore 
Address to the Neapolitan government 
CCCCLXX. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXXL to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXXII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXXin. lo Mr. Murray . 



140 
141 
141 
142 
142 
143 
143 
143 
144 
144 
145 
145 
145 
145 
146 
146 
147 
147 
147 
148 
148 
149 
149 
150 
150 
150 
150 
150 
151 
151 
151 
152 
152 
152 
153 
154 
154 
154 
155 
155 
155 
156 
156 
157 
157 
158 
158 
158 
158 
158 
159 
159 
160 
160 
161 
161 
162 
162 
163 
163 
163 
164 
164 
165 
166 
167 
167 
167 
168 
168 
169 
169 
170 



LETTERS 
CCCCLXXIV. 
CCCCLXXV. 
CCCCLXXVL 

ccccLxxvn. 

CCCCLXXVIIL 
CCCCLXXIX. 
CCCCLXXX. 
CCCCLXXXL 

ccccLxxxn, 

CCCCLXXXIII. 
CCCCLXXXIV. 
CCCCLXXXV. 
CCCCLXXXVI. 

ccccLxxxvn. 

CCCCLXXXVIIT. 
CCCCLXXXIX. 

ccccxc. 

CCCCXCL 
CCCCXCH. 

ccccxcm. 

CCCCXCIV. 

CCCCXCV. 

CCCCXCVE. 

ccccxcvn. 

CCCCXCVHL 

CCCCXCIX. 

D. 

DL 

DH. 

DHL 

DIV. 

DV. 

DVI. 

Dvn. 

DVIIL 

DIX. 

DX. 

DXL 

DXIL 

DXHL 

DXIV. 

DXV. 

DXVI. 

DXVir. 

DXVHL 

DXIX. 

DXX. 

DXXL 

DXXH. 

DXXHL 

DXXIV. 

DXXV. 

DXXVL 

DXXVII. 

DXXVJII. 

DXXIX. 

DXXX. 

DXXXL 

Dxxxn. 
Dxxxni. 

DXXXIV. 

DXXXV. 

DXXXVI. 

DXXXVII. 

DXXXVIIL 

Dxxxrx. 

DXL. 

DXLI. 

DXLII. 

DXLIII. 

DXLIV. 

DXLV. 

DXL VI. 



to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr, Perry . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Hoppner 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Shelley . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Hoppner 

to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray . 

to the Countess Guiccioli 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Hoppner 

to Mr, Murray 

to Mr. Murray , 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Hoppner 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray , 

lo Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Murray , 

to Mr. Hoppner 

to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray . 

to MpwMurray 

to Mr. Murray , 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Moore , 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore , 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. MuiTay 

to Mr. Rogers 

to Mr. Moore , 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mi . Sheppard 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Shelley , 

to Mr. Moore 

td Sir Walter Scott, Bart 

to Douglas Kinnaird 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore 







CONTENTS. 


xi 






PAGE 


PAOB 


LETTERS 






LETTERS 




DXT.VII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 197 


DC III. to the Honourable Mr. Dou- 




DXLVIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


198 


glas Kinnaird . 


218 


DXLIX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 198 


DC IV. to Mr. Bowring 


218 


DL. 


to Mr. Moore 


198 


DCV. to Mr. Moore 


218 


DLL 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 199 


DC VI. to the Hon. Col. Stanhope 


219 


DLIL 


to Mr. Murray 


199 


DCVII. to Mr. Muir . 


219 


DLIIL 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 199 


DC VIII. to Mr. C. Hancock 


220 


DLIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


200 


DCIX. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 


220 


DLV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 200 


DCX. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 


221 


DLVI. 


to Mr. Murray 


200 


DC XI. to Mr. Charles Hancoc . 


221 


DLVIL 


to Mr. Murray 


. 200 


DCXII. to * * * * . 


221 


DLVIII. 


to Mr. Shelley 


200 


DCXIII. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 


222 


DLIX. 


to Sir Walter Scott 


. 201 


DC XIV. to Andrew Londo . 


223 


DLX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 201 


DC XV. to His Highness Yiissuff Pa- 




DLXL 


to Mr. Moore . 


. . 201 


cha .... 


223 


DLXII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


201 


DCXVI. to Mr. Barff . 


223 


DLXIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 202 


DC XVII. to Mr. Mayer . 


223 


DLXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 202 


DC XVIII. to Hon. Douglas Kinnaird 


224 


DLXV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 203 


DC XIX. to Mr. Barff . 


224 


DLXVI. 


toMr. Ellice 


203 


DC XX. to Mr. Murray . 


224 


DLXVII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 203 


DCXXI. to Mr. Moore 


22S 


DLXVIIL 


to Mr. Murray 


204 


DCXXII. to Dr. Kennedy 


225 


DLXIX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 204 


DCXXIII. to Mr. Barff . 


225 


DLXX. 


to Mr. Moore 


204 


DC XXIV. to Mr. Barff . 


226 


DLXXL 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 205 


DCXXV. toSr.Parruca 


226 


DLXXIL 


to Mr. Murray 


205 


DC XXVI. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 


226 


DLXXIIL 


to Mr. Murray 


. 206 


DC XXVII. to Dr. Kennedy . 


226 


DLXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


206 


DC XXVIII. to Colonel Stanhope . 


227 


DLXXV. 


to Lady . 


. 207 


DCXXIX. to Mr. Barff . 


227 


DLXXVL 


to Mr. Proctor 


207 


DC XXX. to Mr. Barff . 


227 


DLXXVIL 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 207 


DCXXXI. to Mr. Barff . . . 


227 


DLXXVIIL 


to Mrs. 


. 208 


DCXXXII. to *****, a Prussian Of. 




DLXXIX. 


to Lady * * * . 


. 208 


ficer 


228 


DLXXX. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 208 


DCXXXIIL toMr. Barff . . . 


228 


DLXXXL 


to the Earl of Blessir 


gton 209 


DCXXWIV. to Mr.Barff . 


228 


DLXXXIL 


to the Earl of Blessk 


gton 210 


DC XXXV. to Mr. Barff . 


22» 


DLXXXIIL 


to the Earl of Blessir 


gton 210 






DLXXXIV. 


to the Count + * . 


210 


Extracts from a Journal begun Nov. 14, 1813 


22» 


, DLXXXV. 


to the Countess Bles 


sington 211 


Extracts from a Journal in Switzerland . 


244 


DLXXXVL 


to the Countess of* 


* ♦ 211 


Extracts from a Journal in Italy .... 


241 


DLXXXVII. 


to Lady Byron 


. 211 


Detached Thoughts, extracted from various journals, 


DLXXXVIIL 


to Mr. Blaquiere . 


212 


memorandums, &c. &c 


259 


DLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Bowring 


. 212 


The first chapter of a Novel, contemplated by Lord 


DXC. 


to Mr. Bowring . 


213 


Byron in the spring of 1812; (afterwards published 


DXCI. 


to Mr. Church 


. 213 


inoneofMr. Dallas' novels) .... 


271 


DXCIL 


to M. H. Beyle . 


214 


Parliamentary Speeches 


272 


DXCIIL 


to Lady * ♦ + +, 


. 214 


A Fragment 


278 


DXCIV. 


to the Countess of Ble 


3sington214 


Letter to John Murray on the Rev. W. L. Bowles 


♦s 


DXCV. 


to Mr. Bowring 


. 214 


strictures on the Life and writings of Pope . 


280 


DXCVL 


to Goethe 


. 215 


Extracts from a second Letter in answer to Mr. 


DXCVIL 


to Mr. Bowring 


. 215 


Bowles, written May 1821 . 


288 


DXCVIII. 


to the General Gove 


mment 


Extracts from a Pamphlet addressed to the editor of 




of Greece 


216 


Blackwood's Magazine, in 1820. . 


292 


DXCIX. 


to Prince Mavrocord. 


ito 216 


Letter to the editor of My Grandmother's Review 


296 


DC. 


to Mr. Bowring 


. 216 


Translation of two Epistles from the Armenian 


DCL 


to Mr. Bowring . 


217 


version 


299 


DCII. 


to Mr. Bowring 


. . 217 


The wiU of Lord Byron 


SOI 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS, ETC. 



PAGE 

CHiLCE Harold's pilgrimage. 

Preface 1 

Tolanthe 2 

Canto 1 3 

Canto II 11 

Canto III. 18 

Canto IV. ...... 27 

Notes to Canto 1 42 

Notes to Canto II 43 

Appendix ,51 

Notes to Canto III. ... .67 

Notes to Canto IV 59 

THE GIAOUR ... ... 81 

Notes 91 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

Canto 1 93 

Canto II 97 

Notes .102 

THE CORSAIR. 

Canto I. 105 

Canto II. 110 

Canto III 114 

Notes 119 

LARA. 

Canto 1 121 

Canto II 126 

Note 130 

8IEGE OF CORINTH 131 

Notes 139 

PARISINA 140 

Notes 144 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

Sonnet on Chillon ..... 145 

Notes 148 

BEPFO 149 

Notes 156 

MAZEPFA 156 

MANFRED 163 

Notes . ..... 174 

MEBREW MELODIES. 

She walks in beauty 174 

The harp the monarch milJstrel swept . .174 

Ifthat high world 174 

The wild gazelle 175 

Oh! weep for those 175 

On Jordan's banks 175 

Jephtha's daughter 1 75 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom . .175 

My soul is dark 175 

I saw thee weep 175 

Thy days are done 176 

Song of Saul before his last battle . . .176 

Saul 176 

" All is vanity, saith the preacher" . 176 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay 176 
Vision of Belshazzar . . . ' . .177 



PAGE 

Sun of the sleepless 177 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 177 

Herod's lament for Mariamne . . . 177 
On the day of the destruction of Jerusalem by 

Titus 177 

By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept 178 

The destruction of Sennacherib . . . 178 

From Job 178 

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE . . 178 

Notes 180 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN . 180 

LAMENT OF TASSO 181 

POEMS. 

Written in an album ..... 183 

To * * * . . . . . . 183 

Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian gulf 183 

Stanzas 184 

Written at Athens 184 

Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos 184 

Song . .185 

Translation of a famous Greek war song . 185 

Translation of a Romaic song . . . 185 

Written beneath a picture . . . 186 

On parting 186 

ToThyrza 186 

Stanzas 186 

To Thyrza 187 

Euthanasia 187 

Stanzas 187 

Stanzas 188 

On a cornelian heart which was broken . 188 

To a youthful friend . . . . 188 

To ***** * 189 

From the Portuguese . . . . 189 

Impromptu, in reply to a friend . . . 189 
Address spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane 

Theatre 190 

To Time 190 

Translation of a Romaic love-song . . 190 

A song 191 

On being asked what was the " origin of love" 191 

Remember him ...... 191 

Lines inscribed upon a cup formed from a skull 192 

On the death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. . 192 

To a lady weeping 192 

From the Turkish 192 

Sonnet 193 

Sonnet 193 

Inscription on the monument of a Newfoundland 

dog 193 

Farewell 193 

Bright be the place of thy soul . . . 193 

When we two parted 193 

Stanzas for music ..... 194 

Stanzas for music 194 

Fare thee well 194 



I 



CONTENTS. 



Xlll 



\ 



PAGE 

A sketch 196 

To 195 

Ode from the F'rench ..... 196 

From the French 197 

On the star of the legion of honour . .197 

Napoleon's farev/ell 197 

Written on a blank leaf of " The Pleasures of 

Memory" . . . . . .198 

Sonnet 198 

Stanzas to . . . . . .198 

Darkness 198 

Churchill's grave. A fact literally rendered . 199 

The dream 199 

Prometheus 201 

Romance muy doloroso del sitio y toraa de Alhama 201 
A very mournful ballad on the siege and conquest 

of Alhama 201 

Sonette di Vittorelli 203 

Translation from Vittorelli . ^ . . . 203 

Ode 204 

Notes to Poems 205 

PKOPHECy OF DANTE. 

Canto 1 206 

Canto II 207 

Canto III. 208 

Canto IV 210 

Notes 211 

CAIN 212 

MARINO FALIERO 228 

Notes 257 

Appendix 258 

SARDANAPALCrs 265 

Notes 291 

THE TWO FOSCARI 291 

Appendix 310 

WERNER . 315 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED . . . 345 

HEAVEN AND EARTH .... 358 

THE ISLAND. 

Canto 1 368 

Canto II 369 

Canto III 374 

Canto. IV. . 375 

Appendix 378 

HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

Preface 382 

On leaving Newstead Abbey . . . 383 

On a distant view of the village and school of 

Harrow on the Hill . . . . 383 

ToD 384 

Epitaph on a friend 384 

A fragment 384 

ToEddleslon 384 

Reply to some verses of J. M. Pigot, Esq. on 

the cruelty of his mistress .... 385 
To the sighing Strephon .... 385 

The tear 385 

To Miss Pigot 386 

Linos written in " Letters of an Italian Nun and 

an English Gentleman, by J. J. Rousseau, 

founded on Facts" .... 386 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 386 

The cornelian 386 

On the death of a young lady, cousin to the author, 

and very dear to him .... 387 

To Emma 387 

An occasional prologue, delivered previous to tho 

performance of " The Wheel of Fortune" at a 

private theatre ...... 387 

On the death of Mr. Fox .... 388 

ToM. SG 388 

To Caroline 388 

To Caroline 389 

ToCarolino 389 

c 



PAGE 

Stanzas to a lady . v . . . 389 

The first kiss of Igve .... 389 

To Mary 390 

To woman 390 

ToM. S. G: 390 

To a beautiful quaker .... 390 

Song 391 

To 391 

To Mary SS2 

ToLesbia S92 

Lines addressed to a young lady . . 392 

Love's last adieu 393 

Damaetas 393 

To Marion 393 

Oscar of Alva 394 

To the Duke of Dorset • . . . .397 

TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 

Adrian's address to his soul when dying, with 

Translation 398 

Translation from Catullus . . . 398 
Translation of the epitaph on Virgil and Ti- 

bullus 398 

Imitation of Tibullus .... 398 

Translation from Catullus .... 398 

Imitated from Catullus .... 398 

Translation from Horace .... 398 

Translation from Anacreon . . . 399 

Ode III 399 

Fragments of school exercises . , . 399 

The episode of Nisus and Eurialus . . 399 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides . 402 

FUGITIVE PIECES. 

Thoughts suggested by a college examination 403 

To the Earl of . ^ . . . .404 

Answer to some elegant verses sent by a friend 
lo the author, complaining that one of his de- 
scriptions was rather too warmly drawn 405 

Granta 405 

Lachin y. Gair 406 

To Romance 407 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey . . . 407 
On a change of masters at a great public school 409 
Childish recollections .... 409 
Answer to a beautiful poem, written by Montgo- 
mery, author of " I'he Wanderer in Switzer- 
land," &c. &c. entitled ''The Common Lot" 413 
To the Rev. J. T. Berber ... 413 
The death of Calmar and Oria . . . 414 

To E. N. L., Esq 415 

To 416 

Stanzas 416 

Lines written beneath an elm in the churchyard 

of Harrow on the Hill < . . . .417 

Critique, extracted from the Edinburgh Review 417 

ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 

Prefice 419 

Postscript 430 

HINTS FROM HORACE 431 

THE CUUSE OF MINERVA .... 441 

THE V.ALTZ. 

To the publisher 4-44 

AGE OF BRONZE .... . 447 
THE VjatON OF JUDGMENT. 

P/eiace 453 

MO^OANTE MAGGIORE. 

dvertisenicnt ...... 461 

por^is. 

T\Blues 467 

ThirtJ Art of Manfred, in its original shape, as 

firstSsiMit to the publisher . . . 470 

To mv (ii'ar Mary Anno . . . 472 

To MissX>haworlh ..... 472 

Fragment v^ ..... . 473 

Tho prayer of naturo .... 47S 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Fragment 473 

On revisiting Harrow .... 473 

L'amilie est I'amour sans ailes . . . 473 

To my son 474 

Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell . 475 

Fragment 475 

To Mrs. * * * 475 

A love-song 475 

Stanzas to * * + * * * ♦ . . . 475 

To the same 476 

Song 476 

Stanzas to * * *, on leaving England . . 476 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson .... 477 

Lines in the travellers' book at Orchomenua 477 
Epistle to Mr. Hodgson . . . .478 

On Moore's last operatic farce . . . 478 

On Lord Thurlow's poems . . . 478 

To Lord Thurlow 478 

To Thomas Moore 478 

Fragment of an epistle to Thomas Moore . 479 

The Devil's drive 479 

Windsor poetics ..... 480 

Additional stanzas to the ode to Napoleon . 480 

To Lady Caroline Lamb . . . . 480 



PAGB 

Stanzas for music 480 

Address intended to be recited at the Caledonian 

meeting . . . . . . 481 

ToBelshazzar 481 

On the Prince Regent's returning the picture of 

Sarah Countess of Jersey to Mrs, Mee . 481 
Hebrew Melodies .... 482 

Lines intended for the opening of ** The Siege 

of Corinth" 482 

Extract from an unpublished poem . . 482 

To Augusta 482 

Fragment of a poem on hearing that Lady Byron 

was ill.— 1816 . .... 484 

On the bust of Helen by Canova . . . 484 

To Thomas Moore 484 

Stanzas to the river Po .... 484 
Sonnet to George the Fourth . . . 484 

The Irish Avatar 485 

Francesca of Rimini ... . 485 

Stanzas • 486 

Stanzas 487 

To the Countess of Blessington . . 487 

On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year 487 

Impromptu 487 



THE 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron, 
was born in Holies-street, London, on the 
22d of January, 1788. His name was of 
Norman origin, and still exists, among the 
noblest in France, in the family of the Duke 
de Biron. His direct ancestor, Ralph de 
Biron, accompanied William the Conqueror 
to England, and he and his descendants for 
several succeeding reigns, held large posses- 
sions in Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, and 
Lancashire. James Byron, of Horestan 
Castle, Derbyshire, appears on the "Oxford 
List," as one of the English Knights who 
followed the banner of Richard Cceur de 
Lion to Palestine, and he or his brother 
became a hostage for the payment of the 
ransom of that monarch after his captivity. 
In the wars of the three Edwards, and of 
the White and Red Roses, the family were 
highly distinguished, and were engaged in 
almost every battle, from Cressy to Bos- 
worth Field. Newstead Abbey, near Not- 
tingham, with the lands adjoining it, was 
presented by Henry VIII. on the dissolution 
of the monasteries to Sir John Byron, and 
in 1643, his great grandson was created a 
peer by Charles I. with the title of Baron 
Byron, of Rochdale, in the county of Lan- 
caster. During the political struggles of 
that period, the Byrons adhered faithfully to 
the Crown, and suffered greatly by confis- 
cation and othervi^ise. At the battle of 
Edgchill seven brothers of the name were 
present, four of whom fell at Marston 
Moor. William, the fifth Lord, succeeded 
to the title in 1736, and, in 1765, was tried 
before the House of Peers for killing his 
relation Mr. Chaworth, in a desperate scuffle 
or duel in London, and found guilty of man- 
slaughter, but pleaded the privilege of the 
peerage, and was discharged. He retired 
to Newstead Abbey, and resided there, 
living in a very unsocial, savage, and eccen- 
tric manner, till his death in 1798. 

John, the father of the poet, was the son 
of Lord Willinui's oldt^st br-Mlh r, Adniirnl 



Byron, the celebrated voyager. He waa a 
captain in the guards, and notorious, alike 
for his personal beauty, and the profligacy 
of his conduct. In his twenty-seventh year, 
he won the affections of Lady Caermarthen, 
the wife of the Marquis of Caermarthen ; 
fled with her to the Continent, and, on her 
husband's obtaining a divorce, married her. 
She died in 1784, leaving one daughter, 
Augusta Byron, afterwards Mrs. Leigh. In 
the following year, he married Catherine 
Gordon, the only child of George Gordon, 
Esq. of Gight, in Scotland. She was of 
noble, and indeed, of princely ancestry, being 
a lineal descendant of Sir William Gordon, 
son of the Earl of Huntly by a daughter 
of James I. She was possessed of pro- 
perty to the amount of more than ig-20,000 
sterling, which was very soon n'^arly ex- 
pended in paying her husband's debts, and 
contributing to his extravagancies. In the 
summer of 1786, they left Scotland, and 
resided in France, until the close of the 
year 1787, when Mrs. Byron returned to 
London, and continued there until the birth 
of the poet in January 1788. At this time 
all her estate had been sacrificed, with the 
exception of about iSl50 sterling per an- 
num, vested in trustees for her use. From 
London she proceeded with her infant to 
Aberdeen, where she was soon aRer joined 
by Captain Byron, who, after passing at 
intervals two or three months with her, 
during which they lived very unhappily 
together, departed again for France, and 
died at Valenciennes in 1791. 

At five years old, young Byron was sent 
to a day school kept by a Mr. Bowers, where 
he remained a year. He was then placed 
for a time under the care of two other in- 
structers, and at seven entered the Gram- 
mar School at Aberdeen. In the summer 
of 1796, afler an attack of scarlet fever, lie 
was removed for change of air, to the High- 
land!^, and rosidcd, with his mother, for some 
time, at Bitllntcr. on the r>Ci\ about forfv 



XVI 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



miles from Aberdeen. To his pleasant re- 
collections of this period, and its scenes and 
associations, he often recurs in his writings. 

By the death without issue, of William, 
the fifth Lord, in May, 1798, he succeeded 
to his estates and titles, and his cousin the 
Earl of Cariisle, the son of the late Lord's 
sister, w^as appointed his guardian. In the 
autumn of that year, he accompanied his 
mother to Newstead Abbey, which had 
been the principal seat of the family since 
its presentation, and continued to be so 
until it was purchased by Colonel Wildman 
in 1814. On their arrival there, he was, in 
consequence of a lameness in one of his 
feet, occasioned, it is said, b}^ an accident 
which occurred at his birth, and afterwards 
increased by improper treatment, placed at 
Nottingham under the care of a person 
who professed the cure of such cases, and 
he received at the same time lessons in 
Latin, from Mr. Rogers, a schoolmaster of 
that town. He was removed, in a short 
time, to London, to the charge of the emi- 
nent physician, Doctor Baillie, and studied 
for two years at the school of Doctor Glen- 
nie at Dulwich. But neither the Notting- 
ham practitioner, nor the skill of Doctor 
Bailhe, succeeded in relieving the infirmity 
in his foot, which continued to be a source 
of extreme annoyance and mortification to 
him during life. 

In one of his vacations at tliis time, 
(1800,) he visited his cousin, Miss Parker, 
and " his first dash into poetry," he says in 
one of his memorandums, " was the ebulli- 
tion of a passion for her." The verses he 
alludes to are pubhshed in this volume, 
page 387.. She was the daughter of Ad- 
miral Sir Peter Parker, on whose death 
in 1814, he wrote the lines beginning, 
" There is a tear for all who die " In the 
summer of 1801, he vlcited Cheltenham, 
and immediately on his return was placed 
at Harrow, under the tuition of Doctor 
Drury, for whom he appears to have uni- 
formly entertained tlic utmost respect and 
affection. In the autumn of 1802, he passed 
some time with his mother at Bath, and 
proceeded with her to Nottingham, where 
she took lodgings, Newstead being for that 
season let to Lord Grey de Ruthven. Here 
he cultivated an intimacy with Miss Mary 
Anne Chaworth ; to whom he had been 
previously introduced in London. She re 
sided at Annesley, in the neighbourhood of 
Nottingham. They were distantly related 
the third Lord Byron, who succoeded to tin 



title in 1679, having married a daughter of 
Viscount Chaworth of Ireland. Mr. Cha- 
worth, who fell in the dispute with the Lord 
Byron of 1765, was of the same family. 
He visited Annesley daily for nearly six 
weeks, passing most of the time with his 
cousin, and became deeply and devotedly 
attached to her. He w-as then but fifteen. 
She was two or three years older, very 
beautiful, and an heiress with large expec- 
tations, and seems to have looked upon him, 
at the moment, as a mere schoolboy, and 
laughed at his passion and himself accord- 
ingly. He has pictured in " The Dream," 
page 199, the story of his love for her, and 
its fate and consequences. It appears, 
young as he then was, to have made an in- 
delible impression upon him, and to have 
given, at least in his own opinion, a colour- 
ing of the deepest and darkest importance 
to the events and feelings of his after life. 
Allusions to the subject as one of painful 
and of powerful interest, are to be found in 
almost every page of his works. Many of 
his smaller poems, particularly the lines 
" Well, thou art happy, &c." page 189, 
were addressed to her. In the following 
year, 1805, she was married to Mr. Mus- 
ters, a gentleman of the neighbourhood, 
and it is said, that the marriage proved un- 
happy. She died in 1831. During one 
of his vacations at this period, he studied 
French with the Abbe de RoufEgny in 
London, but made little progress. He 
afterwards read that language with ease, 
but never attempted to speak it. He passed 
the vacation of 1804 with his mother at 
Southwell, in Nottinghamshire, and in Oc- 
tober 1805, left Harrow for Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge. 

On a visit to Southwell in the following 
summer, (1806,) he became intimate with 
the family of the Pigots, and to a lady of 
that family the earliest of his letters which 
have been preserved was addressed. In 
August, a dispute Avith his mother, whose 
violence of temper, at times, exceeded all 
bounds, compelled him to fly to London. 
She however pursued him, and they were 
soon reconciled. About the first of Novem- 
ber his first collection of poems was put in 
press at Newark by Mr. Ridge, a bookseller 
of that place, and about a hundred' copies 
circulated among his friends. All these, 
however, he immediately recalled, and in 
the January following printed for private 
distribution a second collection, omitting 
many pieces which had appeared in the first. 



\ 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



xvn 



It was entitled " Poems on various Occa- 
sions," and the author's name was not given. 
fn May, or June, after numerous alterations 
and additions, the work appeared in its pub- 
lished shape, with the title of " Hours of 
Idleness, &c." and its second edit n was 
dedicated to his guardian, Lord Carlisle. 
In the present collection, see this volume, 
page 382, the reader will find all the poems 
which were originally suppressed, and no- 
tices of the variations of the different edi- 
tions. He also wrote previous to, and about 
this time, several occasional verses, not in- 
cluded in any of his publications, which 
have been collected since his death, and are 
now published, from page 467 to page 488 
The minor Reviews, such as the Critical 
Monthly, Antijacobin, &c. gave the " Hours 
of Idleness" a very favourable reception, 
but the appearance, in the spring of 1808, 
of the article in the Edinburgh Review, 
(see this volume, page 417,) satirically and 
severely criticizing it, destroyed for the 
moment all his hopes of fame, humbled his 
ambition, and wounded his pride to the 
quick. Yet to this article may be traced 
all his future literary eminence. The very 
reaction of his spirit against what he deem- 
ed oppression, roused him to a full con- 
sciousness of his own powers, and to a 
concentration of them all upon one object. 
The criticism has been generalh'' attributed 
to Mr. Jeffrey, the ostensible editor of the 
Review, although there is no positive cer- 
tainty from whose pen it emanated. He, 
however, in his character of editor, neces- 
sarily sanctioned it, and upon him, in par- 
ticular, Lord Byron for a long time poured 
the vials of his wrnth. 

Previous to this, and since his depar- 
ture from Harrow, Lord Byron had passed 
his life between the dissipations of Cam- 
bridge and London, and had obtained no 
other distinction than the college reputation 
among his fellows of being a clever, but a 
careless and dissipated student. His most 
intimate associates were Mr. Matthews, Mr. 
Hobhouse, Mr. Scr()0])e Davies, and a few 
other young men of his own age and habits, 
whom he occasionally invited to Newstead, 
which he had slightly repaired and fitted 
up as a temporary residence. The follow- 
ing extract of a letter from Mr. Matthews to 
a lady of his acquaintance, written from 
London soon after this period, contains an 
mteresting and amusing description of the 
Abbey and its inniates. 

" Newstead Abbey is situate one hun- 



dred and thirty-six miles from London ; 
four on this side Mansfield. Though sadly 
fallen to decay, it is still completely an Jlhhey^ 
and most part of it is standing in the same 
state as when it was first built. There are 
two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of cells 
and rooms about them, which, though not 
inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, might 
easily be made so ; and many of the origi- 
nal rooms, among which is a fine stone hall, 
are still in use. Of the Abbey Church only 
one end remains ; and the old kitchen, with 
a long range of apartments, is reduced to a 
heap of rubbish. Leading from the Abbey 
to the modern part of the habitation is a 
noble room, seventy feet in length and twen- 
ty-three in breadth : but every part of the 
house displays neglect and decay, save those 
which the present Lord has lately fitted up. 

" The house and gardens are entirely 
surrounded by a wall with battlements. In 
front is a large lake, bordered here and there 
with castellated buildings, the chief of which 
stands on an eminence at the farther extre- 
mity of it. Fancy all this surrounded with 
bleak and barren hills, with scarce a tree to 
be seen for miles, except a solitary clump or 
two, and you will have some idea of New- 
stead. 

" Ascend, then, with me the hall steps, that 
I may introduce you to my Lord and his 
visitants. But have a care how you pro- 
ceed ; be mindful to go there in broad day- 
light, and with your eyes about you. For, 
should you make any blunder, — should you 
go to the right of the hall steps, you are laid 
hold of by a bear ; and, should you go to 
the left, your case is still worse, for you run 
full against a wolf! — Nor, when you have 
attained the door, is your danger over ; for 
the hall being decayed, and therefore stand- 
ing in need of repair, a bevy of inmates are 
very probably bagging at one end of it with 
their pistols ; so that if you enter without 
giving loud notice of your approach, you 
have only escaped the wolf and the bear to 
expire by the pistol-shots of the merry 
raonUs of Newstead. 

" Our party consisted of Lord Byron 
and four others ; and was, now and then, 
increased by the presence of a neighhouring 
parson. As for our way of living, the order 
of the day was generally this : — For break- 
fast we had no set hour, but each suited his 
own convenience, — every thing remaining 
on the table till the whole party had done ; 
though had one wished to brcaklast at the 
early hour of ten, one would liave been 



XVIU 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



rather lucky to find any of the servants up. 
Our average hour of rising was one. I, 
who generally got up between eleven and 
twelve, was always, — even when an invalid, 
— the first of the party, and was esteemed 
a prodigy of early rising. It was frequently 
past two before the breakfast party broke 
up. Then, for the amusements of the 
morning, there was reading, fencing, single- 
stick, or shuttlecock, in the great room ; 
practising with pistols in the hall ; walking 
— riding — cricket — sailing on the lake, play- 
ing with the bear, or teazing the wolf. Be- 
tween seven and eight we dined, and our 
evening lasted from that time till one, tw^o, 
or three in the morning. The evening di- 
versions may be easily conceived. 

" I must not omit the custom of handing 
round, after dinner, on the removal of the 
cloth, a human skull filled with Burgundy. 
After revelling on choice viands, and the 
finest wines of France, we adjourned to tea, 
where we amused ourselves with reading or 
improving conversation, — each according 
to his fancy, — and, after sandwiches, &c. 
retired to rest. A set of monkish dresses, 
which had been provided, with all the pro- 
per apparatus of crosses, beads, tonsures, 
&c. often gave a variety to our appearance, 
and to our pursuits." 

It was at Newstead Abbey, in the early 
part of September, that he began to prepare 
his Satire, the " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," for the press. Although its 
immediate preparation was evidently has- 
tened by the critique in the Edinburgh 
Review, yet, as appears from his letters, it 
had been projected a long time previous, 
and three or four hundred lines of it written. 
He had the proof sheets printed from the 
manuscript by Ridge at Newark, and in the 
beginning of the next year took them up to 
London for publication. He had then (Ja- 
nuary, 1809) become of age, and found his 
estates greatly embarrassed, as well by the 
improvidence of his immediate ancestors as 
by his own pecuniary supplies during his 
minority, which he had been compelled to 
borrow at an exorbitant interest. Heavy 
incumbrances remained for many years after 
upon his property, and distressed him ex- 
ceedingly. His Satire was put in press by 
Cawthorne, the London publisher of the 
" Hours of Idleness," and its publication was 
superintended by Mr. Dallas, to whom he 
had made a present of the copy-right. Mr. 
Dallas was professionally a man of letters, 
and the author of several novels of limited 



popularity, and rather indifferent merit ; to 
one of which Lord Byron contributed the 
chapter included in this collection, page 
271. He was related by marriage to] 
George Byron, then an officer in the Bri-! 
tish navy, the cousin of the poet, and his; 
successor in the title. One of the objects 
of Lord Byron in visiting London at this 
period was to take his seat in the House of 
Peers, previous to going abroad. He had for 
several months made arrangements for a 
voyage to India, and had applied for infor- 
mation relative to his route, &c. to the 
Arabic professor at Cambridge, and taken 
other steps with a similar intention ; but he 
finally abandoned this project, and resolved 
on visiting Greece. Before the meeting of 
Parliament, he wrote to his guardian, Lord 
Carlisle, and reminded him that he should 
become of age at the commencement of the 
session, in the hope of being introduced by 
him personally into the House. He re- 
ceived, to his great disappointment, a cold 
and formal reply, merely pointing out the 
technical mode of proceeding in such cases. 
This so excited his indignation that he in- 
stantly erased from the Satire several cou- 
plets complimentary to Lord Carlisle, andj 
inserted the bitter lines, and still more bitter 
note, which now stand in it. On the 13th 
of March he took his seat in the House of 
Lords, placing himself on one of the oppo-i 
sition benches, and continued a steady ad-' 
herent of the Whig party till his death. 
His Satire appeared on the 18th or 20th of 
March, and met a ready and rapid sale. He 
then returned to Newstead, where he spent 
between two and three months in preparing 
a second edition for the press ; and about 
the 1 Ith of June, left London for Falmouth, 
with his friend Mr. Hobhouse, on their way 
to the East. 

They embarked at Falmouth, in the 
Lisbon packet, on the 2d of July, and ar- 
rived in four days at Lisbon, from whence 
they journeyed on horseback to Seville and 
Cadiz, and sailed from the latter place for 
Gibraltar, in the Hyperion frigate. On the 
19th of August, they left Gibraltar for 
Malta, having first sent home two of Lord 
Byron's servants, Murray and young Rush- 
ton, the "Yeoman" and "Page" of the 
"Good Night" in Childe 1' a rold, the lat- 
ter being unable, from ill health, to go on. 
His valet, Fletcher, remained with them. 
At Malta he formed an acquauitance with 
Mrs. Spencer Smith, the " Florence" of his 
poetry, and was on the point of fighting a 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XIX 



duel with an officer of the garrison, but 
satisfactory explanations having been made 
on the ground by the friend of his anta- 
gonist, the affair was amicably adjusted. 
They sailed in the brig Spider on the 
19th for Prevesa, which they reached on 
the 29th, having touched at Patras on their 
way. From Prevesa they journeyed to 
Joannina, the capital of Albania, the an- 
cient Epirus, and from thence to Tepelenfe, 
at nine days distance, for the purpose of 
visiting Ah Pacha, the then chief of a great 
portion of Greece, and one of the most 
celebrated Viziers of the Ottoman empire, 
by whom they were received with marked 
civility and attention. They were among 
the earliest English travellers through Al- 
bania, a country at that time hardly known 
to the rest of Europe. The letters of Lord 
Byron at this period, pubhshed in this col 
lection of his works, together with the text 
and notes of the first and second Cantos 
oC Childe Harold, and many of his other 
poems, notes, &c. contain such numerous 
details of their various adventures during 
this and their subsequent journeys and 
voyages in the Levant, as render a par- 
ticular description in this sketch unneces- 
sary. 

On the 3d of November they returned 
from Tepelenfe through Joannina to Pre- 
vesa, and on the 15th, attended by a guard 
of forty or fifty Albanians, they traversed 
Acarnania and Etolia to Missolonghi, 
crossed the gulf of Corinth to Patras, and 
proceeded from thence by land to Vostizza, 
where they obtained a first view of Mount 
Parnassus. They sailed to the opposite 
shore of the gulf in a small boat ; rode on 
horseback from Salona to Delphi, and after 
travelling through Livadia, and visiting 
Tihebes, &c. arrived at Athens on the 25th 
of December. 

At Athens, they resided for two or three 
months, making occasional excursions in its 
neighbourhood. They lodged in the house 
of Theodora Macri, a Greek lady, to whose 
eldest daughter, the hues on page 184, 
" Maid of Athens ere we part, &c." were 
addressed. On the 5th of March, 1810, 
they embarked in an English sloop of war 
for Smyrna, where they remained, with the 
exception of a few days employed in a visit 
to the ruins of Ephesus, until the 1 1 th of 
April. The first two Cantos of Childe 
Harold were completed at Smyrna, as ap- 
pears from the following memorandum pre- 
fixed to the original manuscript. 



" Byron. Joannina in Albania, 
Begun October 31st,, 1809 : 
Concluded Canto 2d, Smyrna, 
March 28th, 1810. 

" Byron." 

The Salsette frigate then lying at Smyr- 
na, had been ordered to Constantinople for 
the purpose of conveying to England Mr. 
Adair, the English ambassador at the Porte, 
and Lord Byron and Mr. Hobhouse took 
passage in her on the 11th April. The 
next morning they landed at Tenedos, and 
the day after left the ship, with a party of 
officers to visit the ruins of Troas. On the 
14th, they anchored in the Dardanelles, 
where they lay for nearly three weeks. 
While at anchor there, Lord B^Ton with 
Mr. Ekenhead, a lieutenant of the frigate, 
accomplished the achievement of which he 
was through life particularly proud, that of 
swimming from Sestos to Abydos. Their 
first attempt was made on a day in the latter 
part of April, and failed, owing to the cold- 
ness of the water, and their ignorance of the 
nature of the current. On the 3d May, they 
made a second attempt, and the weather 
being warmer, succeeded. The Salsette 
arrived at Constantinople on the 13th May, 
and remained there about three months, 
during which time Lord Byron was pre- 
sented to the Sultan, and made an expedi- 
tion to the Black Sea and the Cyanean 
Symplegades. On the 14th of July, he 
left Constantinople in the same frigate, in 
company with Mr. Adair and Mr. Hob- 
house. The two latter gentlemen pro- 
ceeded in her to England, but Lord Byron 
was on the 15th, at his own request, landed 
at the island of Zea, with two Albanians, 
a Tartar, and his English servant, Fletcher, 
from whence he sailed to Athens, and 
reached there on the 18th. 

At Athens he met an old acquaintance 
and fellow collegian, the Marquis of Sligo, 
and in a day or two left there in company 
with him for the Morea. They parted at 
Corinth, the Marquis going from thence to 
Tripolitza, and Lord Byron to Patras. 
During the two following months he made 
the tour of the Morea, &c. and, after a long 
and dangerous illness at Patras, returned to 
Athens in December, and there fixed his 
head quarters during the remainder of his 
stay in Greece. His principal companion at 
this time was Lord Sligo, and he was also in- 
timate with Mr. Bruce, afterwards celebrated 
for the part he took in the romantic escape of 



It 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



the French General La valet te from prison, 
and with Lady Hester Stanhope, the eccen- 
tric chieftainess of the Bedouin Arabs. He 
was employed in collecting the materials 
which form the notes to the 2d Canto of 
Childe Harold, and in the words of Mr. 
Moore, " as if in utter defiance of the ' ge- 
nius loci,' " he there wrote his " Hints from 
Horace," a satire which, impregnated as it 
is with London life from beginning to end, 
bears the date, " Athens, Capuchin convent, 
March 12, 1811." 

His pecuniary affairs while abroad were 
greatly embarrassed, and the want of re- 
mittances probably prevented him from 
undertaking a voyage to Egypt, which in 
the month of March he had contemplated, 
and no doubt hastened his return home. He 
went to the island of Malta in May, where 
he suffered severely from an attack of fever, 
to which he seems to have been constitu- 
tionally subject, being three or four times 
while in the Levant, reduced by similar at- 
tacks to almost the last extremity. On the 
3d of June, as soon as his health permitted, 
he set sail from Malta in the Volage frigate 
for England, and reached London on the 
14th of July, having been absent a little 
more than two years. 

The day after his arrival in London, Mr. 
Dallas called upon him, and in the course 
of a brief conversation. Lord Byron men- 
tioned having written the " Hints from Ho- 
race," which he said he considered a good 
finish to the " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," adding that he intended to put 
it in press immediately, and requesting Mr. 
Dallas to superintend its publication. Mr. 
Dallas took the manuscript home with him, 
and on perusing it, was, to use his own 
words, " grievously disappointed." He re- 
turned it the next morning, and though 
unwilling to speak of it as he really thought, 
could not refrain from expressing some sur- 
prise that its author should have produced 
nothing else during his two years' absence. 
Lord Byron told him that he liad occasion- 
ally written short poems, besides a great 
many stanzas in the measure of Spenser, 
and added, " they are not worth troubhng 
you with, but you may have them all if you 
like." He then took the manuscripts of 
Childe Harold from a small trunk, and 
said they had been read but by one person, 
(probably Mr. Hobhouse,) who had found 
very little to commend and much to con- 
demn, and that he himself was of the same 
opinion. Mr. Dallas on the contrary, on 



perusing the poem, at once appreciated its 
merit and anticipated its success, but it was 
some time before he could overcome Lord 
Byron's real or assumed repugnance to its 
publication. The " Hints from Horace" 
was his especial favourite. He was very 
desirous of having it printed without delay ; 
and it was accordingly handed to Caw- 
thorne, the publisher of the " English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers," for that purpose. 
Mr. Dallas, however, finally prevailed upon 
him to suppress it at the moment, and 
although Lord Byron always dwelt upon it 
Avith pleasure, and subsequently took pains 
at various times to prepare it for the press, 
it never met the approbation of his book- 
sellers or their Uterary censors, and did not 
appear until after his death. 

The publication -of Childe Harold being 
determined upon, the manuscript Avas placed 
by Mr. Dallas, to whom the copy-right had 
been presented, in the hands of Mr. Mur- 
ray the bookseller, and was immediately 
put in press. The " English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers" had previous to this 
time passed to a fourth edition ; a fifth was 
now issued with various additions, after 
which that work was suppressed, and every 
copy so far as was practicable called in and 
destroyed. In America, however, and on 
the Continent, Avhere the English law of 
copy-right could not be enforced, it conti- 
nued to be published with the other works 
of its author. 

On the 23d of July, Lord Byron wrote 
to his mother, who was then at Newstead, 
stating that he was detained in town by 
some laAV affairs for a day or two, but should 
visit her as soon as possible. The next 
morning he received intelligence that she 
was dangerously ill, and instantly started 
for Newstead, but did not reach there until 
after her death. Her last illness is said to 
have been rendered fatal by a fit of rage 
brought on by reading her upholsterer's 
bill. She is described as a short, corpulent 
person, exceedingly fretful and impatient in 
her disposition ; and her conduct towards 
her son from his childhood appears to have 
been alternately indulgent and abusive, and 
without the least judgment or self-command. 
She undoubtedly loved him to thp extreme 
of fondness, and was ambitiously proud of 
him, yet so ungovernable were her passions, 
that she, at times, treated him with a cruelty, 
and even brutality almost beyond belief. 
He said to Lord Sligo, in reference to her, 
while in Greece, " Look there," pointing 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXI 



his foot, " it is to her false delicacy at my 
birth I owe that deformity, and yet as long 
as I can remember, she has never ceased to 
taunt and reproach me with it." In a pas- 
sage in his suppressed Memoirs relating to 
his early days, he is said to have described 
the horror and humiliation which came over 
him when in one of her fits of passion she 
called him a " lame brat," and the opening 
of " The Deformed Transformed," indeed 
the whole drama itself, was too evidently 
occasioned by that painful recollection. Yet 
notwithstanding the sufferings her unhappy 
temperament had caused him, he uniformly 
paid her the greatest courtesy and personal 
respect; and the manner in which he la- 
mented her loss proved the unimpaired in- 
tegrity of his affection. 

Besides that of his mother, he was com- 
pelled to mourn at this period the death of 
no less than six of his relations and inti- 
mate fHends. Among the number were 
Wingfield, one of his Harrow favourites, 
Eggleston, his prolog^ at Cambridge, of 
whom he was romantically fond, and Mat- 
thews, a young man of extraordinary pro- 
mise. •' In the short space of one month," 
he says, in a note to Childe Harold, " I 
have lost her who gave me being, and most 
of those who made that being tolerable ;" 
and his letters, for a long time after, are 
written in a style of melancholy reckless- 
ness, indicative of habitual gloom and de- 
spondency. 

He remained at Newstead until late in 
the autumn ; and, after a visit to Rochdale, 
in Lancashire, on business connected with 
his estates in that quarter, returned through 
Cambridge to London the latter part of 
October. About this time he became inti- 
mate with Mr. Moore, the poet, afterwards 
his biographer, and one of his few firm and 
faithful friends, and with Lord Holland, both 
of whom he had violently attacked in the 
''English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." 
The origin of his acquaintance with Mr. 
Moore was a note appended to that satire, 
and the singularly curious and characteristic 
correspondence which followed it is contain- 
ed in this volume, page 86, &c. That 
correspondence led to an introduction at the 
house of Mr. Rogers, the author of " Hu- 
man Life," &c. and on the day it took place, 
Mr. Campbell, the author of the " Plea- 
sures of Hope," Lord Byron, and Mr. 
Moore, dined with that gentleman, forming, 
as one of Lord Byron's biographers very 
justly observes, " a iM)ctical group not easily 
d 



to be matched among contemporaries in 
any age or country." 

Mr. Moore, in alluding to this meeting, 
thus describes the impressions left upon 
him, by this his first interview with Lord 
Byron. " What I chiefly remember to have 
remarked was the nobleness of his air, his 
beauty, and the gentleness of his voice and 
manners. Being in mourning for his mo- 
ther, the colour, as well of his dress, as of 
his glossy curling and picturesque hair, gave 
more effect to the pure, spiritual paleness 
of his features, in the expression of which, 
when he spoke, there was a perpetual 
play of lively thought, though melancholy 
was their habitual character when in re- 
pose." 

The following further extracts from Mr. 
Moore's Notices, will give the reader an ac- 
curate general idea of Lord Byron's personal 
appearance. 

" Of his face, the beauty may be pro- 
nounced to have been of the highest order, 
as combining at once regularity of features 
with the most varied and interesting expres- 
sion. His eyes, though of a Hght gray, 
were capable of all extremes of meaning, 
but it was in the mouth and chin that the 
great beauty as well as expression of his 
countenance lay. 

" His head was remarkably small, — so 
much so as to be rather out of proportion 
with his face. The forehead, though a lit- 
tle too narrow, was high, and appeared more 
so from his having his hair (to preserve it, 
as he said) shaved over the temples ; while 
the glossy, dark-brown curls, clustering over 
his head, gave the finish to its beauty. When 
to this is added, that his nose, though hand- 
somely, was rather thickly shaped, that his 
teeth were white and regular, and his com- 
plexion colourless, as good an idea perhaps 
as it is in the power of mere words to con- 
vey may be conceived of his features. 

" In height he was, as he himself has in- 
formed us, five feet eight inches and a half, 
and to the length of his limbs he attributed 
his being such a good swimmer. His hands 
were very white, and — according to his own 
notion of the size of hands as indicating 
birth — aristocratically small. The lame- 
ness of his right foot, though an obstacle to 
grace, but little impeded the activity of his 
movements ; and from this circumstance, 
as well as from the skill with which the foot 
was disguised by means of long trowsers, 
it would be ditlicult to conceive a defect of 
this kind less obtruding itself ns a deformity ; 



xxu 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



while the diffidence which a constant con- 
sciousness of the infirmity gave to his first 
approach and address, made, in him, even 
lameness a source of interest." 

On the 27th of February, 1812, in a de- 
bate on the subject of the Nottingham 
Frame-breakers, he made his first speech in 
the House of Lords. He had previously 
prepared himself, not only by composing, 
but writing it beforehand. It was flatter- 
ingly received, but obtained no permanent 
popularity, and his after eflbrts as an orator 
were generally considered failures. In 
April following, he spoke a second time, in 
favour of the claims of the Irish Catholics, 
and, in June, accompanied the presentation 
of a petition in behalf of Major Cartwright, 
with some introductory remarks, which 
closed his parliamentary career as a speak- 
er. His display, on the second and third 
occasions, was less promising than at first. 
His delivery was mouthing and theatrical, 
and in a kind of chanting tone, which is said 
to have also disfigured his recitation of 
poetry. 

On the first of March, Childe Harold ap- 
peared, and " the impression" says Mr. 
Moore, " which it produced on the public, 
was as instantaneous as it has proved deep 
and lasting. The fame of its author had 
not to wait for any of the ordinary grada- 
tions, but seemed to spring up like the pa- 
lace of a fairy tale, in a night." The re- 
ception of the poem, indeed, was such, that 
there was no undue extravagance in the 
memorandum made by Lord Byron himself 
in his suppressed Memoirs, " I aAvoke one 
morning and found myself famous." The 
first edition was immediately disposed of, 
and numerous editions followed in quick 
succession. 

Previous to this period, notwithstanding 
tlie advantages of liis birth and title, Lord 
Byron had not mingled, to any great extent, 
in the gay world of London, his companion- 
ship having been mostly confined to his col- 
lege and travelling acquaintances, and to a 
few intimate friends; but the universal ac- 
clamation with which his poem was now 
hailed, and the mysterious interest it at- 
taclicd to his personal character, together 
with his youth, his beauty, his rank, and 
his more than promise of extraordinary in- 
tellectual power, forced him instantly into 
the highest fashionable circles, among whose 
most illustrious crowds he became the dis 
tinguished object, and with whom he con 
tinued to move, with occasional voluntary 



intervals of retirement, until his separation 
from Lady Byron. 

In AuLnist he went to Cheltenham, where, 
at the request of the Managers, through 
Lord Holland, he wrote the Address spoken 
at the opening of the new theatre, Drury 
Lane. He also there wrote the poem on 
" Walt/.ing." It was published anony- 
mously ; but as it created no sensation, at 
least in comparison with Childe Harold, he 
thought proper to suppress it, and even to 
contradict, through Mr. Murray, its pub- 
lisher, the rumour of its being his. " The 
Curse of Minerva" had been printed also 
anonymously, and for private circulation 
only, soon after his return from the East. 
Its' immediate object, an attack on Lord 
Elgin, relative to the statues, &c. sent by 
him from Greece, was more fully accom- 
plished in the notes to Childe Harold, which 
contained the substance of the poem. The 
opening Unes were afterwards made to form 
the commencement of the Corsair. Neither 
the " Waltz," nor the " Curse of Minerva," 
was included in any English collection of 
his works during his lifetime. 

The first edition of the Giaour was pub- 
lished in May, 1813. It was materially 
improved, and gradually enlarged through 
various subsequent editions, the fifth being 
announced in September. In the beginning 
of December, it was followed by the Bride 
of Abydos, and in January, 1814, by the 
Corsair. The latter poem created for the 
moment a greater excitement with the pub- 
lic than even Childe Harold, and met with 
an unexampled sale, fourteen thousand 
copies being disposed of in less than a week. 
The Ode to Napoleon was written in April, 
and the Hebrew Melodies about the same 
time. The hues " To a Lady weeping," 
alluding to George the Fourth, then Prince 
Regent, and his daughter, the Princess 
Charlotte, were originally printed in a news- 
paper, and attributed to Mr. Moore ; but 
their appearance among other small poems 
in the same volume with the Corsair, fixed 
their authorship upon Lord Byron, and in 
connexion with the " Windsor Poetics," 
then for the first time reported to be his, 
brought down upon his head a violent storm 
of invective and abuse, from the ministerial 
partisans, which uniting with other causes 
of disquietude and apprehension relating 
to his political career, induced him about 
the first of May, not only again to repeat 
his determination expressed in the preface 
to the Corsair, of writing no more for 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



years ; but to attempt purchasing back the 
copy-rights of all his works, so far as they 
had been disposed of, and suppressing every 
line he had written. In pursuance of this 
resolution, he wrote to Mr. Murray, en- 
closing the amount paid for Childe Harold, 
the Corsair, &c. and ordering the unsold 
copies destroyed ; but, on being answered 
that such a proceeding would be deeply in- 
jurious to Mr. Murray, he abandoned his 
project, and allowed the pubUcation to pro- 
ceed. 

Lara appeared in August. It was at 
first published in the same volume with 
Jacqueline, a poem by Mr. Rogers ; the 
names of both authors being omitted. 
With the exception of the Ode to Water- 
loo, Napoleon's Farewell, and other occa- 
sional poems, he did not come before the 
public as an author between this period and 
the publication of the Siege of Corinth 
and Parisina, in the sp ing of 1816, 

On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron 
was married to Anne Arabella Milbanke, 
daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, afterwards 
Noel, of Seaham, in the county of Durham. 
She was nearly connected by blood with the 
families of Lord Wentworth, Lord Mel- 
bourne, and others of the English nobility. 
Her immediate fortune was about ten thou- 
sand pounds sterling, but on the death of 
her father and mother, which took place a 
Cew years after her marriage, she became 
possessed of estates to a very large amount. 
Lord Byron had addressed her about a year 
previous, and although his suit was at that 
time rejected, yet her refusal was accom- 
panied with every assurance of esteem and 
regard, and a friendly correspondence was 
kept up between them. A second applica- 
tion in September proved successful. 

The disastrous result of the marriage 
appears to have been anticipated by her 
husband even at the bridal altar. The 
" coming events cast their shadows before." 
His prose account of the wedding, in his 
suppressed Memoirs, is said by Mr. Moore 
to have agreed closely in all its circum- 
stances with his poetical description of it in 
" The Dream." 

Towards the close of the month of March 
he took up his residence in London, where 
he lived during the succeeding year in a 
style of great splendour and expense, far 
beyond his income or his expec:ations ; 
and soon became deeply involved in the 
most distressing pecuniary embarrassments. 
His time was passed in the whirlwind of 



uisiiiouable dissipation, and behind the 
scenes of Drury Lane Theatre, of which he 
had in June been chosen one of the Ma- 
naging Committee, in company with Lord 
Essex, Douglas Kinnaird, Mr. Whitbread, 
and others. By the month of November, 
his pecuniary difficulties had increased to 
such an alarming degree that he was not 
only under the necessity of selling his libra- 
ry, but an execution was levied on his fur- 
niture, and his very beds were seized by 
bailiffs. His privilege as a member of the 
Upper House of Parhament exempted his 
person from arrest. 

On the tenth of December his daughter, 
Ada Augusta Byron, was born ; and, about 
the first of February following, a separation 
between Lady Byron and himself took place. 
She had left London a few days before on 
a visit to her father in Leicestershire, and 
Lord Byron was to follow her as soon as he 
could make some arrangements of his mo- 
ney affairs. They had parted in kindness. 
She wrote him on the road a letter in a 
style of the most playful fondness imagina- 
ble, but immediately on her arrival at Kirkby 
Mallory, the seat of her family, her father 
wrote, informing him that she would not 
again return. They never afterwards met. 

The particular causes of this event still 
remain in obscurity. The reader will find 
Lord Byron's views of the subject detailed 
in many of his letters, and elsewhere 
throughout his writings. His Lady, on 
the appearance of Mr. Moore's Biography, 
in 1830, caused a letter to be published, 
exonerating her father and mother from 
charges connected with it, of which they 
had been accused, but throwing no farther 
light upon it. 

The current of popular opinion was, at 
the moment, fearfully strong against Lord 
Byron. He was immediately shunned, if 
not still more harshly treated, by almost all 
classes, especially by those who had pre- 
viously courted his intimacy. Lady Jer- 
sey, and two or three otliers, were the 
only ladies of distinction in London who 
adhered to his fallen fame, and dared to at- 
tempt his defence. Except in their circles, 
he was virtually banished from society. 
Every species of reproach and obloquy was 
heaped upon iiis head. Exaggerated state- 
ments of his private conduct, and dark hints 
and vague insinuations of the most criminal 
profligacy, were circulated and believed. 
" In every form of paragraph, pamphlet, 
and caricature," says Mr. Moore, " both 



XXJV 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON, 



his person and character were held up to 
odium ; hardly a voice was raised, or at least, 
listened to, in his behalf; and though a few 
faithful friends remained unshaken by his 
side, the utter hopelessness of stemming the 
torrent was felt as well by them as by him- 
self, and after an effort or two to gain a fair 
hearing, they submitted in silence." This 
could not be long endured. On the 25th of 
April, 1816, he left England for Ostend. 

Immediately previous to his departure, 
the lines to his sister, Mrs. Leigh, beginning 
"Though the day of my destiny's over," 
and the first stanza to Mr. Moore, " My 
boat is on the shore," were written. The 
" Fare thee well," intended for Lady Byron 
and the " Sketch from private life," alluding 
to a Mrs. Charlton, her governess, had ap- 
peared about the first of April. 

From Ostend, he journeyed to the Rhine, 
visiting Brussels and Waterloo, entered 
Switzerland at Basle, and proceeded by 
the route of Berne and Lausanne to Ge- 
neva. He removed in a few weeks to Dio- 
data,avilla about three miles from Geneva, 
where with occasional voyages on the Lake, 
9nd excursions to Coppet, Chamouni, the 
Bernese Alps, &c. in company with Mr. 
Hobhouse, Mr. Shelley, and one or two other 
intimate acquaintances, he passed the 
summer. He there wrote the third Canto 
of Childe Harold, the Monody on the Death 
of Sheridan, the stanzas " To Augusta," 
»' The Fragment," " The Prisoner of Chil- 
lon," &c. 

In October, he crossed the Simplon to 
Milan, and on the 10th of November took 
up his residence at Venice. He soon after 
commenced the study of the Armenian 
language with the broihers of a monastery 
near that city, and in March following, 
(1817,) translated the Two Epistles, page 
299. " Manfred" was finished at this time, 
and sent to London. The Third Act, as 
originally written, is included in this col- 
lection of his Poems, page 470. It was 
altered to its present state in Jvme, and the 
drama was published in July. In April 
he left Venice for Rome, visiting Ferrara, 
where he wrote the " Lament of Tasso," 
and passing a day or two at Florence on his 
way. He returned from Rome to Venice 
early in June, and in July began the 4th 
Canto of Childe Harold, which was gra- 
dually enlarged until its publication in 
March 1818. Beppo, Mazeppa, and the 
Ode to Venice, were written in the course 
pf the spring and summer of that voar, and 



the 1st Canto of Don Juan in September. 
The latter was originally dedicated to 
Sou they in some prefatory verses, said to 
have been very able and very bitter ; but 
on Mr. Murray's refusal to publish the 
poem except anonymously, Lord Byron 
suppressed the dedication, alleging as a 
reason his unwillingness to attack Southey 
" under cloud of night." 

About this period he became acquainted 
with the Countess Guiccioli, to whom, in 
the Italian character of " cavalier servente," 
he devoted himself for several succeedmg 
years, and by whose future movements his 
own were almost exclusively governed du- 
ring the remainder of his residence in Italy. 
They appear to have been mutually and 
passionately attached to each other, and 
the liaison, however reprehensible, had the 
good effect of weaning him from still more 
disreputable attachments. She was a Ro- 
magnese lady, the daughter of Count 
Gamba, a nobleman of high rank and an- 
cient name at Ravenna, and had been 
married at sixteen or seventeen, without 
reference to her choice or affection, to the 
Count Guiccioli, an old and wealthy wi- 
dower of that country ; whose great opu- 
lence had rendered his otherwise worse 
than indifferent reputation respectable. She 
was on a visit at Venice with her husband, 
when Lord Byron was introduced to her. 
She was then about twenty, but appeared 
much younger, with a singularly fair and 
delicate complexion, large, dark, and lan- 
guishing eyes, and a profusion of light au- 
burn hair. She proceeded with her hus- 
band to Ravenna about the middle of April, 
1819, and in June, Lord Byron visited her 
there. The Lines to the Po, alluding to 
her, w^ere written on his journey. They 
returned through Bologna to Venice, in 
October. At Bologna he wrote the letter 
to Roberts, the Editor of the British Re- 
view, and the Sonnet relating to the heir of 
Lord Edward Fitzgerald. 

He received about this time, at Venice, 
a visit from Mr. Moore, in the course of 
which he presented to that gentleman a 
large manuscript volume, which he called 
his " Life and Adventures." It appears 
not to have been a detail of the evepts of 
his life in a regular series, but a collection 
of various journals, memoranda, &c. At 
Lord Byron's request, the copy-right was 
immediately disposed of for Mr. Moore's 
benefit, to Mr. Murray, for two thousand 
guineas, w^th the understanding, that the 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXV 



work was not to be published until after the 
author's death. When that event took 
place, Mr. Moore repaid to Mr. Murray 
the money advanced, and placed the manu- 
script at the disposal of Lord Byron's sis- 
ter, Mrs. Leigh ; at whose request, and in 
accordance with the opinion of many of the 
friends of her brother, and of other parties 
interested, it was destroyed. An unwilling- 
ness to wound the feelings of many of the 
persons mentioned in it, is said to have 
been the only motive for its destruction. 

In December, Lord Byron again left 
Venice for Ravenna, where he continued to 
reside during most of the two succeeding 
years. He there wrote the 3d, 4th, and 
5th Cantos of Don Juan, the Prophecy of 
Dante, the translations from Pulci and 
Dante ; the Letters relating to the Contro- 
versy with Mr. Bowles ; the Letter to the 
Editor of Blackwood's Magazine; Ma- 
rino Faliero ; Sardanapalus ; The Two 
Foscari ; Cain ; Heaven and Earth ; The 
Vision of Judgment, and other smaller 
poems. Having disposed of Newstead 
Abbey, and secured, after a long Chancery 
suit, the possession of his Lancashire es- 
tates, his pecuniary affairs had now be- 
come in good order, and he was enabled to 
live in comparative splendour. Of his yearly 
income, (nearly £4,000 sterling,) he devoted 
a great portion to charitable purposes, and 
was much beloved and respected in Ra- 
venna, particularly by the poorer classes, 
by whom his residence there was deemed a 
public blessing. He himself was strongly 
attached to Ravenna. He preferred it to 
every other part of Italy, and intended to 
have made it his permanent place of abode. 
But the Romagnese authorities, suspecting 
him, and certainly not without reason, of a 
political connexion with the enemies of the 
existing government, took measures which 
indirectly compelled him to hasten his de- 
parture. Count Gamba, and his son. Count 
Pietro Gamba, the father and brother of the 
Countess Guiccioli, were, in July 1821, ba- 
nished from the Roman States. They were 
accused of a participation in the revolution- 
ary projects of the secret societies which, 
under the name of the Carbonari, had long 
been organized throughout Italy. The 
Countess, who had the preceding year ob- 
tained from the Pope a decree of separation 
from her husband, on condition Ihat she 
should in future reside with her father, ac- 
companied them to Pisa, where, in the No- 
vember following, Lord Byron joined them. 



In consequence of the death of Lady 
Noel, the mother of Lady Byron, which 
took place in the early part of the year 1822, 
he assumed the title of Noel Byron, and to 
most of his letters, &c. written after this pe- 
riod, that signature is affixed. 

At Pisa he remained until the middle of 
May. He then passed a few weeks at 
Montenero, a villa near Leghorn, returned 
to Pisa in July, and in September removed 
to Genoa, where he remained till his final 
departurefor Greece, in July 1823. During 
this period were written Werner, The De- 
formed Transformed, The Island, The Age 
of Bronze, and the last Cantos of Don Juan. 
The Lord Chancellor had, in a case brought 
before him in the year 1821, refused to pro- 
tect the copy-right of Cain, on the ground 
of its supposed irreligious tendency. For 
this, and other unexplained reasons, Mr. 
Murray had long declined or delayed the 
publication of several works forwarded to 
him by Lord Byron,which appears to have oc- 
casioned for a short time a personal estrange- 
ment between them. The works in ques- 
tion, together with those above named, were 
accordingly handed, at Lord Byron's request, 
to another bookseller, Mr. John Hunt, by 
whom they were soon afterwards published. 
The Vision of Judgment, the Translation 
from Pulci, the Blues, Heaven and Earth, 
and the Letter to Roberts, appeared in the 
" Liberal," a periodical work printed in 
London by Mr. John Hunt, but conducted 
principally by his brother Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
then in Italy. With the exception of Lord 
Byron's contributions, and one or two from 
Mr. Shelley, it contained little or no merit, 
and was abandoned after the fourth number. 
Lord Byron's motive in connecting himself 
with it, as well in a literary as in a pecuniary 
point of view, was solely to aid Mr. Leigh 
Hunt, who was at the time suffering in ill- 
health and poverty. His only reward seems 
to have been a querulous murmuring on the 
part of that person during the life of his be- 
nefactor, and an ungrateful volume of the 
most pitiful and perfidious calumnies after 
his death. 

It appears from a statement published by 
Mr. Murray, thatduring the life-time of Lord 
Byron, he paid for the copy-right of his 
poems, &c. as follows : — 

Childe Harold, Cantos 1st and 2d . . . £600 
„ 3d . . . . 1575 

„ 4lh 2100 

Giaour . . . 525 

Brido of Abydos 515 

Corsair 615 



XXVI 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



L&ra 

Siege of Corinth 

Parisina 

Lament of Tasso .... 

Manfred 

Beppo 

Don Juan, Cantos 1st and 2d . 

„ „ 3d, 4lh, and 5th . 

Dogo of Venice . . . . • 
Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari . 

Mazeppa 

Prisoner of Chillon ^25 

Sundries 



700 
. 525 

525 
. 315 

315 

. 525 

1525 

. 1525 

1050 

.1100 

525 



450 



£15,455 



He afterwards purchased the copy-rights 
of all the other works, including those pub- 
lished by Cawthorne, the Hunts, &c. at an 
expense of nearly i£ 10,000 more. Several 
of the above were presented by Lord 
Byron to Mr. Dallas, and the later Cantos 
of'Don Juan to Hunt. 

While at Pisa, Lord Byron received 
intelligence of the death of his natural 
daughter, Allegra, a loss which distressed 
him at the moment, almost to madness. She 
had been sent to him from Switzerland to 
Venice in September 1818, then nearly two 
years old, by her mother, an Englishwoman, 
and had continued with him until a short 
time previous to his leaving Ravenna, 
when he placed her in a convent not far 
from that city, to commence her education. 
She died of a fever in April 1822. His 
friend, Mr. Shelley, who had been for some 
time residing at Pisa, and with whom he 
had renewed the social and literary inter- 
course previously formed in Switzerland, 
was a few months after drowned in a vio- 
lent storm in the Bay of Spezea, near Leg- 
horn. 

On the 13th of July 1823, Lord Byron 
left Genoa for Greece. His preparations 
for a visit to that country for the purpose 
of offering his personal means and services 
to assist the Greeks in their struggle for 
freedom, had been for some time going on, 
a correspondence with several of \hv\v 
chiefs, and with the Greek Committee in 
London, having been commenced the pre- 
ceding April. He had obtained, through 
the aid of his bankers in Genoa, partly by 
anticipating his income, and partly from 
other resources, an advance of a large 
sum, and hud chartered an English brig, 
the Hercules, for the voyage, and loaded 
her with arms, ammunition, and hospital 
stores. His suite consisted of Count Pie- 
tro Gamba, (the brother of the Countess 
Guiccioli,) Mr. Trelawny, (an English gen- 



tleman,) Doctor Bruno, (an Italian surgeon,) 
and eight servants. After touching for 
supplies at Leghorn, where they remained 
a few days, they sailed for Cephalonia, and 
reached Argolosti, the chief port in that 
island, on the 21st of July. 

He there determined to wait for such in- 
formation from the Greek governments as 
should enable him to decide as to his future 
proceedings, and despatched messengers to 
Corfu and Missolonghi, the latter the then 
seat of government of Western Greece, in 
the hope of obtaining it. During their ab- 
sence he visited Ithaca, where he contri- 
buted largely to the relief of a great num- 
ber of distressed families who had fled thi- 
ther from Scio. He continued on board 
the Hercules in the harbour of Argolosti for 
more than six weeks, but the adverse in- 
terests and contradictory statements and 
requests of the various rival factions, still 
rendering uncertain the best method of 
benefiting Greece, he finally took up his 
abode on shore in a small village called 
Metaxata, about seven miles from Argo- 
losti. 

At length, the arrival at Missolonghi of 
a Greek fleet which had been long expected, 
induced him to believe that the time had 
arrived when his presence there could be 
useful. He accordingly on the 29th of 
December embarked in a small Greek ves- 
sel, called a Mistico, Count Gamba, with 
the horses and heavy baggage following in 
a larger ship. The latter was, the next 
day, brought to by a Turkish frigate, and 
carried into Patras, but in an interview with 
the Pacha of that place. Count Gamba 
succeeded in procuring her release, and 
reached Missolonghi on the 4th of January. 
The Mistico, with Lord Byron and his 
suite on board, touched at Zante, where 
they received a quantity of specie, and pro- 
ceeded for Missolonghi. On their way they 
narrowly escaped capture from the frigate 
above mentioned. Fortunately the Turks 
mistook the vessel for a Greek brulot or 
fireship, and were in consequence afraid to 
fire. With difficulty they eluded her, and 
reached Dragomestri, a small seaport on * 
the coast of Acarnania in safety, where 
they were detained for some time by a vio- 
lent gale, and did not arrive at Missolonghi 
until the 5th of January. 

Lord Byron was received by Prince 
Mavrocordato, at the head of the magistracy 
and the whole population civil and mili- 
tary, with distinguished honours, and every 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXVll 



token of gratitude and delight. But the 
pleasure derived from such a welcome was 
too soon embittered. He found all things 
in a wretched state of disorganization, the 
chiefs divided into numerous and conflicting 
parties, each desirous of enlisting him in its 
separate views, and the soldiers and inhabi- 
tants imagining that he and he only could 
quiet their unhappy dissensions, and unite 
the efforts of all against the common enemy. 
He immediately employed himself day and 
night in effecting this object, and partially 
succeeded. He formed and equipped at his 
own expense a corps of Suliotes, a part of 
whom he had previously collected and armed 
at Cephalonia. Their number was now 
augmented to between five and six hundred, 
of whom, on the first of February having 
previously received a regular commission as 
an officer in the Greek service, he assumed 
the command. They were brave and hardy 
mountaineers, but undisciplined and unma- 
nageable ; and by their riotous conduct and 
savage deportment, as well towards the other 
military bodies as the inhabitants, kept the 
garrison in a continual state of alarm, and 
their leader in a fever of annoyance and mor- 
tification. To his command was also at- 
tached a corps of artillery, the necessary 
supplies for which arrived in the early part 
of February, under the care of Captain 
Parry, an English officer of engineers sent 
by the Greek Committee from London. An 
attack on Lepanto, then in the hands of the 
Turks, had been for some time contemplated 
by Lord Byron, and on the 14th of Febru- 
ary the artillery corps was perfected, andlkll 
things in readiness to start the following day, 
when a sudden and fatal dispute with the 
Suliotes took place. They broke out into 
open mutiny, demanding increase of pay and 
emoluments, peculiar privileges of military 
rank, and various other exactions. Satisfied 
that no reliance could in peril be placed 
upon them, and at the same time that with- 
out their aid the Greek force was in- 
sufficient for the attempt on Lepanto, he 
very reluctantly abandoned the expedition. 
His health had for a long time previous 
to this period been greatly impaired. While 
at Dragomestri he had imprudently bathed 
afler a day of violent exertion. A severe 
cold was the consequence, and the inces- 
sant labour of mind and body to which he 
devoted himself at Missolonj^hi, rendered him 
from day to day more feeble and feverish. 
The climate of that place is extremely un- 



healthy, and the military quarters where he 
resided were comfortless and exposed. On 
the evening of the 15th of February, the 
day after the abandonment of the expedition 
to Lepanto, he was suddenly seized with a 
convulsive fit which deprived him for se- 
veral minutes of his senses, distorting for the 
moment his features in a most fearful man- 
ner, and leaving him exhausted and unable 
to move for many days. 

He was, however, gradually recovering 
until the 9th of April. In the interim he 
had occupied himself in repairing the for- 
tifications at Missolonghi, and in the forma- 
tion of a brigade with a view to offensive or 
defensive measures, as events might require. 
He had also made arrangements for visiting 
Salon, there to meet a congress of the 
Greek chiefs, in the hope that his presence 
might aid in putting an end to their con- 
tinual and fatal dissensions. But on the 
morning of the 9th of April, immediately 
after his return home from a long ride with 
Count Gamba, during which they had been 
overtaken by a heavy shower, he was again 
seized with a convulsive shudderinff, fol- 
lowed by fever and violent pain. The next 
day he was better and rode out as usual, 
but on the 12th he was confined to his 
chamber, and his disorder continued to in- 
crease in strength and danger hourly till the 
l7th, when he was prevailed upon to con- 
sent to be bled, to which lie had at all times 
before decidedly objected. A consultation 
of his physicians was held in the afternoon 
of the 18th, and it was then evident alike to 
them and to Lord Byron that his end was 
fast approaching. He endeavoured in a con- 
versation with Fletcher his English servant 
to express to him his last wishes, but his 
voice was so faint and low, and his language 
so incoherent, that but little he said could be 
understood. The names of Lady Byron, of 
his daughter, of his sister Augusta, and a 
kw others, were alone distinguishable. 
Early in the evening of that day, he sunk 
into a slumber, in which he lay with oc- 
casional struggles from suffocation during 
the next twenty-four hours. At a few 
minutes past six o'clock in the evening of 
the 19th he was observed to open his eyes 
and instantly close them. The physicians 
felt his pulse. He had expired. 

Immediately after his death, the following 
proclamation was issued by Prince Mavro- 
cordato, and similar honours were paid to 
his memory throughout Greece. 



XXVIU 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



«' PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF 
WESTERN GREECE. 

" The present day of festivity and re 
joicing has become one of sorrow and of 
mournTng. The Lord Noel Byron departed 
this life at six o'clock in the afternoon, after 
an illness of ten days ; his death being 
caused by an inflammatory fever. Such 
was the effect of his Lordship's illness on 
the public mind, that all classes had for- 
gotten their usual recreations of Easter, 
even before the afflicting event was appre- 
hended. 

" The loss of this illustrious individual is 
undoubtedly to be deplored by all Greece ; 
but it must be more especially a subject of 
lamentation at Missolonghi, where his ge- 
nerosity has been so conspicuously dis- 
played, and of which he had even become 
a citizen, with the further determination Oi 
participating in all the dangers of the war. 

" Every body is acquainted with the 
beneficent acts of his Lordship, and none 
can cease to hail his name as that of a real 
benefactor. 

" Until, therefore, the final determination 
of the National Government be known, and 
by virtue of the powers with which it has 
been pleased to invest me, I hereby decree, 

" 1st. To-morrow morning, at day light, 
thirty-seven minute guns will be fired from 
the Grand Battery, being the number which 
corresponds with the age of the illustrious 
deceased. 

" 2d. All the public offices, even the tri- 
bunals, are to remain closed for three suc- 
cessive days. 

" 3d. All the shops, except those in which 
provisions or medicines are sold, will also 
be shut ; and, it is strictly enjoined, that 
erery species of public amusement, and 
other demonstrations of festivity at Easter, 
shall be suspended. 

" 4th. A general mourning will be ob- 
served for twenty-one days. 

" 5th. Prayers and a funeral service are 
to be offered up in all the churches. 

(Signed) 

" A. Mavrocordato, 

" George Praidis, Secretary. 

" Given at Missolonghi, 
this 19th day of April, 1824." 



The funeral ceremony took place in the 
church of Saint Nicolas, at Missolonghi, 
on the 22d. The coffin was a rude chest 
of wood, covered with a black mantle. It 
was carried on the shoulders of the officers 
of his brigade, relieved from time to time 
by others ; and followed by all the troops of 
the garrison, and the whole population. In 
the church a helmet, a sword, and a crown 
of laurel were placed upon the bier. After 
the Greek service for the dead was over, it 
remained guarded by a detachment of sol- 
diers, and surrounded by crowds, who 
thronged from all quarters, to pay their last 
look of tribute, until the night of the 23d, 
when it was privately carried back to his 
house by his own officers. On the 2d of 
May it was embarked under a morning sa- 
lute from the guns of the fortress, on board 
a transport sent by the public authorities 
from the island of Zante, and on the 25th 
of May the Florida, an English armed ship, 
received it, under the charge of Colonel 
Stanhope, one of his coadjutors in the 
Greek cause, and sailed from Zante to 
England. Two days, the 9th and 10th of 
July, the body lay in state in London, and 
on Friday the 16th of July, was placed in 
the vault of his family, and next to the 
coffin of his mother, in the parish church 
of Hucknell, a small village near Newstead 
Abbey. Over the chancel of the church 
is a tablet of white marble, bearing the fol 
lowing inscription : 

IN THE VATTLT BENEATH, 

WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER 

ARE BURIED, 

LIE THE REMAINS OF 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 

LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER, 

THE AUTHOR OF " CHILDE HAROLD's PILGRIMAGE." 

HE WAS BORN IN LONDON ON THE 22d OF 

JANUARY, 1788. 

HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 

ON THE 19tH OF APRIL, 1824, 

ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO 

RESTORE THAT 

COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM AKD 

RENOWN. 



LETTERS. 



LETTER L 

TO MISS FIGOT OF SOUTHWELL. 

"Burgage Manor, August 29th, 1804. 
" I received the arms, my dear Miss Pigot, and am very 
much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. It 
is impossible I should have any fault to find with them 
The sight of the drawings gives me great pleasure for a 
double reason, — in the first place, they will ornament my 
books, in the next, they convince me that you have not 
entirely /o/-g-o«en me. I am, however, sorry you do not 
return sooner, you have already been gone an age. I per- 
haps may have talcen my departure for London before you 
come back ; but, however, I will hope not. Do not 
overlook my watch-ribbon and purse, as I wish to carry 
them with me. Your note was given me by Harry, at 
the play, whither I attended Miss Lyon and Doctor 

S ; and now I have set down to answer it before 

I go to bed. If I am at Southwell when you return, — 
and I sincerely hope you will soon, for I very much 
regret your absence, — I shall be happy to hear you sing 
my favourite, ' The Maid of Lodi.' My mother, to- 
gether with myself, desires to be affectionately remem- 
bered to Mrs. Pigot, and beUeve me, my dear Miss 
Pigot, I remain your affectionate friend, 

" ByRON. 

" P. S. If you think proper to send me any answer to 
this, I shall be extremely happy to receive it. Adieu. 

" P. S. 2d. As you say you are a novice in the art of 
knitting, I hope it don't give you too much trouble. Go 
on slovdi/, but surely. Once more, adieu." 



LETTER II. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

" 16 Piccadilly, August 9th, 1806. 

"my dear PIGOT, 

"Many thanks for your amusing narrative of the last 
proceedings of my amiable Alecto,* who now begins to 
feel the efi'ucts of her folly. I have just received a pe- 
nitential epistle, to which, apprehensive of pursuit, I 
have despatched a moderate answer, with a kind of pro- 
mise to return in a fortnight ; — this, however, (entrc jious,) 
I never mean to fulfil. Her soft wurblings must have 
delighted her auditors, her higlwr notes being particularly 
musicaly and on a calm moonlight evening would bo heard 
to great advantage. Had I been present as a specta- 
tor, nothing would have pleased mo more ; but to have 
come forward as one of (he ' dramatis persona-,' — St. 
Dominic defend me from such a scene! Seriously, your 



* Ilii) Mother. II«r recent violi-ncp of temper hoil compelled him to 
fly to London. 



mother has laid me under great obligations, and you, 
with the rest of your family, merit my warmest thanks for 
your kind connivance at my escape from ' Mrs. Byron 
furiosa.'' 

" Oh ! for the pen of Ariosto to rehearse, in epic, the 
scolding of that momentous eve, — or rather, let me invoke 
the shade of Dante to inspire me, for none but the au- 
thor of the ' Ivfernd' could properly preside over such an 
attempt. But, perhaps, where the pen might fail, the 
pencil would succeed. What a group ! — ^IVIrs. B. the 
principal figure ; you cramming your ears with cotton, as 

the only antidote to total deafness ; Mrs. in vain 

endeavouring to mitigate the wrath of the lianess robbed 
of her whelp ; and last, though not least, Elizabeth and 
Wousky, — wonderful to relate! — botli deprived of their 
parts of speech, and bringing up the rear in mute asto- 
nishment. How did S. B. receive the intelligence? 
How maxiy puns did he utter on so facetious an event? 
In your next inform me on this point, and what excuse 
you made to A. You are probably by this time tired of 
deciphering this hieroglyphical letter ; — lilie Tony Lump- 
kin, you wUl pronounce mine to be a d d up and 

down hand. All Southwell, without doubt, is involved in 
amazement. Apropos, how does my blue-eyed nun, the 
fair * * ? is she ' robed in sable garb of wo ?' 

" Here I remain at least a week or ten days ; previous 
to my departure you shall receive my address, but what 
it will be I have not determined. My lodgings must be 
kept secret from Mrs. B. ; you may present my compli- 
ments to her, and say any attcmi)t to pursue me will fail, 
as I have taken measures to retreat immediately to 
Portsmouth, on the first intimation of her removal from 
Southwell. You may add, I have now proceeded to a 
friend's house in the country, there to remain a fortnight. 

" I have now blotted (I must not say written) a com- 
plete double letter, and in return shall expect a monstrous 
budget. Without doubt, (he dames of Southwell re])ro- 
bate the pernicious example I have shown, and (rcmble 
lest their babes should disobey their mandates, and quit 
in dudgeon (heir mammas on any grievance. Adieu. 
When you begin your next, drop the ' lordship,' and put 
' Byron' in its place. Believe me yours, &c. 

"BVRON." 



LETTER HI. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

"London, August lOlli, 1S06. 
"mv dear nUIl>GET, 
"As I have already (roublod your brodior with more 
(ban he will find pK-asuro in decipluM-iiig, y»)u are the 
next to whom I shall assign (he dillieult eniployiu^'ut of 
perusing this '2d epistle. You will porroivo from n\y l^f, 
that no idt.;i of JNlrs. B.'s arrival had disturbed uw at tl»« 



LETTERS, 1806. 



time it was written ; not so the present, since the ap- 
pearance of a note from the illustrious cause of my sud- 
den decampment has driven the ' natural ruby from my 
cheeks,' and completely blanched my wo-begone counte- 
nance. This gunpowder intimation of her arrival, (con- 
found her activity ! ) breathes less of terror and dismay 
than you will probably imagine from the volcanic tem- 
perament of her ladyship^ and concludes with the com- 
fortable assurance of all present motion being prevented 
by the fatigue of her journey, for which my blessings are 
due to the rough roads and restive quadrupeds of his ma- 
jesty's highways. As I have not the smallest incHnation 
to be chased round the country, I shall e'en make a merit 
of necessity, and since, like Macbeth, ' They 've tied me 
to the stake, I cannot fly,' I shall imitate that valorous 
tyrant, and ' bear-like fight the course,' all escape being 
precluded. I can now engage with less disadvantage, 
having dra\vn the enemy from her intrenchments, though, 
like the prototype to whom I have compared myself, with 
an excellent chance of being knocked on the head. 

However, 'lay on, Macduff, and d d be he who first 

cries, hold, enough.' 

"I shall remain in town for, at least, a week, and ex- 
pect to hear from yoii before its expiration. I presume 
the printer has brought you the offspring of my poetic 
mania. Remember, in the first line, to read HovdXhe 
winds whistle,'* instead of 'round,' which that blockhead 
Ridge has inserted by mistake, and makes nonsense of 
the whole stanza. Addio! — Now to encounter my 
Hydra. Yours ever." 



LETTER IV. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



"London, Sunday, midnight, August 10th, 1806. 
"dear pioot, 
• This astonishing packet will, doubtless, amaze you, 
but having an idle hour this evening, I wrote the enclosed 
stanzas, which I request you to deliver to Ridge, to be 
printed separate from my other compositions, as you will 
perceive them to be improper for the perusal of ladies ; 
of course, none of the females of your family must see 
them. I offer a thousand apologies for the trouble I have 
given you in this and other instances. Yours truly." 



LETTER V. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



"Piccadilly, August 16th, 1806. 
"I cannot exactly say with Cajsar, 'Veni, vidi, vici:' 
however, the most important part of his laconic account 
of success applies to my present situation ; for, though 
Mrs. Byron took the trouble of 'coming^ and ^seeing,'' yet 
your humble servant proved the victor. After an obsti- 
nate engagement of some hours, in which we suffered 
considerable damage, from the quickness of the enemy's 
fire, they at length retired in confusion, leaving behind the 
artillery, field equipage, and some prisoners : their defeat 
is decisive of the present campaign. To speak more in- 
telligibly, Mrs. B. returns immediately, but I proceed, 
with all my laurels, to Worthing, on the Sussex coast ; 
to which place you will address (to be left at the post- 
office) your next epistle. By the enclosure of a 2d 
jingle of rhyme, you will probably conceive my muse to 
be vastly prolific ; her inserted production was brought 
forth a few years ago, and found by accident on Thurs- 
day among some old papers. I have recopied it, and, 
adding the proper date, request it may be printed with 
the rest of the family. I thought your sentiments on the 



See Houn of Idleneu, page 883. 



last bantling would coincide with mine, but it was im- 
possible to give it any other garb, being founded on facts 
My stay at Worthing will not exceed three weeks, and 
you mdiy possibly behold me again at Southwell the mid- 
dle of September. 

** + * + ** + 

"Will you desire Ridge to suspend the printing of my 
poems till he hears further from me, as I have deter- 
mined to give them a new form entirely. This prohibi- 
tion does not extend to the last two pieces I have sent 
with my letters to you. You will excuse the dull vanity 
of this epistle, as my brain is a chaos of absurd images, 
and full of business, preparations, and projects. 

'■ I shall expect an answer with impatience ; — believe 
me, there is nothing at this moment could give me greater 
delight than your letter." 



LETTER VI. 



TO MR. PIGOT, 



"London, August, 18th, 1806. 
"I am just on the point of setting off for Worthing, and 
write merely to request you will send that idle scoundrel 
Charles, [his groom,] with my horses immediately ; tell him 
I am excessively provoked he has not made his appear- 
ance before, or written to inform me of the cause of his 
dela}', particularly as I supplied him with money for his 
journey. Onno pretext is he to postpone his march one 
day longer, and if, in obedience to the caprices of Mrs. B. 
(who, I presume, is again spreading desolation through 
her little monarchy,) he thinks proper to disregard my 
positive orders, I shall not, in future, consider him as my 
servant. He must bring the surgeon's bill with him, 
which I will discharge immediately on receiving it. Nor 
can I conceive the reason of his not acquainting Frank, 
[his valet,] with the state of my unfortunate quadrupeds. 
Dear Pigot, forgive thispetidant effusion, and attribute it 
to the idle conduct of that precious rascal, who, instead of 
obeying my injunctions, is sauntering through the streets 
of that political Pandemonium, Nottingham. Present 
my remembrances to your family and the Leacrofts, and 
believe me, &c. 

" P. S. I delegate to you the unpleasant task of de- 
spatching him on his journey — Mrs. B.'s orders to the 
contrary are not to be attended to ; he is to proceed first 
to London, and then to Worthing, without delay. Every 
thing I have left must be sent to London. My Poetics you 
will pack up for the same place, and not even reserve a 
copy for yourself and sister, as I am about to give them 
an entire new form : when they are complete, you shall 
have the first fruits. Mrs. B. on no accoimt is to see or 
touch them. Adieu." 



LETTER VII. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



"LitUe Hampton, August 26th, 1806. 
"I this morning received your epistle, which I was 
obliged to send for to Worthing, whence I have removed 
to this place, on the same coast, about eight miles distant 
from the former. You will probably not be displeased 
with this letter, when it informs you that I am 30,000/. 
richer than I was at our parting, having just received in- 
telligence from my lawyer that a cause has been gained 
at Lancaster assizes,* which will be worth that sum by 
the time I come of age. Mrs. B. is doubtless acquainted 
of this acquisition, though not apprized of its exact value, 
of which she had better be ignorant ^ for her behaviour 



* In a Buit undertaken for the recovery of Ihe Rochdale property. 



LETTERS, 1807. 



on any sudden piece of favourable intelligence is, if possi- 
ble, more ridiculous than her detestable conduct on the 
most trifling circumstance of an unpleasant nature. 
You may give my compliments to her, and say that her 
detaining my servant's things shall only lengthen my ab- 
sence ; for unless they are immediately despatched to 
16 Piccadilly, together w^ith those which have been so 
long delayed belonging to myself, she shall never again 
behold my radiant countenance illuminating her gloomy 
mansion. If they are sent, I may probably appear in 
less than two years from the date of my present epistle. 
"Metrical compliment is an ample reward for my 
strains ; you are one of the few votaries of Apollo who 
unite the sciences over which that deity presides. I 
wish you to send my poems to my lodgings in London 
immediately, as I have several alterations and some ad- 
ditions to make ; every copy must be sent, as I am about 
to amend them, and you shall soon behold them in all 
their glory. I hope you have kept them from that Upas 
tree, that antidote to the arts, Mrs. B. Entre nous, — you 
may expect to see me soon. Adieu. Yours ever." 



LETTER VIII. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



"MV DEAR BRIDGET, 

"I have only just dismounted from my Pegasus, which 
has prevented me from descending to plain prose in an 
epistle of greater length to your fair self. You regretted 
in a former letter, that my poems were not more exten- 
sive ; I now for your satisfaction announce that I have 
nearly doubled them, partly by the discovery of some I 
conceived to be lost, and partly by some new productions 
We shall meet on Wednesday next ; till then, believe 
me yours affectionately, " ByRON. 

"P. S. Your brother John is seized with a poetic 
mania, and is now rhyming away at the rate of three lines 
pc7- hour — so much for inspiration ! Adieu !" 



LETTER IX. 

TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

"Southwell, Notts, February 6th, 1807. 

"my dearest CLARE, 

" Were I to make all the apologies necessary to atone 
for my late negligence, you would justly say you had re- 
ceived a petition instead of a letter, as it would be filled 
with prayers for forgiveness ; but instead of this, I will 
acknowledge my sins at once, and I trust to your friend- 
ship and generosity rather than to my own excuses. 
Though my health is not perfectly re-established, I am 
out of all danger, and have recovered every thing but my 
spirits, which are subject to depression. You will be as- 
tonished to hear I have lately written to Delawarre, for 
the purpose of explaining (as far as possible, without in- 
volving some old friends of mine in the business) the 
cause of my behaviour to him during my last residence at 
Harrow, (nearly two years ago,) which you will recollect 
was rather ^cn cavalier.'' Since that period I have dis- 
covered he was treated with injustice, both by those who 
misrepresented his conduct, and by me in consequence of 
their suggestions. I have therefore made all the repara- 
tion in my power, by apologizing for my mistake, though 
with very faint hopes of success ; indeed I never ex|)ccted 
any answer, but desired one for form's sake ; that has 
not yet arrived, and most probably never will. However, 
I have eased my own conscience by the atonement, which 
is humiliating enough to one of my disposition ; yet I 
could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, 
ri'cn uninUmtionaLly, injured any individual. I have dono 
all lliat could be done to repair the bijury, and there the 



affair must end. Whether we renew our intimacy or 
not is of very trivial consequence. 

" My time has lately been much occupied with very 
different pursuits. I have been transporting a ser\'ant,* 
who cheated me, — rather a disagreeable event: per- 
forming in private theatricals; publishing a volume of 
poems, (at the request of my friends, for iheir perusal;) 
making Zove, and taking physic. The last two amuse- 
ments have not had the best effect in the world; for mj' 
attentions have been divided among so imxiy fair damsels, 
and the drugs I swallow are of such variety in their com- 
position, that between Venus and jEsculapius I am 
harassed to death. However, I have still leisure to de- 
vote some hours to the recollections of past, regretted 
friendships, and in the interval to take the advantage of 
the moment, to assure you how much I am, and ever will 
be, my dearest Clare, 

" Your truly attached and sincere 

« Byron " 



LETTER X. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



"Southwell, Jan. 13,1807. 
" 1 ought to begin with sundry apologies, for my oyra 
negligence, but the variety of my avocations in prose and 
verse must plead my excuse. With this epistle you will 
receive a volume of all my Juvenilia published since your 
departure : it is of considerably greater size than the copy 
in your possession, which I beg you will destroy, as the 
present is much more complete. That unlucky poem to 
my poor Maryf has been the cause of some animadver- 
sion from ladies in years. I have not printed it in this 
collection, in consequence of my being pronounced a 
most profligate sinner, in short, a 'young Moore,' by 
your + * * friend. I beheve in general 



they have been favourably received, and surely the age 
of their author will preclude severe criticism. The ad- 
ventures of my life from sixteen to nineteen, and the dis- 
sipation into which I have been thrown in London, have 
given a voluptuous tint to my ideas ; but the occasions 
which called forth my muse could hardly admit any other 
colouring. This volume is vastly correct and miracu- 
lously chaste. Apropos, talking of love, + * + * 
"If you can find leisure to answer this farrago of un- 
connected nonsense, you need not doubt what gratifica- 
tion vvdll accrue from your reply to yours ever, &c." 



LETTER XL 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

"Southwell, March 6, 1807. 

"dear BANKES, 

" Your critiquej is valuable for many reasons : in the 
first i)lace, it is the only one in which flattery has borne 
so slight a part ; in the next, I am cloyed with insipid 
comphmcnts. I have a better opinion of your judgment 
and ability than yourfeelings. Accept my most sincere 
thanks for your kind decision, not less wolcoino, because 
totally unexpected. Witli regard to a nioro exact esti- 
mate, I need not remind you how few of the best pocms^ 
in our language, will stand the test of minute or vnlniJ 
criticism: it can therefore hardly be expected the etni- 
sions of a boy, (and most of these pieces have been pro- 
duced at an early period,) can derive much merit eitlior 
from the subject or composition. Many of them were 
written under great depression of spirits, and during sr- 



* His val«l Frank. 

1 TliB " Miiry" hcrr mentioned win not llie heir«u of Ann»ilejr, nor 
the " Mnry" ol AlwiiUon. Th« varMw in the Hour* of IdlonsM, to- 
tilled " To Mary on rcrolvlng her jiiclurc," wopf addiVMod tolwr. 

J On the " Iltiiirtof Idleoeaa." 



LETTERS, 1807. 



vere indisposition ; hence the gloomy turn of the ideas. 
We coincide in opinion that the 'poesies ^rotiques' are the 
most exceptionable ; they were, however, grateful to the 
deities, on whose altars they were offered— more I seek 
not. 

" The portrait of Pomposus* was drawn at Harrow, 
after a long sitting; this accounts for the resemblance, or 
rather the caricatura. He is your friend, he never was 
mine— for both our sakes I shall be silent on this head. 
The collegiate rhymes are not personal ; one of the notes 
may appear so, but could not be omitted. I have little 
doubt they will be deservedly abused ; a just punishment 
for my unfihal treatment of so excellent an Alma Mater. 
I sent you no copy, lest we should be placed in the situa- 
tion of Gil Bias and the Archbishop of Grenada: though 
running some hazard from the experiment, I wished your 
verdict to be unbiassed. Had my ' Libellits' heen pre- 
sented previous to your letter, it would have appeared a 
species of bribe to purchase compliment. I feel no hesi- 
tation in saymg, I was more anxious to hear your critique, 
however severe, than the praises of the million. On the 
same day I was honoured with the encomiums oi Mac- 
kenzie, the celebrated author of the ' Man of Feeling.' 
Whetlier his approbation or yours elated me most, I can- 
not decide. 

" You will receive my Juvenilia, at least all yet pub- 
lished. I have a large volume in manuscript, which 
may in part appear hereafter : at present I have neither 
time nor inclination to prepare it for the press. In the 
spring I shall return to Trinity, to dismantle my rooms, 
and bid you a final adieu. The Cam will not be much 
increased by my tears on the occasion. Your farther re- 
marks, however caustic or bitter to a palate vitiated with 
the sweets of adulation, will be of service. Johnson has 
shown us that no poetry is perfect ; but to correct mine 
would be an Herculean labour. In fact I never looked 
beyond the moment of composition, and published merely 
at the request of my friends. Notwithstanding so much 
has been said concerning the 'Genus irritabile vatum,' 
we shall never quarrel on the subject. Poetic fame is 
by no means the ' acme' of my wishes. Adieu. 

"Yours ever, 
" Byron." 



LETTER XII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. — [FRAGMENT.] 

" For my own part, I have suffered severely in the de- 
cease of my two greatest friends, the only beings I ever 
loved, (females excepted:) I am therefore a solitary 
animal, miserable enough, and so perfectly a citizen of the 
world, that whether I pass my days in Great Britain or 
Kamschatka is to me a matter of perfect indifference. 
I cannot evince greater respect for your alteration than 
by immediately adopting it — this shall be done in the 
next edition. I am sorry your remarks are not more 
frequent, a.s I am certain they would be equally benefi- 
cial. Since my last, I have received two critical opi- 
nions from E]diiiburgh, both too flattering for me to de- 
tail. One is from Lord Woodhouslce, at the head of the 
Scotch literati, and a most voluminous writer, (his ^ast 
work is a life of Lord Kaimes;) the other from Mac- 
kensio, who sent his decision a second time, more at 
length. I am not personally acquainted with either of 
these gentlemen, nor ever requested their sentiments on 
the subject: their praise is voluntary, and transmitted 
through tlie medium of a friend, at \vhose house they 
read the productions. 

"Contrary to my former intention, I am now preparing 
a Volume for the public at large : my amatory pieces will 



• Doctor Butlfr, Hewl Mailer of Harrow School. See " Hourt of 
WIcnoKn," pngc 109, &c. 



be exchanced, and others substituted in their place. 
The whole will be considerably enlarged, and appear the 
latter end of May. This is a hazardous experiment ; but 
want of better employment, the encouragement I have 
met with, and my own vanity, induce me to stand the test, 
though not without sundry palpitations. The book will 
circulate fast enough in this country, from mere curiosity, 

what I prin " 

******** 



LETTER XIII. 



TO MR. FALKNER. 



"The volume* of little pieces which accompanies 
this, would have been presented before, had I not been 
apprehensive that Miss Falkner's indisposition might 
render such trifles unwelcome. There are some errors 
of the printer which I have not had time to correct in the 
collection : you have it thus, with ' all its imperfections 
on its head,' a heavy Aveight, when joined with the faults 
of its author. Such ' Juvenilia,' as they can claim no 
great degree of approbation, I may venture to hope, will 
also escape the severity of uncalled for, though perhaps 
not undeserved, criticism. 

" They were written on many and various occasions, 
and are now published merely for the perusal of a 
friendly circle. Believe me, sir, if they afford the 
slightest amusement to yourself and the rest of my social 
readers, I shall have gathered all the bays I ever wish to 
adorn the head of 

" Yours, very truly, 
" Byron. 

"P. S. I hope Miss F. is in a state of recovery " 



LETTER XIV. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



"Southwell, April, 1807. 

"my DEAR PIGOT, 

"Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your 
first examination — ' Courage, mon ami.' The title of Dr. 
will do wonders with the damsels. I shall most proba- 
bly be in Essex or London when you arrive at this d — d 
place, where I am detained by the publication of my 
rhymes. 

"Adieu. — BeUeve me yours very truly, 
" Byron. 

" P. S. Since we met, I have reduced myself by 
violent exercise, much physic, and hot bathing, from 14 
gto ptr.6 Jh. tfcJ^tPJl^' 7 lb. In all I have lost 27 pounS. 
Bravo! — what say you *?* ,,-. Vaw- 



LETTER XV. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



"June 11th, 1807. 

" dear queen BESS, 

" Savage ought to be immortal : — though not a thorough- 
bred buU-dog, he is tlie finest puppy I ever saw, and will 
answer much better ; in his great and manifold kindness 
he has already bitten my fingers, and disturbed the 
gravity of old Boatswain, who is grievously discomposed. 
I wish to be informed what he costs, his expenses, &c. &c., 

that I may indemnify Mr. G , My thanl;s are all 

I can give for the trouble he has taken, make a long 



The Hours of Idleness. 



LETTERS, 1807. 



speech, and conclude it with 12 3 4 5 6 7.* I am out of 
practice, so deputize you as Legate, — ambassador would 
not do in a matter concerning the Pope, which I presume 
this must, as the whole turns upon a BvU. Yours, 

"Byron 
« P. S. I write in hed." 



LETTER XVI. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



"Cambridge, June 30th, 1807. 

" 'Better late than never, Pal,' is a saying of which you 
know the origin, and as it is applicable on the present oc- 
casion, you will excuse its conspicuous place in the front 
of my epistle. 1 am almost superannuated here. My 
old friends, (with the exception of a very few,) all de- 
parted, and I am preparing to follow them, but remain till 
Monday to be present at three Oratorios, two Concerts, a 
Fair, and a Ball. I find I am not only thinner but taller 
by an inch since my last visit. I was obliged to tell every 
body my name, nobody having the least recollection of 
my visage or person. Even the hero of my Cornelian,] 
(who is now sitting vis-h-vis, reading a volume of my 
Poetics,) passed me in Trinity wallis without recognising 
me in the least, and was thunderstruck at the aiteration 
which had taken place in my countenance, &c. &c. 
Some say I look better, others worse, but all agree I am 
thinner — more I do not require. I have lost 2 lb. in my 
weight since I left your cursed, detestable, and abhorred 
abode of scandal, where, excepting yourself and John 
Becher, I care not if the whole race were consigned to 
the Pit o{ Acheron, which I would visit in person rather 
than contaminate my sandals with the polluted dust of 
Southwell. Seriously, unless obliged by the emptiness of 
my purse to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more. 

" On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cambridge 
with little regret, because our set are vanished, and my 
musical protegd before mentioned has left the choir, and is 
stationed in a mercantile house of considerable eminence 
in the metropolis. You may have heard me observe he 
is exactly, to an hour, two years younger than myself. I 
found him grown considerably, and, as you will suppose, 
very glad to see his former Patron. He is nearly my 
height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and 
light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know ; 
— I hope I shall never have occasion to change it. Every 
body here conceives me to be an invalid. The university 
at present is very gay, from the fetes of divers kinds. I 
supped out last rught, but cat (or ate) nothing, sipped a 
bottle of claret, weut to bed at 2 and rose at 8. I have 
commenced early rising, and find it agrees with me. 
The Masters and the Fellows all very jjolite, but look a 
little askance — don't much admire lampoons — truth al- 
ways disagreeable. 

"Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of your mena- 
gerie go on, and if my publication goes o^well: do the 
quadrwpeda growl ? Apropos, my bull-dog is deceased — 
' Flesh both of cur and man is grass.' Address your an- 
swer to Cambridge. If I am gone, it will be forwarded. 
Sad news just arrived — Prussians beat — a bad set, cat 
nothing but oil, consequently must melt before a hnrdjire. 
1 get awkward in my academic habiliments for want of 
practice. Got up in a window to\»car the oratorio at St. 
Mary's, popped down in the nnddle of the Messiah, tore 
a woful rent in the back of my best black sillt^ gown, and 
damaged an egregious pair of breeches. Mem. — never 
tumble from a churcii window during service. Adieu, 
dear * * ♦ ♦ ! do not remember mo to any body : — to 



* He here aUmlos to nn odd fancy or trick of hit own ; wln-nivor lie wiw 
At a l(iB8 for »oinclliin([ to any, lio uHed lo giibble over '• 12 3 15 6 7." 

t Mr. Kdl.Hlon. Sec tin; linen " to K." Hoinn of Idl'iu-ii, |uiRc38l; 
aud " Tlic C'ornuliiiii," Houri of Idlcue»ii, [mgo 386. 



forget and be forgotten by the people of Southwell is all I 
aspire to." 



LETTER XVII. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

"Trin. Coll. Camb. July 5th, 1807. 
"Since my last letter I have determined to reside 
another year at Granta, as my rooms, &c. &c. are finished 
in great style, several old friends come up again, and 

many new acquaintances made ; consequently, my incli- 
nation leads me forward, and I shall return to college in 
October, if still alive. My life here has been one con- 
tinued routine of dissipation — out at different places every 
day, engaged to more dinners, &c. &c. than my stay 
would permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a 
bottle of claret in my head, and tears in my eyes ; for I have 
just parted with my ' Cornelian^ who spent the evening 
with me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my 
engagement to devote the hours of the Sabbath to friend- 
ship : — Edleston and I have separated for the present, 
and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-mor- 
row I set out for London : you will address your answer 
to 'Gordon's Hotel, Albemarle-street,' where 1 sojourn 
during my visit to the metropolis. 

" I rejoice to hear you are interested in my protegi: he 
has been my almost constant associate since October, 
1805, when I entered Trinity College. His voice first at- 
tracted my attention, his countenance fixed it, and his 
manners attached me to him for ever. He departs for 
a mercantile house in town in October, and we shall pro- 
bably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I 
shall leave to his decision either entering as a partner 
through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of 
course he would in his present frame of mind prefer the 
latter, but he may alter his opinion previous to that period ; 
however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love 
him more than any human being, and neither time nor 
distance have had the least effect on my (in general) 
changeable disposition. In short, we shall put iM^ly E. 
Butler and Miss Ponsonby to the blush, Pyladcs and 
Orestes out of countenance, and want nothing but a ca- 
tastrophe like Nisus and Euryalus, to give Jonathan and 
David the ' go by.' He certainly is perhaps more at- 
tached to me than even I am in return. During the 
whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, 
summer and winter, without passing ane tiresome mo- 
ment, and separated each time with increasing reluc- 
tance. I hope you will one day see us together, he is 
the only being I esteem, though I like many.* 

" The Marquis of Tavistock was down the other day ; 
I supped with him at his tutor's — entirely a whig party. 
The opposition muster strong here now, and liOrd 
Huntingdon, the Duke of Leinster, &c. &c. are lo join us 
in October, so every thing will be splendid. The music 
is all over at present. Met with another 'accidcncy'' — 

pset a butter-boat in the lap of a lady — look'd very blue 
— spectators grinned — 'curse 'em!' Apro[)Os, sorry to 
say, been drunk every day, and not quite sober yet — how- 

vcr, touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegeta- 
bles, consequently it does me no harm — sad dogs all the 
Cnntabs. Mem. — lue mean to reform next January. Tliis 
place is a monotony of endless laricty — like it — halo 
Southwell. Has Ridge sold well? or do the ancients 
demur? What ladies iiavo bought ? + * * * 
"Saw a girl at St. Mary's tiie image of Anno * ♦ *, 
tliought it was her — all in the wrong — the lady stared, so 
did I — I blushed, so did not the lady — sad thing — wish 
women had more modesty. Talking of women, puts ine 
in mind of my terrier Faimy — how is she ? Got ii head- 
ache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel. 



KdlcttoD. See Letter 101 . 



U 



\>> 









6 



LETTERS, 1807. 



My protege breakfasts with me ; parting spoils my appe- 
tite—excepting from Southwell. Mem.—/ hate South- 
well. Yours, &c." 

LETTER XVIII. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

«« Gordon's Hotel, July 13th, 1807. 
" You write most excellent epistles — a fig for other 
correspondents with their nonsensical apologies for 
^knoiving nought about it,'— you send me a delightful 
budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex of dissipation, 
(very pleasant for all that,) and, strange to tell, I get 
thinner, being now below eleven stone considerably. 
Stay in town a montl^ perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, 
and^then, as a favour, irradiate Southwell for three days 
with the light of my countenance ; but nothing shall 
ever make me reside there again. I positively return to 
Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, 
or m truth I should cut the University. An extraordinary 
circumstance occurred to me at Cambridge, a girl so 
very like * * ♦ made her appearance, that nothing but 
the most minute inspection could have undeceived me. 
I wish I had asked.if s^ had ever been at H * * *. 

« What the devil would Ridge have ? is not fifty in a 
fortnight, before the advertisements, a sufficient sale ? I 
hear many of the London booksellers have them, and 
Crosby has sent copies to the principal watering-places. 
Are they liked or not in Southwell ?** + ** 
1 wish Boatswain had swallowed Damon! How is 
Bran? by the immortal gods, Bran ought to be a Count 
of the Holy Roman Empire. * * * 

" The inteUigence of London cannot be interesting to 
you, who have rusticated all your life — the annals of 
routs, riots, balls, and boxing-matches, cards and crim. 
cons., parliamentary discussion, political details, mas- 
querades, mechanics, Argyle-street Institution and 
aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brooks's and Buona- 
parte, opera-singers and oratorios, wine, women, wax- 
works, and weathercocks, can't accord with your insu- 
lated ideas of decorum and other silly expressions not in- 
serted in our vocabulary. 

" Oh ! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left 
thee, and how I cnrse the heavy hours I dragged along, 
for so many months, among the Mohawks who inhabit 
your kraals ! — However, one thing I do not regret, which 
is having pared o^a sufficient quantity of flesh to enable 
me to slip into ' an eel sldn,' and vie with the slim beaux 
of modern times ; though, I am sorry to say, it seems to 
be the mode among gentlemen to grow /erf, and I am told 
1 am at least 14lb. below the fasliion. However, I de- 
crease instead of enlarging, which is extraordinary, as 
violent exercise in London is impracticable ; but I attri- 
bute the phenomenon to our evening squeezes at public and 
private parties. I heard from Ridge this morning, (the 
I4th, my letter was begun yesterday:) he says the 
Poems go on as well as can be wished, the seventy-five 
sent to town are circulated, and a demand for fifty more 
complied witli, the day he dated his epistle, though the 
advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu. 



LETTER XIX. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



'•p. S. Lord Carlisle, on receiving my Poems, sent, 
before he opened the boolc, a tolerably handsome letter : 
— I have not heard from him since. His opinions I 
neither know nor care about ; if he is the least insolent, I 
shall enroll him with Butler* and the other worthies. 
He is in Yorkshire, poor man ! and very ill ! He said he 
had not lime to road the contents, but thought it neces- 
sary to acknowledge the receipt of the volume immedi- 
ately. Perhaps the earl ^ hears no brother near the 
throne,^ — if so, 1 will make his sceptre totter in his hands 
—Adieu !" 

• Dr.Uuller. .Sec Letter XI. 



"August 2d, 1807. 
« London begins to disgorge its contents— town is 
empty— consequently I can scribble at leisure, as occu- 
pations are less numerous. In a fortnight I shall de- 
part to fulfil a country engagement ; but expect two 
epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does 
not proceed rapidly in Notts— very possible. In town 
things wear a more promising aspect, and a man whose 
works are praised by reviewers, admired by dutchesses, 
and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not 
dedicate much consideration to rustic readers. I have 
now a review before me, entitled ' Literary Recreations,' 
where my hardship is applauded far beyond my deserts. 
I know nothing of the critic, but thinlc him a very dis- 
cerning gentleman, and 7yj?/se^ a devilish clever fellow. 
His critique pleases me particularly because it is of i 
great length, and a proper quantum of censure is admi- 
nistered, just to give an agreeable relish to the praise. 
You know I hate insipid, unqualified, commonplace j 
compliment. If you would wish to see it, order the 13th 
number of 'Literary Recreations' for the last month. 
I assure you I have not the most distant idea of the 
writer of the article — it is printed in a periodical publi- 
cation—and though I have written a paper, (a review of 
Wordsworth,*) which appears in the same work, I am 
ignorant of every other person concerned in it — even 
ths editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin, 
Lord Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, 
told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested he 
would introduce my poetical Lordship to her Highness^ 
as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly in 
common with the rest of the fashionable world, and 
wished to claim her relationship with the author. I 
was miluckily engaged on an excursion for some days 
afterward, and as the dutchess was on the eve of de- 
parting for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction 
till the winter, when I shall favour the lady, whose taste I 
shall not dispute, with my most sublime and edifying con- 
versation. She is now in the Highlands, and Alexander 
took his departure a few days ago, for the same blessed 
seat of ' dark rolling winds.'' 

"Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his 
second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a third — 
at least so he says. In every bookseller's window I see 
my own name and say nothing, but enjoy my fame in se- 
cret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my 
determination of writing no more, and 'a Friend to the 
Cause of Literature' begs I will gratify the public with 
some new work ' at no very distant period.' Who 
would not be a bard ? — that is to say, if all critics would 
be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I doubt 
not, for this gentle encouragement. If so, have at 'em I 
By-the-by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, 
after two in the morning, three hundred and eighty lines 
in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily got 
Hutton's account. I shall extend the Poem to eight or 
ten books, and shall have finished it in a year. Whether 
it will be published or not must depend on circumstances. 
So much for egotism ! My laurels have turned my brain, 
but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticisms will pro- 
bably restore me to modesty. 

" Southwell is a dapmed place — I have done with it— 



* This first attempt of Lord Byi-cn at reviewing, (for he, once or 
twice afterward, tried his hand at tliis least poetical of employments,) 
is remarkable piiiy as showing how plausibly he could assume the esta- 
blished lone and phraseology of these minor judgment-seats of criticism. 
For instance : — " The volumes before us are by the Author of Lyrical 
Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly met with a consider- 
able share of public anplause. Tiie characteristics of Mr. Wordsworth's 
muse are simple and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious, verse, 

1— strong and sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, wiih unex- 
ceptionable sentiments. Though the present work may not equal bit 
former efforts, many of the poems possess a native eJcgance," &c.&c.— 
Monri 



LETTERS, 1807. 



at least in all probability : excepting yourself I esteem 
no one within its precincts. You were my only ra- 
tional companion ; and in plain truth, I had more respect 
for you than the whole hevy, with whose foibles I amused 
myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. 
You gave yourself more trouble with me and my manu- 
scripts than a thousand dolls would have done. Be- 
lieve me, I have not forgotten your good-nature in this 
circle of sin, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince 
my gratitude. Adieu, yours, &c. 

«P. S. Remember me to Dr. P." 



LETTER XX. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



"London, August 11th, 1807. 

"On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands.* A 
friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edin- 
burgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in a tan- 
dem, (a species of open carriage,) through the western 
passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase shelties, to 
enable us to view places inaccessible to vehicular con- 
veyances. On the coast we shall hire a vessel and visit 
the most remarkable of the Hebrides, and, if we have 
time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far as Ice- 
land, only three hundred miles from the northern ex- 
tremity of Caledonia, to peep at Hecla. This last inten- 
tion you will keep a secret, as my nice mamma would 
imagine I was on a Voyage of Discovery, and raise the 
accustomed maternal war-whoop. 

'* Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth 
through the two bridges, Westminster and Blackfriars, a 
distance, including the different turns and tacks made 
on the way, of three miles ! You see I am in excellent 
training in case of a squall at sea. I mean to collect all 
the Erse traditions, poems, &c. &c., and translate, or 
expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear 
next spring under the denomination of ' The Highland 
Harp' or some title equally picturesque. Of Bosworth 
Field, one book is finished, another just begun. It will 
be a work of three or four years, and most probably 
never conclude. What would you say to some stanzas 
on Mount Hecla? they would be written at least with 
fire. How is the immortal Bran ? and the Phoenix of 
canine quadrupeds. Boatswain? I have lately pur- 
chased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the co- 
adjutor of the aforesaid celestials — his name is Smut ! — 
* bear it, ye breezes, on your balmy wings.' 

" Write to me before I set off, I conjure you by the 
fifth rib of your grandfather. Ridge goes on well with 
the books — I thought that worthy had not done much in 
the country. In town they have been very successful ; 
Carpenter (Moore's publisher) told me a few days ago 
they sold all theirs immediately, and had several inquiries 
made since, which, from the books being gone, they 
could not supply. The Duke of York, the Marchioness 
of Headfort, the Dutchess of Gordon, &c. &c. were 
among the purchasers, and Crosby says the circulation 
will be still more extensive in tlie winter ; the summer 
season being very bad for a sale, as most people arc ab- 
sent from London. However, they have gone off ex- 
tremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on 
my journey through Newark, but cannot approach. 
Don't tell this to Mrs. B., who supposes I travel a dif- 
ferent road. If you have a letter, order it to be left at 
Ridge's shop, where I shall call, or the post-office, New- 
arlc, about 6 or 8 in the evening. If your brother would 
ride over, I should bo devilish glad to see him — ho can 



• Tliii plan (which he nercr put in piaclicu) had been talked of by 
him beforn be Icl'l Southwell. — Moort. 



return the same night, or sup with us, and go home the 
next morning — the Kingston Arms is my inn. 

"Adieu, yours ever, 

" Byron." 



LETTER XXL 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



"Trinity College, Cambridge, Oct. 26th, 1807. 
"my dear **+*, 

"Fatigued with sitting up till four in the mornmg for 
the last two days at hazard, I take up my pen to inquire 
how your highness and the rest of my female acquaint- 
ance at the seat of archiepiscopal grandeur go on. I 
know I deserve a scolding for my neghgence in not wri- 
ting more frequently ; but racing up and down the 
country for these last three months, how was it possible 
to fulfil the duties of a correspondent ? Fixed at last for 
six weeks, I write, as thin as ever, (not having gained an 
ounce since my reduction,) and rather in better humour ; 
— but, after all, Southwell was a detestable residence. 
Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it : I have been 
twice within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on 
myself to suffocate in its heavy atmosphere. This place 
is wretched enough — a villanous chaos of din and drunk- 
enness, nothing but hazard and Burgundy, hunting 
mathematics and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it 
is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of 
Southwell. Oh! the misery of doing nothing but make 
love, enemies, and verses. 

" Next January (but this is entre nous only, and pray 
let it be so, or my maternal persecutor will be throwing 
her tomahawk at any of my curious projects) I am 
going to sea, for four or five months, with my cousin, 
Capt. Bettes worth, who commands the Tartar, the finest 
frigate in the navy. I have seen most scenes, and wish 
to look at a naval life. We are going probably to the 

Mediterranean, or to the West Indies, or — to the d 1; 

and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter, 
Bettesworth will do it ; for he has received four-and- 
twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment 
possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating 
Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had 
more wounds than himself.* 

" I have got a new friend, the finest in tho world, a 
tame bear. When I brought him here, they asked me 
what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, ' he 
should sit for a fellowship.'' Sherard will explain tlie 
meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This an- 
swer dehghted them not. We have several parties 
here, and this evening a large assortment of jockeys, 
gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with 
me, — a precious mixture, but they go on well togetlier : 
and for me, I am a spice of every thing except a jockey j 
by-the-by, I was dismounted again tlie other day. 

" Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I 
have written 214 pages of a novel, — one poem of 380 
hnes,f to be published (without my name) in a few 
weeks, with notes, — 560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 
lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen 
smaller pieces. The poem to be published is a Satire. 
Apropos, I have been praised to tho skies in the Critical 
Review, and abused greatly in another publication. So 
much tho better, tlicy tell me, for tho sale of the book ; it 
keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. 
Besides, tlie first men of all ages have had their siiare, 
nor do the humblest escape ; — so 1 bear it like a pliik)- 
sophor. It is oild two opposite critiques came out on 
tho same day, and out of five pages of abuse my censor 
only quotes two imcs from different poems, in support of 



• See poiticript to the Kiigliah Hurdi unA Scotch Re»l«wer». 
t EnKllih Bardi mid Scotch Kevlewer*. 



LETTERS, 1808. 



his opinion. Now the proper way to cut up is to quote 
long passages, and make them appear absurd, because 
simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there 
are seven pages of praise, and more than my^ modesty 
will allow said on the subject. Adieu. 

« P. S. Write, write, write ! ! !" 

LETTER XXII. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

«Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle-street, Jan. 20th, 1808. 



• Your letter was not received till this morning, I pre- 
sume from being addressed to me in Notts, where I have 
not resided since last June, and as the date is the 6th, 
you will excuse the delay of my answer. 

" If the little volume* you mention has given pleasure 
to the author of Percival and Aubrey, 1 am sufficiently 
repaid by his praise. Though our periodical censors 
have been uncommonly lenient, I confess a tribute from 
a man of acknowledged genius is still more flattering. 
But I am afraid I should forfeit all claim to candour, 
if I did not decline such praise as I do not deserve ; 
and this is, I am sorry to say, the case in the present in- 
stance. 

"My compositions speak for themselves, and must 
stand or fall by their own worth or demerit : thus far I 
feel highly gratified by your favourable opinion. But 
my pretensions to virtue are unluckily so few, that though 
I should be happy to merit, I cannot accept, your ap- 
plause in that respect. One passage in your letter 
struck me forcibly : you mention the two Lords Lyttle- 
ton in a manner they respectively deserve, and will be 
surprised to hear the person who is now addressing you 
has been frequently compared to the latter. I know I 
am injuring myself in your esteem by this avowal, but 
the circumstance was so remarkable from your observa- 
tion, that I cannot help relating the fact. The events of 
my short life have been of so singular a nature, that, 
though the pride commonly called lionour has, and I trust 
ever will, prevent me from disgracing my name by a 
mean or cowardly action, I have been already held up as 
the votary of Ucentiousness, and the disciple of infidelity. 
How far justice may have dictated this accusation I 
cannot pretend to say, but, like the gentleman to whom 
my religious friends, in the warmth of their charity, have 
already devoted mc, I am made worse than I reallv am. 
However, to quit myself, (the worst theme I could pitch 
upon,) and return to my Poems, I cannot sufficiently ex- 
press my thanks, and I hope I shall some day have an 
opportunity of rendering them in person. A second edi- 
tion is now in tiie press, with some additions and consi- 
derable omissions ; you will allow me to present you 
with a copy. The Critical, Monthly, and Anti-Jacobin 
Reviews have been very indulgent; but the Eclectic 
has pronounced a furious Philippic, not against the book 
but the author, where you will find all I have mentioned 
asserted by a reverend divine who wrote the critique. 

" Your name and connexion with our family have been 
long known to me, and I hope your person will be not 
less so ; you will find me an excellent compound of a 
' Brainless' and a ' Stanhope.'f I am afraid you will 
hardly be able to read this, for my hand is almost as bad 
as my character, but you will find me, as legibly as 
possible, 

" Your obliged and obedient servant, 
"Byron.' 



Hours of Idlenctt. 

C'bKruclcn In the iio»el called Percival. 



LETTER XXIII. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

"Dorant's, January 21st, 1808. 
"sir. 

"Whenever leisure and inclination permit me the 
pleasure of a visit, I shall feel truly gratified in a per- 
sonal acquaintance with one whose mind has been long 
known to me in his writings. 

" You are so far correct in your conjecturej that I am 
a member of the University of Cambridge, where I shall 
take my degree of A. M. this term ; but were reasoning, 
eloquence, or virtue the objects of my search, Granta is 
not their metropolis, nor is the place of her situation an 
'El Dorado,' far less a Utopia. The intellects of her 
children are as stagnant as her Cam,* and their pursuits 
limited to the church — not of Christ, but of the nearest 
benefice. 

" As to my reading, I believe I may aver, without hy- 
perbole, it has been tolerably extensive in the historical ; 
so that few nations exist, or have existed, with whose 
records I am not in some degree acquainted, from He- 
rodotus dowTi to Gibbon. Of the classics, I know about 
as much as most school boys after a discipline of thirteen 
years ; of the law of the land as much as enables me to 
keep ' within the statute' — to use the poacher's vocabu- 
lary. I did study the ' Spirit of Laws' and the Law c^ 
Nations ; but when I saw the latter violated every 
month, I gave up my attempts at so useless an accom- 
phshment ; — of geography, I have seen more land on 
maps than I should wish to traverse on foot ; — of mathe- 
matics, enough to give me the'headache without clearing 
the part affected ; — of philosophy, astronomy, and meta- 
physics, more than I can comprehend ; and of commou 
sense so little, that I mean to leave a Byronian prize at 
each of our ' Almae Matres' for the first discovery,— 
though I rather fear that of the Longitude will pre- 
cede it. 

" I once thought myself a philosopher, ajtid talked non- 
sense with great decorum : I defied pain, and preached 
up equanimity. For some time tliis did very well,^ for 
no one was in pain for me but my friends, and none lost 
their patience but my hearers. At last, a fall from my 
horse convinced me bodily suffering was an evil ; and 
the worst of an cirgument overset my maxims and my 
temper at the same moment, so I quitted Zeno for Aris- 
tippus, and conceive that pleasure constitutes the to kuXov. 
In morality, I prefer Confucius to the Ten Command- 
ments, and Socrates to St. Paul, though the latter two 
agree in their opinion of marriage. In religion, I favour 
the Catholic emancipation, but do not acknowledge the 
Pope ; and I have refused to take the Sacrament, be- 
cause I do not think eating bread or drinking wine from 
the hand of an earthly vicar will make me an inheriter 
of heaven. I hold virtue in general, or the virtues se- 
verally, to be only in the disposition, each a.fceling, not a 
pvinciple. I believe truth the prime attribute of the 
Deity ; and death an eternal sleep, at least of the body. 
You have here a brief compendium of the sentiments of 
the wicked George Lord Byron ; and, till I get a nevw 
suit, you will perceive I am badly clothed. I remain, 
" Yours very truly, 
" Byron." 



LETTER XXIV. 

TO MR, HENRY DRURy.f v 

"Dorant's Hotel, Jan. 13th, 1808. 

"my DEAR SIR, 

" Though the stupidity of my servants, or the porter of 
the house, in not showing you up stairs, (where I should 



♦ See E.B.anrlS. U. p. 429. 

t Son of Doctor Drury, Lord Byron's forraer Master at Harrow 
.School. 



LETTERS, 1808. 



9 



have joined you directly,) prevented me the pleasure of 
seeing you yesterday, I hoped to meet you at some pub- 
lic place in the evening. However, my stars decreed 
otherwise, as they generally do, when I have any favour 
to request of them. I think you would have been sur- 
prised at my figure, for, since our last meeting, I am re- 
duced four stone in weight. I then weighed fourteen 
stone seven pound, and now only ten stone and a half. I 
have disposed of my superfluities by means of hard exer- 
cise and abstinence. * + + 

"Should your Harrow engagements allow you to 
visit town between this and February, I shall be most 
-happy to see you in Albemarle-street. If I am not so 
fortunate, I shall endeavour to join you for an afternoon 
at Harrow, though, I fear, your cellar will by no means 
contribute to my cure. As for my worthy preceptor. 
Dr. B., our encounter would by no means prevent the 
mutual endearments he and I were wont to lavish on each 
other. We have only spoken once since my departure 
from Harrow in 1805, and then he politely told Tatersall 
I was not a proper associate for his pupils. This was 
long before my strictures in verse : but, in plain prose^ 
had I been some years older, I should have held my 
tongue on his perfections. But being laid on my back, 
when that schoolboy thing was written — or rather dic- 
tated — expecting to rise no more, my physician having 
taken his sixteenth fee, and I his prescription, I could 
not quit this earth without leaving a memento of my 
constant attachment to Butler in gratitude for his mani- 
fold good offices. 

" I meant to have been down in July ; but thinking my 
appearance, immediately after the publication, would be 
construed into an insult, I directed my steps elsewhere. 
Besides, I heard that some of the boys had got hold of 
my Libellus, contrary to my wishes certainly, for I never 
transmitted a single copy till October, when I gave one 
to a boy, since gone, after repeated importunities. You 
will, 1 trust, pardon this egotism. As you had touched 
on the subject, I thought some explanation necessary. 
Defence I shall not attempt, 'Hie murus aheneus esto, 
nil conscire sibi' — and 'so on' (as Lord Baltimore said, 
on his trial for a rape)' — I have been so long at Trinity 
as to forget the conclusion of the line ; but, though I can- 
not finish my quotation, I will my letter, and entreat you 
to believe me, gratefully and affectionately, &c. 

" P. S. I will not lay a tax on your time by requiring 
an answer, lest you say, as Butler said to Tatersall, 
(when I had written his reverence an impudent epistle 
on the expression before mentioned,) viz. ' that I wanted 
to draw him into a correspondence.'" 



LETTER XXV. 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



"Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle-street, Feb. 11, 1808. 
"mv dear Harness, 
"As I had no opportunity of returning my verbal 
thanks, I trust you will accept my written acknowledg- 
ments for the compliment you were pleased to [)ay some 
production of my unlucky muse last November — I am 
induced to do tliis not less from the pleasure 1 feel in the 
praise of an old schoolfellow, than from justice to you, 
for I had heard the story with soma sligiit variations. 
Indeed, when wc met tills moniiiig, Wingfield liad not 
undeceived me, but he will tell you that I displayed no 
resentment in meritioning what I had heard, though I 
was not sorry to discover the truth. Perhaps you 
hardly recollect some years ago a short, though, for the 
time, a warm friendship between us ? Why it wius not 
of longer duration, I know not. 1 have still a gift of 
yours in my possession, that must always prevent mo 
from forgetting it. 1 also remember being favoured witli 



the perusal of many of your compositions and several 
other circumstances very pleasajit in their day, which I 
will not force upon your memory, but entreat you to be- 
lieve me, with much regret at their short continuance, 
and a hope they are not irrevocable, yours very sin- 
cerely, &c. " Byron." 



LETTER XXVI. 

TO MR. HARNESS. — [FRAGMENT.] 

"March 1808. 

* We both seem perfectly to recollect, with a mixture 
of pleasure and regret, the hours we once passed to- 
gether, and I assure you most sincerely they are num- 
bered among the happiest of my brief chronicle of enjoy- 
ment. I am now getting into years, that is to say, 1 was 
twenty a month ago, and another year will send me into 
the world to run my career of folly with the rest. I was 
then just fourteen, — you were almost the first of my 
Harrow friends, certainly the ^rs^ in my esteem, if not in 
date ; but an absence from Harrow for some time, shortly 
after, and new cormexions on your side, and the difference 
in our conduct (an advantage decidedly in your favour) 
from that turbulent and riotous disposition of mine, which 
impelled me into every species of mischief — all these 
circumstances combined to destroy an intimacy, which 
Affection urged me to continue, and Memory compels 
me to regret. But there is not a circumstance attending 
that period, hardly a sentence we exchanged, which is 
not impressed on my mind at this moment. I need not 
say more, — this assurance alone must convince you, had 
I considered them as trivial, they would have been less 
indelible. How well I recollect the perusal of your 
• first flights !' There is another circumstance you do 
not know ; — the first lines I ever attempted at Harrow 
were addressed to you. You were to have seen them; 
but Sinclair had the copy in his possession when we 
went home ; — and, on our return, we were strangers. 
They were destroyed, and certainly no great loss ; but 
you will perceive from this circumstance my opinions at 
an age when we cannot be hypocrites. 

" 1 have dwelt longer on this theme than I intended, 
and I shall now conclude with what I ought to have be- 
gun. We were once friends, — nay, we have always 
been so, for our separation was the effect of chance, not 
of dissension. I do not know how far our destinations 
in life may throw us together, but if opportunity and in- 
clination allow you to waste a thought on such a hare- 
brained being as myself^ you will find me at least sincere, 
and not so bigoted to my faults as to involve others in the 
consequences. Will you sometimes write to me ? I da 
not ask it oflen, and, if we meet, let us be what we shouli 
be and what we were.'" 



LETTER XXVIL 



TO MR. BECHER. 



•Dorant's Hotel, Feb. 26, 1806. 
"my dear bechkr, 
«' * ♦ * ♦ Now for Ajmllo. 1 am 

happy that you still retain your predilection, and that tho 
public allow me some share of praise. I am of so much 
importance that a most violent attack is preparing for nio 
in the next number of tho Edinburgh Review. This 1 
had from tho authority of a frieml who has seen tlio i>roof 
and manuscript of the critique. You know the system 
of the Edinburgh gentlemen is universal attack. They 
praise none ; an«l neither the public nor the author ex- 
pects praise from them. It is, however, something to be 
noticed, as Uioy profess to puss jud^jnuMit only on worki 
requiring Uio public attention. You will sco thia, when 



10 



LETTERS, 1808. 



it comes out ; — it is, I understanrl, of the most unmerciful 
description ; but I am aware of it, and hope you will not 
be hurt by its severity. 

" Tell Mrs. Byron not to be out of humour with them, 
and to prepare "her mind for the greatest hostility on 
their part. It will do no injury whatever, and I trust her 
mind will not be ruffled. They defeat their object by 
indiscriminate abuse, and they never praise, except the 
partizans of Lord Holland and Co. It is nothing to be 
abused when Southey, Moore, Lauderdale, Strangford, 
and Payne Knight share the same fate. 

"I am sorry— but 'Childish Recollections' must be 
suppressed during this edition. I have altered, at your 
suggestion, the obnoxious cdlusions in the sixth stanza of 
my last ode. 

" And now, my dear Becher, I must return my best 
acknowledgments for the interest you have taken in me 
and my poetical bantlings, and I shall ever be proud to 
show how much I esteem the advice and the adviser. 
Believe me most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXVIII. 



TO MR. EECHER. 



" Dorant's, March 28, 1808. 

" I have lately received a copy of the new edition 
from Ridge, and it is high time for me to return my best 
thanks to you for the trouble you have taken in the su- 
perintendence. This I do most sincerely, and only re- 
gret that Ridge has not seconded you as I could wish, — 
at least, in the bindings, paper, &c. of the copy he sent 
to me. Perhaps those for the public may be more re- 
spectable in such articles. 

"You have seen the Edinburgh Review, of course. 
I regret that Mrs. Byron is so much annoyed. For my 
own part, these ' paper bullets of the brain' have only 
taught me to stand fire ; and, as I have been lucky 
enough upon the whole, my repose and appetite are not 
discomposed. Pratt, the gleaner, author, poet, &c. &c., 
addressed a long rhyming epistle to me on the subject, 
by way of consolation ; but it was not well done, so I do 
not send it, though the name of the man might make it 
go down. The E. R*. have not performed their task 
well ; — at least the literati tell me this, and I think / 
could write a more sarcastic critique on myself than any 
yet published. For instance, instead of the remark, — 
ill-natured enough, but not keen, — about Mac Pherson, 
I (quoad reviewers) could have said, ' Alas, this imita- 
tion only proves the assertion of Doctor Johnson, that 
many men, women, and duldren could write such poetry 
as Ossian's.' 

" I am thin and in exercise. During the spring or 
summer I trust we shall meet. 1 hear Lord Ruthyn 
leaves Newstead in April. * * * As soon as he 
quits it for ever, I wish much you would take a ride over, 
8iirv«-y the mansion, and give me your candid opinion on 
the most advisable mode of proceeding with regard to 
the hiniae. Entre nous, I am cursedly dipped ; my 
debts, every thing inclusive, will be nine or ten thousand 
before I am twenty-one. But I have reason to think 
my property will turn out bolter than general expecta- 
tion may conceive. Of Newstead 1 have little hope or 
care ; but Hanson, my agent, intimated my Lancashire 
property was worth three Newstcads. I believe we 
have it hollow ; though the defendants are protracting 
the surrender, if possible, till after my majority, for the 
purpose of forming some arrangement with me, thinking 
I shall probably prefer a sum in hand to a reversion. 
Newstead I m&y sell ; — perliai»s I will not, — though of 
that more anon. I will come down in May or June 
• * * ♦ « Yours most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXIX. 

TO MR. JACKSON.* 

«N. A. Notts, Sept. 18, 1808. 
"dear jack, 

'• I wish you would inform me what has been done by 
Jekyll, at No. 40, Sloane-square, concerning the pony I 
returned as unsound. 

" I have also to request you will call on Louch at 
Brompton, and inquire what the devil he meant by 
sending such an insolent letter to me at Brighton ; and 
at the same time tell him I by no means can comply 
with the charge he has made for things pretended to be 
damaged. 

" Ambrose behaved most scandalously about the pony. 
You may tell Jekyll if he does not refund the money, I 
shall put the affair into my lawyer's hands. Five-and- 

twenty guineas is a sound price for a pony, and by , 

if it cost me five hundred pounds, I will make an exam- 
ple of Mr. Jekyll, and that immediately, unless the cash 
is returned. " BeUeve me, dear Jack, &c." 



LETTER XXX. 



TO MR. JACKSON. 



« N. A. Notts, Oct. 4, 1808 
* You will make as good a bargain as possible with this 
Master Jekyll, if he is not a gentleman. If he is a 
gentleman, inform me, for I shall take very different 
steps. If he is not, you must get what you can of the 
money, for I have too much business on hand at present 
to commence an action. Besides, Ambrose is the man 
who ought to refund, — but I have done with him. You 
can settle with L. out of the balance, and dispose of the 
bidets, &c. as you best can. 

" I should be very glad to see you here ; but the house 
is filled with workmen and undergoing a thorough re- 
pair. I hope, however, to be more fortunate before 
many months have elapsed. 

"If you see Bold Webster, remember me to him, and 
tell hun I have to regret Sydney, who has perished, I 
fear, in my rabbit warren, for we have seen nolliing of 
him for the last fortnight. 

" Adieu. — BeUeve me, &c." 



LETTER XXXL 



TO MR. JACKSON. 



« N. A. Notts, Dec. 12, 1808. 
"my dear jack, 

" You will get the greyhound from the owTier at any 
price, and as many more of the same breed (male or fe- 
male) as you can collect. 

"Tell D'Egville his dress shall be returned — I am 
obliged to him for the pattern. I am sorry you should 
have so much trouble, but I was not aware of the diffi- 
culty of procuring the animals in question. I shall have 
finished part of my mansion in a few weeks, and, if you 
can pay me a visit at Christmas, I shall be very glad to 
see you. « Beheve me, fcc." 



LETTER XXXII. 

TO MR. BECHER. 

•Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 14th, 1808. 
"my dear becher, 
" I am much obliged to you for your inquiries, and shall 
profit by them accordingly. I am going to get up a play 



Th» Pugilist. See note to Don Ju«n, Canto Xl. 



LETTERS, 1809. 



11 



here ; the hall will constitute a most admirable theatre. 
I have settled the dram. pers. and can do without ladies, 
as I have some young friends who will make tolerable 
substitutes for females, and we only want three male 
characters, beside Mr. Hobhouse and myself for the 
play we have fixed on, which will be the Revenge. 
Pray direct Nicholson the carpenter to come over to me 
immediately, and inform me what day you will dine and 
pass the night here. "Believe me, &c." 



LETTER XXXIII. 

TO THE HONOUKABLE* MRS. BYRON. 

"Newstead Abbey, Notts, Oct. 7th, 1808. 
"dear madam, 
" I have no beds for the H * * s, or any body else at 
present. The H * * s sleep at Mansfield. I do not 
know that I resemble Jean .Tacques Rousseau.f I have 
no ambition to be like so illustrious a madman — but this 
I know, that I shall live in my own manner, and as much 
alone as possible. When my rooms are ready I shall 
be glad to see you ; at present it would be improper, and 
uncomfortable to both parties. You can hardly object 
to my rendering my mansion habitable, notwithstandmg 
ray departure for Persia in March, (or May at farthest,) 
since you will be tenant till my return ; and in case of 
any accident, (for I have already arranged my will to be 
drawn up the moment I am twenty-one,) I have taken 
care you shall have the house and manor for life, besides 
a sufficient income. So you see my improvements are 
not entirely selfish. As I have a friend here, we will go 
to the Infirmary Ball on the 12th ; we will drink tea with 
Mrs. Byron at eight o'clock, and expect to see you at 
the ball. If that lady will allow us a couple of rooms to 
dress in, we shall be highly obliged : — if we are at the 
ball by ten or eleven it will be time enough, and we shall 
return to Newstead about three or four. 

« Adieu, BeUeve me, 
" Yours very truly, 
"Byron." 



LETTER XXXIV. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

« Newstead Abbey, Nov. 2d, 1808, 
"dear mother, 

"If you please, we will forget the things you mention. 
I have no desire to remember them. When my rooms 
arc finished, I shall be happy to see you ; as I tell but 
the truth, you will not suspect me of evasion. I am fur- 
nishing the house more for you than myself, and I shall 
establish you in it before I sail for India, which I expect 
to do in March, if nothing particularly obstructive occurs. 
I am now fitting up the green drawing-room ; the red for 
a bed-room, and the rooms over as sleeping-rooms. 
They will be soon completed ; — at least, I hope so. 

" I wish you would inquire of Major Watson (who is 
an old Indian) what things will be necessary to provide 
for my voyage. I have already procured a friend to 
write to the Arabic professor at Cambridge for some in- 
fornmtion I am anxious to procure. I can easily get 
letters from government to the ambassadors, consuls, &c. 
and also to the governors at Calcutta and Madras. I 
shall place my property and my will in the liands of 
trustees till my return, and I mean to appoint you one. 
From Hanson I have heard nothing — when I do, you 
shall have tlie particulars. 



"After all, you must own my project is not a bad one. 
If I do not travel now, I never shall, and all men should 
one day or other. I have at present no connexions to 
keep me at home ; no wife, or unprovided sisters, bro- 
thers, &c. I shall take care of you, and when I return I 
may possibly become a pohtician. A few years' know- 
ledge of other countries than our own will not incapaci- 
tate me for that part. If we see no nation but our own 
we do not give mankind a fair chance — it is from experi- 
ence, not books, we ought to judge of them. There is 
nothing like mspection, and trusting to our ovm senses. 
" Yours very truly, 
"Byron." 



* Thui addreHad alwayi by Lord Byron, but without any right to 
tlic dtiiiiictioii. 
1 See Memorundum, page 261. 



LETTER XXXV. 



to MR. HODGSON. 



" A few weeks ago I wrote to * * *, to request he 
would receive the son of a citizen of London, well known 
to me, as a pupil ; the family having been particularly 
polite during the short time I was with them induced me 
to this application. Now, mark what follows, — as some- 
body sublimely saith. On this day arrives an epistle, 
signed * * *, containing not the smallest reference to 
tuition, or mtuition, but a jietition for Robert Gregson, of 
pugilistic notoriety, now in bondage for certain paltry 
pounds sterling, and liable to take up his everlasting 
abode in Banco Regis. Had the letter been from any 
of my lay acquaintance, or, in short, from any person but 
the gentleman whose signature it bears, I should have 
marvelled not. If * ♦ * is serious, I congratulate pugi- 
lism on the acquisition of such a patron, and shall be 
most happy to advance any sum necessary for the hbe- 
ration of the captive Gregson. But I certainly hope to 
be certified from you, or some respectable housekeeper, 
of the fact, before 1 write to * * * on the subject. 
When I say ihefact, I mean of the letter being written 
by * * *, not having any doubt as to the authenticity of 
the statement. The letter is now before me, and I keep 
it for your perusal." 



LETTER XXXVI. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ES<1. 

«R eddish's Hotel, Jan. 25, 1809. 
"my dear sir, 

" My only reason for not adopting your lines* is be- 
cause they are your lines. You will recollect what 
Lady Wortley Montague said to Pope : 'No touching, 
for the good will be given to you, and the bad attributed 
to me.' I am determined it shall be all my own, except 
such alterations as may be absolutely requisite ; but I 
am much obliged by the trouble you have taken and 
your good opinion. 

" The couplet on Lord C. may be scratched out, and 
the following inserted : 

" RoBcommon 1 Slieffieid I with your spirits fled, Jtc. 

" This will answer the purpose of concealment. Now, 
for some couplets on Mr. Crabbe, which you may place 
after ' Gifl'ord, Sothoby, M'Noil :' 

" Tliere be who tay in theto enUghlened days, he. 

"I am sorry to differ witli you with regard to the title, 
but 1 mean to retain it with this addition ; ' The F.nglish 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers ;' and, if we call it a 
Satire, it will obviate tlie objection, as the bards also 
wore Welsh. * ♦ * ♦ 

" Yours very .vincorely, 

" BVKON." 



• Mr. PnlliiH hud wnltfii •oino llne«, mid r»iiiirmed l.iml liyroii to hi- 
iert Ihi'in ill tliu fSiidtv, ihe " KiiglUh Uiinln and Stotrh RrvirwcrB," 
then in pifM.— The IcUtfii rulluwiiig to Mr. Dallat, rtl*lt to llial work. 



12 



LETTERS, 1809. 



LETTER XXXVII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

«Feb. 7th, 1809. 

*MT DEAR SIR, 

" Suppose we have this couplet — * 

" Though sweet the Bound disdain a borrow'd tone, 
Resign Achaia't lyre, and strike your ovn ; 

or, 

" Though soft the echo scorn a borrow'd tone. 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

" So much for your admonitions ; but my note of notes,f 
my soUtary pun must not be given up — no, rather 

" ' Let mightiest of all the beasts of chace. 
That roam in woody Caledon' 

come against me : my annotation must stand. 

•• We shall never sell a thousand ; then why print so 
many ? Did you receive my yesterday's note ? I am 
troubling you, but I am apprehensive some of the lines 
are omitted by your young amanuensis, to whom, how- 
ever, I am infinitely obliged. 

" Believe me, yours very truly, 

« Byron." 



WOTES TO MR. DALLAS. 

"Feb. 11,1809. 
" I wish you to call if possible, as I have some altera- 
ions to suggest as to the part about Brougham. " B." 

" Excuse the trouble, but I have added two lines which 
ne necessary to complete the poetical character of 
Lord Carlisle. 

" in his age 

Hii scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 
But managers for once cried, ' hold, enough !' 
Nor drugg'd their audience with tlie tragic stuS°. 



"Feb. 12th, 1809." 



"Yours, &c. 



«B. 



" I wish you much to call on me, about one, not later, 
if convenient, as I have some thirty or forty lines for 
addition. 

" Believe me, &c. " B." 

» Feb. 15,1809." 

'Ecce iterum Crispinus! — I send you some lines to 
be placed after 'GifTord, Sotheby, M'Neil.' Pray call 
ix> morrow any time before two, and believe me, &c. 

"B." 

"P. S. Print soon, or I shall overflow with more 
rhyme. 

"Feb. 16th, 1809." 

" 1 enclose some lines to be inserted, the six first after, 
'Lords too are bards, &c.' or rather immediately follow- 
ing the line: 

" ' Oh I who would take their titles with their rhymes ?' 

Tiie four next will wind up the panegyric on Lord 
Carlisle, and come after ' tragic stuff.' 

" Yours, truly, «B." 

■Feb. 19th, 1809." 

■* A cut at the opera — Ecce signum ! from last night's 
observation, and inucndoes against the Society for the 



suppression of Vice. The lines will come well in af\er 
the couplets concerning Naldi and Catalani. 

"Yours truly, 
*' Byron." 
« Feb. 22d, 1809." 



LETTER XXXVIIL 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



• Mr. Dallss objected to the linM •■ orisfinallv written • 
" Tranilnlinn's serrile worK at length disown, 
And qiiil Arhnia's muse to court your own." 

t 8m Enfllsh Bards, and not*, p. 435. 



"8, St. James's-street, March 6th, 1809. 

"dear MOTHER, 

" My last letter was written under great depression of 
spirits from poor Falkland's death,* who has lefl without 
a shilling four children and his wife. I have been en- 
deavouring to assist them, which, God knows, I cannot 
do as I could wish, from my own embarrassments, and 
the many claims upon me from other quarters. 

"What you say is all very true: come what may, 
Newstead and I starid or fall together. I have now 
lived on the spot, I have fixed my heart upon it, and no 
pressure, present or future, shall induce me to barter the 
last vestige of our mheritance. I have that pride within 
me which will enable me to support difficulties. I can 
endure privations ; but could I obtain in exchange for 
Newstead Abbey the first fortune in the country, I 
would reject the proposition. Set your mind at ease on 
that score ; Mr. Hanson talks like a man of business on 
the subject, I feel like a man of honour, and I will not 
sell Newstead. 

" I shall get my seat on the return of the affidavits 
fromCarhais, in Cornwall, and will do something in the 
House soon: I must dash, or it is all over. My Satire 
must be kept secret for a month i after that you may say 
what you please on the subject. Lord Carlisle has used 
me infamously, and refused to state any particulars of 
ray family to the Chancellor. I have lashed him in my 
rhymes, and perhaps his Lordship may regret not being 
more conciliatory. They tell me it will have a sale ; I 
hope so, for the bookseller has behaved well, as far as 
publishing well goes. 

"Believe me, yours truly. 

" P. S. You shall have a mortgage on one of the 
farms." 



LETTER XXXIX. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

" 8, St. James's-street, March 18th, 1809. 

" There was no necessity for your excuses : if you 
have time and inchnation to write, ' for what we receive, 
the Lord make us thanltful.'— If I do not hear from you, 
I console myself with the idea that you are much more 
agreeably employed. 

" I send down to you by this post a certain Satire 
lately published, and in return for the three and sixpence 
expenditure upon it, only beg that if you should guess 
the author, you will keep his name secret ; at least, for 
the present. London is full of the Duke's business. 
The Commons have been at it these last three nights 
and are not yet come to a decision. I do not know if 
the affair will be brought before our House, unless in the 
shape of an impeachment. If it makes its appearance 
m a debatable form, I beheve I shall be tempted to say 
something on the subject.— I am glad to hear you like 
Cambridge : firstly, because to know that you are happy 
is pleasant to one who wshes you all possible sublunary 
enjoyment ; and, secondly, I admire the morality of the 
sentiment. Alma Mater was to me injusta noverca : and 
the old Beldam only gave me my M. A. degree because 



* See EnglUb Bardi, and note, p. 426. 



LETTERS, 1809. 



13 



she could not avoid it. — You know what a farce a noble 
Cantab, must perform. 

"I am going abroad, if possible, in the spring, and 
before I depart I am collecting the pictures of my most 
intimate schoolfellows ; I have already a few, and shall 
want yours, or my cabinet will be incomplete. I have 
employed one of the first miniature-painters of the day 
to take them, of course at my own expense, as I never 
allow my acquaintance to incur the least expenditure to 
gratify a whim of mine. To mention this may seem in- 
deUcate ; but when I tell you a friend of ours first re- 
fused to sit, under the idea that he was to disburse on 
the occasion, you will see that it is necessary to state 
these prelimmaries to prevent the recurrence of any 
similar mistake. I shall see you in time, and will carry 
you to the limner. It will be a tax on your patience for 
a week, but pray excuse it, as it is possible the resem- 
blance may be the sole trace I shall be able to preserve 
of our past friendship and present acquaintance. J ust 
now it seems fooUsh enough, but in a few years, when 
some of us are dead, and others are separated by inevi- 
table circumstances, it will be a kind of satisfaction to 
retain in these images of the living the idea of our 
former selves, and to contemplate in the resemblance of 
the dead, all that remains of judgment, feeling, and a host 
of passions. But all this would be dull enough for you, 
and so good night, and to end my chapter, or rather my 
homily, believe me, dear H. yours most affectionately. 

"P. S. I do not know how you and Alma Mater 
agree. I was but an untoward child myselfj and I be- 
lieve the good lady and her brat were equally rejoiced 
when I was weaned ; and, if I obtained her benediction 
at parting, it was, at best, equivocal." 



con tinned him in my service. If he does not behave 
well abroad, I will send him back in a transport. I have 
a German servant, (who has been with Mr. Wilbraham 
m Persia before, and was strongly recommended to me 
by Dr. Butler of Harrow,*) Robert, and William; they 
constitute my whole suite. I have letters in plenty — 
you shall hear from me at the different ports I touch 
upon ; but you must not be alarmed if my letters mis- 
carry. The continent is in a fine state — an insurrec- 
tion has broken out at Paris, and the Austrians are 
beating Buonaparte — the Tyrolese have risen. 

" There is a picture of me in oil, to be sent down to 
Newstead soon. — I wish the Miss Pigots had some- 
thing better to do than carry my miniatures to Notting- 
ham to copy. Now they have done it, you may ask 
them to copy the others, which are greater favourites 
than my own. As to money matters, I am ruined — at 
least till Rochdale is sold ; and if that does not turn out 
well, I shall enter into the Austrian or Russian service 
— perhaps the Turkish, if I like their manners. The 
world is all before me, and I leave England without re- 
gret, and without a wish to revisit any thing it contains, 
except yourself, and your present residence. 

" Believe me, yours ever sincerely. 

"P. S. Pray teU Mr. Rushton his son is well, and 
doing well ; so is Murray, indeed better than I ever saw 
him ; he will be back in about a month. I ought to add 
the leaving Murray to my few regrets, as his age perhaps 
will prevent my seeing him again. Robert I take with 
me ; I like him, because, like myselfj he seems a friend- 
less animal." 



LETTER XL. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESC^. 

"April 25th, 1809. 
"dear sir, 
"I am just arrived at Batt's Hotel, Jermyn-street, St. 
James's, from Newstead, and shall be very glad to see 
you when convenient or agreeable. Hobhouse is on his 
way up to town, full of printing resolution, and proof 
against criticism. 

" Believe me, with great smcerity, yours truly, 

« BVRON.' 



LETTER XLL 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

" Twelve o'clock, Friday night. 

"MV dear BANKES, 

" I have just received your note : believe me, I regret 
most sincerely that I was not fortunate enough to see it 
before, as I need not repeat to you, that your conversa- 
tion for half an hour would have been much more agree- 
able to me than gambling or drinking, or any other 
fashionable mode of passing an evening abroad or at 
home. I really am very sorry that I went out previous 
to the arrival of your despatch : in future, pray let me 
hear from you before six, and whatever my enga<.'cments 
may be, 1 will always postpone them. Believe me, 
with that deference which I have always from my child- 
hood paid to your talents, and with somewhat a better 
Opinion of your heart than I have hitherto entertained, 
" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER XLII. 

TO MRS. EVRON. 

"Falmouth, Juno 22(1, 1809. 

"dear MOTHER, 

•* I am about to sail in a few days ; probably before 
this reaches you. Fletcher begged so hard, Uiat I have 



LETTER XLIII. 

TO MR. HENRY DRITRY. 

"Falmouth, June 25th, 1809. 

"my DEAR DRURY, 

"We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having 
been detained till now by the lack of wind, and other ne- 
cessaries. These being at last procured, by this time to- 
morrow evening we shall be embarked on the vide 
rorld of waters, uor all the world like Robinson Crusoe. 
The Malta vessel not sailing for some weeks, we have 
determined to go by way of Lisbon, and, as my servants 
term it, to see ' that there PortingaJe ;' thence to Cadiz 
and Gibraltar, and so on our old route to Malta and 
Constantinople, if so be that Captain Kidd, our gallant 
commander, understands plain sailing and Mercator, and 
takes us on our voyage all according to the chart. 

" Will you tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the trea- 
sure of a servant, Friese, the native of Prussia Proper, 
into my service from his recommendation. He has 
been all among the Worshippers of Fire in Persia, and 
has seen Persepolis and all that. 

" Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a book 
on his return ; — 100 pens, two gallons of japan ink, and 
several volumes of best blank, is no bad provision for a 
discerning public. I have laid down my pen, but have 
l)romised to contribute a chapter on the state o^ morals, 
&c. &c. 

" ' The cock ig crowing, 
I must be going, 
And can no more.'— Qhoat of Qaffer Thumb. 

" Adieu. Believe me, &c. &c." 



LETTER XLIV. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

"Falnioutli, June 26Ui, 1809. 

**MY dear H0D080N, 

"Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officers' 
wives, lliree children, two waiting- maids, ditto subalterns 



The PaK<i anii Vouman ol Uio " UooU Niiiht," in Ui* Artt Caitln of 
ChilHe HnrolH. 



14 



LETTERS, 1809. 



for the troops, three Portuguese esquires and domestics, 
in all nineteen souls, will have sailed in the Lisbon 
packet, with the noble Captain Kidd, a gallant com- 
mander as ever smuggled an anchor of right Nantz, 

" We are going to Lisbon first, because the Malta 
packet has sailed, d' ye see ? — from Lisbon to Gibraltar, 
Malta, Constantinople, and ' all that,' as Orator Henley 
said, when he put the Church, and ' all that,' in danger. 

" This town of Falmouth, as you will partly conjecture, 
is no great ways from the sea. It is defended on the sea- 
side by tway castles, St. Maws and Pendennis, ex- 
tremely well calculated for annoying every body except 
an enemy. St. Maws is garrisoned by an able-bodied 
person of fourscore, a widower. He has the whole com- 
mand and sole management of six most unmanageable 
pieces of ordnance, admirably adapted for the destruc- 
tion of Pendennis, a like tower of strength on the oppo- 
site side of the Channel. We have seen St. Maws, but 
Pendennis they will not let us behold, save at a distance, 
because Hobhouse and I are suspected of having al- 
ready taken St. Maws by a coup de main. 

" The town contains many quakers and salt fish — the 
oysters have a taste of copper, owing to the soil of a 
mining country — the women (blessed be the Corpora- 
tion therefor !) are flogged at the cart's tail when they 
pick and steal, as happened to one of the fair sex yester- 
day noon. She was pertinacious in her behaviour, and 
damned the mayor. * * 

" Hodgson ! remember me to the Drury, and remem- 
ber me to — yourself when drunk : — I am not worth a 
sober thought. Look to my Satire at Cawthorne's, 
Cockspur-street. * * * 

" I don't know when I can write again, because it de- 
pends on that experienced navigator, Captain Kidd, and 
the ' stormy winds that (don't) blow,' at this season. I 
leave England without regret — I shall return to it 
without pleasure, I am like Adam, the first convict, 
sentenced to transportation, but I have no Eve, and have 
eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab ; — and thus 
ends my first chapter. Adieu. Yours, &c." 



than England, and I am infinitely amusevl with my pil- 
grimage as far as it has gone. 

" To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as 
far as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and By- 
zantium. A letter to Malta will find me, or to be for- 
warded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and 
Dvvyer and all the Ephesians you encounter. I am 
writing with Butler's donative pencil, which makes my 
bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility. + * * 

" Hodgson ! send me the news, and the deaths, and 
defeats, and capital crimes, and the misfortunes of one's 
friends ; and let us hear of literary matters, and the con- 
troversies and the criticisms. All this will be pleasant — 
'Suave mari magno,' &c. Talking of that, I have been 
seasick, and sick of the sea. Adieu. 

« Yours faithfuUy,&c.» 



LETTER XLVL 

TO MR. HODGSON. 



LETTER XLV. 

TO MR. HODGSOBT. 

"Lisbon, July 16th, 1809. 

" Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all 
sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c. — 
which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's forth- 
coming Book of Travels, 1 shall not anticipate by smug- 
gling any account whatsoever to you in a private and 
clandestine manner. I must just observe that the village 
of Cintra* in Estremadura is the most beautiful, perhaps, 
in the world. * ♦ ♦ 

" I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and 
talk bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is 
like their own, — and 1 goes into society, (with my pocket 
pistols,) and I .swims in the Tagus all across at once, 
and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, 
and have got a diarrhoDa and bites from the musquitoes. 
But what of that ? Comfort must not be expected by 
folks that go a pleasuring. * + * 

"When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say, ' Car- 
racho!' — the great oath of the grandees, that very well 
supplies the place of ' Damme,' — and, when dissatisfied 
with my neighbour, I pronounce him ' Ambra di merdo.' 
With these two phrases, and a third. 'Avra Bouro,' 
which signifieth 'Get an ass,' I am universally under- 
stood to be a person of degree and a master of languages. 
How merrily we lives that travellers be !— if we had fi)od 
and raiment. But, in sober sadness, any thing is better 



* 6«e Childe Harold, Canlo I. it&oui 18tb, &c. 



"Gibraltar, August 6, 1809. 
" I have just arrived at this place after a journey 
through Portugal, and a part of Spain, of nearly 500 
miles. We left Lisbon and travelled on horseback to 
Seville and Cadiz, and thence in the Hyperion frigate to 
Gibraltar. The horses are excellent — we rode seventy 
miles a day. Eggs and wine and hard beds are all the 
accommodation we found, and, in such torrid weather, 
quite enough. My health is better than in England. 
+ * * 

" Seville is a fine town, and the Sierra Morena, part 
of which we crossed, a very sufficient mountain, — but 
damn description, it is always disgusting. Cadiz, sweet 
Cadiz I — it is the first spot in the creation. * * * 
Thebeauty of its streets and mansions is only excelled 
by the loveliness of its inhabitants. For, with all na- 
tional prejudice, I must confess the women of Cadiz are 
as far superior to the English women in beauty as the 
Spaniards are inferior to the English in every quality 
that dignifies the name of man. * * * Just as I 
began to know the principal persons of the city, I was 
obliged to sail. 

" You will not expect a long letter after my riding so 
far ' on hollow pampered jades of Asia.' Talking of 
Asia puts me in mind of Africa, which is within five 
miles of my present residence. I am going over before 
I go on to Constantinople. 

" * * * Cadiz is a complete Cythera. Many of 
the grandees who have left Madrid during the troubles 
reside there, and I believe it is the prettiest and cleanest 
town in Europe. London is filthy in the comparison. 
* * + The Spanish women are all alike, their edu- 
cation the same. The wife of a duke is, in information, 
as the wife of a peasant, — the wife of a peasant, in man- 
ner, equal to a dutchess. Certainly, they are fascinat- 
ing ; but their minds have only one idea, and the business 
of their lives is intrigue. * + * 

"I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Cadiz, and 
like Swift's barber, have been down on my knees to beg 
he would not put me into black and white. Pray re- 
member me to the Drurys and the Davies, and all of 
that stamp who are yet extant. Send me a letter and 
news to Malta. My next epistle shall be from Mount 
Caucasus or Mount Sion. I shall return to Spam be- 
fore I see England, for I am enamoured of the country. 
Adieu, and believe me, &c." 

LETTER XLVn. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Gibraltar, Aug. 11th, 1809. 

"dear MOTHER, 

" I have been so much occupied since my departure 
from England, that till I could address you at length, I ^ 



LETTERS, 1809. 



15 



have forborne writing altogether. As 1 have now 
passed through Portugal, and a considerable part of 
Spain, and have leisure at this place, I shall endeavour 
to give you a short detail of my movements. We 
sailed from Falmouth on the 2d of July, reached Lisbon 
after a very favourable passage of four days and a half^ 
and took up our abode in that city. It has often been 
described without being worthy of description ; for, ex 
cept the view from the Tagus, which is beautiful, and 
some fine churches and convents, it contains little but 
filthy streets and more filthy inhabitants.* 

" To make amends for this, the village of Cintra, about 
fifteen miles from the capital, is, perhaps in every re- 
spect, the most deUghtful in Europe •, it contains beau- 
ties of every description, natural and artificial. Palaces 
and gardens rising in the midst of rocks, cataracts, and 
precipices ; convents on stupendous heights — a distant 
view of the sea and the Tagus ; and, besides (though 
that is a secondary consideration) is remarkable as the 
scene of Sir H. D.'s Convention.f It unites in itself all 
the wildness of the western highlands, with the verdure 
of the South of France. Near this place, about ten 
miles to the right, is the palace of Mafra, the boast of 
Portugal, as it might be of any country, in point of mag- 
nificence without elegance. There is a convent an- 
nexed ; the monks, who possess large revenues, are 
courteous enough, and understand Latin, so that we had 
a long conversation : they have a large library, and 
asked me if the English had any books in their country. 

" I sent my baggage and part of the servants' by sea 
to Gibraltar, and travelled on horseback from Aldea 
Galheda, (the first stage from Lisbon, which is only ac- 
cessible by water,) to Seville, (one of the most famous 
cities in Spain,) where the government called the Junta 
is now held. The distance to Seville is nearly four hun- 
dred miles, and to Cadiz almost ninety miles further to- 
wards the coast. I had orders from the government, and 
every possible accommodation on the road, as an Eng- 
lish nobleman, in an English uniform, is a very respecta- 
ble personage in Spain at present. The horses are re- 
markably good, and the roads (I assure you upon my 
honour, for you will hardly beUeve it) very far superior 
to the best British roads, without the smallest toll or 
turnpike. You will suppose this when I rode post to 
SeviQe in four days, through this parching country, in 
the midst of summer, without fatigue or annoyance. 
Seville is a beautiful town ; though the streets are nar- 
row they are clean. J We lodged in the house of two 
Spanish unmarried ladies, who possess six houses in 
Seville, and gave me a curious specimen of Spanish 
manners. § They are women of character, and the eldest 
a fine woman, the youngest pretty, but not so good a 
figure as Donna Josepha. The freedom of manner 
which is general here, astonished me not a little ; and in 
the course of further observation 1 find that reserve is not 
the characteristic of the Spanish belles, who are, in ge- 
neral, very handsome, with large black eyes, and very 
fine forms. The eldest honoured your unwortliy son 
with very particular attention, embracing him with great 
tenderness at parting, (I was there but three days,) after 
cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting hinj with 
one of her own, about three feet in length, which I send, 
and beg you will retain till my return. Her last words 
were, ' Adios, tu hermoso ! me gusto mucho.' — ' Adieu, 
you pretty fellow, you please me much.' She offered a 
share of her apartment, which my virtue induced nie to 
dcchne; she laughed, and said I had some English 
'amante,' (lover,) and added that she was going to be 
married to an officer in the Spanish army. 

" I left Seville, and rode on to Cadiz, through a beau- 
tiful country. At Xeres, where the sherry wc drank is 



• Sec Childe Harold, Canio I. ttuuza 16. 

\ Ibid. 6.5, Sic. § Hon Junii, '"unu 



made, I met a great merchant, a Mr. Gordon of Scot- 
land, who was extremely polite, and favoured me with the 
inspection of his vaults and cellars, — so that I quaffed at 
the fountain head. 

"Cadiz,* sweet Cadiz, is the most deUghtful town 1 
ever beheld, very different from our English cities in 
every respect, except cleanliness, (and it is as clean as 
London,) but stiU beautiful and full of the finest women 
in Spain, the Cadiz belles being the Lancashire witches 
of their land. Just as I was introduced, and began to 
lilie the grandees, I was forced to leave it for this cursed 
place ; but before I return to England I will visit it 
again. The night before I left it, I sat in the box at the 
opera with Admiral Cordova's family ; he is the com- 
mander whom Lord St. Vincent defeated in 1797, and 
has an aged wife and a fine daughter, Senorita Cordova ; 
the girl is very pretty in the Spanish style, in my opinion 
by no means inferior to the English in charms, and cer- 
tainly superior in fascination. Long black hair, dark 
languishing eyes, clear olive complexions, and forms more 
graceful in motion than can be conceived by an English- 
man used to the drowsy, hstless air of his countrywomen, 
added to the most becoming dress, and, at the same time, 
the most decent in the world, render a Spanish beauty 
irresistible. I beg leave to observe that intrigue here is 
the business of life ; when a woman marries she throws 
off all restraint, but I beheve their conduct is chaste 
enough before. If you make a proposal, which in Eng- 
land would bring a box on the ear from the meekest of 
virgins, to a Spanish girl, she thanks you for the honour 
you intend her, and replies, ' Wait till I am married, and 
I shall be too happy.' This is literally and strictly true. 
Miss C. and her little brother understood a Uttle French, 
and, after regretting my ignorance of the Spanish, she 
proposed to become my preceptress in that language. 
I could only reply by a low bow, and express my regret 
that I quitted Cadiz too soon to permit me to make the 
progress which would doubtless attend my studies under 
so charming a directress. I was standing at the back 
of the box, which resembles our opera boxes, (the theatre 
is large, and finely decorated, the music admirable,) in 
the manner in which Englishmen generally adopt, for 
fear of incommoding the ladies in front, when this fair 
Spaniard dispossessed an old woman (an aunt or a 
duenna) of her chair, and commanded me to be seated 
next herself, at a toierable distance from her mamma. 
At the close of the performance I withdrew, and was 
lounging with a party of men in the passage, when, en 
passant, the lady turned round and called me, and 1 had 
the honour of attending her to the admiral's mansion. I 
have an invitation on my return to Cadiz, whicli I shall 
accept, if I repass through the country on my return 
from Asia. 

" 1 have met Sir John Carr, knight errant, at SevilU^ 
and Cadiz. He is a pleasant man. I like the Spaniards 
much. You have heard of the battle near Madrid, and 
in England they call it a victory — a pretty victory ! 200 
officers, and 5000 men killed, all English ; and the 
French in as great force as ever. I should iiave joined 
the army, but we have no time to lose before we get up 
the Mediterranean and Archipelago. I am going oVer 
to Africa to-morrow; it is only si.\ miles from tliis for- 
tress. My ne.\t stage is Cagliari in Sardinia, where I 
shall be presented to his majesty. I have a most su- 
perb uniform as a court dross, indispensable in tra- 
velling. 

Au^ist \Sth. — 1 have not been to AtVica ■, the wind is 
contrary ; but 1 dined yesterday at Algesiras, with Lady 
Westmoreland, where 1 met CJeneral l^'iustanos, the ce- 
lebrated Spanish leader in the late and present war: to 
day I dine with hini ; he has offered nie letters to To- 
tuan in Barbary, for the principal Moors ; and I am to 



See ChlM^ Ilnrolci, Canto I. iiriim 65, Ae. 



16 



LETTERS, 1809. 



have the house for a few days of one of the great men, 
which was intended for Lady W. whose health will not 
permit her to cross the Straits. 

August \5th. — I could not dine with Castanos yester- 
day, but this afternoon I had that honour ; he is pleasant, 
and for aught I know to the contrary, clever. I cannot 
go to Barbary. The Malta packet sails to-morrow, and 
myself in it. Admiral Purvis, with whom I dined at 
Cadiz, gave me a passage in a frigate to Gibraltar, but 
we have no ship of war destined for Malta at present. 
The packets sail fast, and have good accommodations. 
You shall hear from me on our route. Joe Murray de- 
livers this. I have sent him and the boy back ; pray 
show the lad every kindness, as he is my great favourite. 
I hope this will find you well. 

* Believe me, ever yours sincerely, 

" Byron." 

" P. S. So Lord G. is married to a rustic ! well done ! 
If I wed, I will bring you home a Sultana, with half a 
dozen cities for a dowry, and reconcile you to an Otto- 
man daughter-in-law with a bushel of pearls, not larger 
than ostrich eggs or smaller than walnuts." 



LETTER XLVIII. 



TO MK. aUSHTOX. 



"Gibraltar, August 15th, 1809. 

*MR, RUSHTON, 

" I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray, because 
the country which I am about to travel through is in a 
state which renders it unsafe, particularly for one so 
young. I allow you to deduct five-and-twenty pounds a 
year for his education for three years, provided I do not 
return before that time, and I desire he may be con- 
sidered as in my service. Let every care be taken of 
him, and let him be sent to school. In case of my death 
I have provided enough in my will to render him inde- 
pendent. He has behaved extremely well, and has tra- 
velled a great deal for the time of his absence. Deduct 
the expense of his education from your rent. 

« Byron." 



LETTER XLIX. 

TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BYRON. 

«Malta,Sept. 15th, 1809. 

" DEAR MOTHER, 

" Though I have a very short time to spare, being to 
sail immediately for Greece, I cannot avoid taking an 
opportunity of telling you that I am well. I have been 
in Malta a short time, and have found the inhabitants 
hospitable and pleasant. This letter is committed to 
the charge of a very extraordinary woman, whom you 
have doubtless heard of^ Mrs. Spencer Smith,* of whose 
escape the Marquis dc Salvo published a narrative a 
few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked, and 
her life has been from its commencement so fertile in re- 
markable incidents, that in a romance they would appear 
improbable. She was born at Constantinople, wliere 
her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador ; 
married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in 
point of character ; excited the vengeance of Buonaparte 
by a part in some conspiracy ; several times risked her 
life; and is not yet twenty-five. She is here in her 
way to England, to join her husband, being obliged to 
leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her 
mother, by the ap[)roach of the French, and embarl 
soon in a siiip of war. Since my arrival here, I have 



• The '* Florrnce" of ■c»crn1 of hU tmaller poem* ; and alluded 
!n CliiLle Harold, Coiilo II. danza 3U. 



had scarcely any other companion. I have found her 
very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. 
Buonaparte is even now so incensed against her, that her 
life would be in some danger if she were taken prisoner 
a second time. 

You have seen Murray and Robert by this time, and 
received my letter — little has happened since that date. 
I have touched at Cagliari, in Sardmia, and at Girgenti, 
in Sicily, and embark to-morrow for Patras, from whence 
I proceed to Yanina, where AH Pacha holds his Court, 
so I shall soon be among the Musselmans. 

** Adieu. Believe me with sincerity, 

"Yours ever, 
" Byron " 



LETTER L. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



"Prevesa, Nov. 12, 1809. 
"my dear mother, 

" I have now been some time in Turkey : this place 
is on the coast, but I have traversed the interior of the 
province of Albania on a visit to the Pacha. I left 
Malta in the Spider, a brig of war, on the 21st of Sep- 
tember, and arrived in eight days at Prevesa. I thence 
have been about 150 miles, as far as Tepalen, his high- 
ness's country palace, where I stayed three days.* The 
name of the Pacha is AH, and he is considered a man of 
the first abilities : he governs the whole of Albania, (the 
ancient Illyricum,) Epirus, and part of Macedonia. His 
son, Vely Pacha, to whom he has given me letters, 
governs the Morea, and has great influence in Egypt ; in L 
short, he is one of the most powerful men in the Otto- 
man empire. When I reached Yanina, the capital, ] 
after a journey of three days over the mountains, through ' 
a country of the most picturesque beauty, I found that 
Ali Pacha was with his army in Illyricum, besieging | 
Ibrahim Pacha in the castle of Berat. He had heard 
that an Englishman of rank was in his dominions, and 
had left orders in Yanina with the commandant to pro- 
vide a house, and supply me with every kind of neces- 
sary gratis ; and, though I have been allowed to make 
presents to the slaves, &c., I have not been permitted to 
pay for a single article of household consumption. 

" I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the palaces 
of himself and grandsons : they are splendid, but too 
much ornamented with silk and gold. I then went over 
the mountains through Zitza, a village with a Greek 
monastery, (where I slept on my return,) in the most 
beautiful situation (always excepting Cintra, in Portugal) 
I ever beheld. In nine days I reached Tepalen. Our 
journey was much prolonged by the torrents that had 
fallen from the mountains, and intersected the roads. I 
shall never forget the singular scene on entering Tepa- 
len at five in the afternoon, as the sun was going down. 
It brought to my mind (with some change of dress, how- 
ever) Scott's description of Branksome Castle in his 
Lay, and the feudal system. The Albanians, in their 
dresses, (the most magnificent m the world, consisting of 
a long white kilt, gold-worked cloak, crimson velvet gold- 
laced jacket and waistcoat, silver-mounted pistols and 
daggers,) the Tartars with their high caps, the Turks in 
their vast pelisses and turbans, the soldiers and black 
slaves with the horses, the former in groupes in an im- 
mense large open gallery in front of the palace, the latter 
placed in a kind of cloister below it, two hundred steeds 
ready caparisoned to move in a moment, couriers en- 
tering or passing out with despatches, the kettle-drums * 
beating, boys calling the hour from the minaret of the 
mosque, altogether, with the singular appearance of the 
building itself, formed a new and delightful spectacle to a 



See Childe Harold, Canto II. stauia 55. 



LETTERS, 1809. 



17 



stranger. I was conducted to a very handsome apart- 
ment, and my health inquired after by the vizier's secre- 
tary, ' a-la-mode Turque !' 

" The next day I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I 
was dressed in a full suit of staff uniform, with a very 
magnificent sabre, &c. The vizier received me in a 
largo room paved with marble ; a fountain* was playing 
in the centre ; the apartment was surrounded by scarlet 
ottomans. He received me standing, a wonderful com- 
pliment frpm a Mussulman, and made me sit down on 
his right hand. I have a Greek interpreter for general 
use, but a physician of All's, named Femlario, who un- 
derstands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His 
first question was, why, at so early an age, 1 left my 
country? — (the Turks have no idea of travelling for 
amusement.) He then said, the Enghsh minister, Cap- 
tain Leake, had told him I was of a great family, and 
desired his respects to my mother ; v^'hich I now, in the 
name of Ali Pacha, present to yon. He said he was 
certain I was a man of birth, because I had small ears, 
curling hair, and little white hands,f and expressed him- 
self pleased with my appearance and garb. He told me 
to consider him as a father while I was in Turkey, and 
said he looked on me as his son. Indeed, he treated me 
like a child, sending me almonds and sugared sherbet^ 
fruit and sweetmeats, twenty times a day. He begged 
me to visit him often, and at night, when he was at lei- 
sure. I then, after coffee and pipes, retired for the first 
time. I saw him thrice afterward. It is singular that 
the Turks, who have no hereditary dignities, and few 
great families, except the Sultans, pay so much respect 
to birth ; for I found my pedigree more regarded than 
my title. 

" His highness is sixty years old, very fat, and not tall, 
but with a fine face, light blue eyes, and a white beard ; 
his manner is very kind, and at the same time he pos- 
sesses that dignity which I find universal among the 
Turks. — He has the appearance of any thing but his 
real character ; for he is a remorseless tyrant, guilty of 
the most horrible cruelties, very brave, and so good a 
general that they call him the Mahometan Buonaparte. 
Napoleon has twice offered to make him king of Epirus, 
but he prefers the English interest, and abhors the 
French, as he himself told me. He is of so much con- 
sequence, that he is much courted by both ; the Alba- 
nians being the most warlilce subjects of the Sultan, 
though Ali is only nominally dependent on the Porte. 
He has been a mighty warrior ; but is as barbarous as 
he is successful, roasting rebels, &c. &c. Buonaparte 
sent him a snuffbox, with his picture ; he said the snuff- 
box was very well, but the picture he could excuse, as he 
neither liked it nor the original. His ideas of judging of 
a man's birth from ears, hands, &c. were curious enough. 
To me, he was, indeed, a father, giving me letters, 
guards, and every possible accommodation. Our next 
conversations were of war and travelling, politics and 
England. He called my Albanian soldier, who attends 
me, and told him to protect me at all liazard. His 
name is Viscillic, and like all the Albanians, he is brave, 
rigidly honest, and faithful ; but they are cruel, though 
not treacherous ; and have several vices, but no mean- 
nesses. They are, perhaps, the most beautiful race, in 
point of countenance, in the world ; their women arc 
sometimes handsome also, but they are treated like 
slaves, beaten, and, in short, complete beasts of burden ; 
they plough, dig, and sow. I found them carrying wood, 
and actually repairing the highways. The men arc all 
soldiers, and war Jind the chace their solo occupation. 
The women are the labourers, which, after all, is no 
great hardship in so delightful a diuiato. Yesterday, 
the 11th of November, I bathed in the sou; to-day it is 
so hot that I am writing in a shady room of the English 



* Sec Don Juan, Cnnto V. Hlnnza 55, and nof«. 
t Ibid, ntsnia lOiS, nnd not*. 

3 



consul's, with three doors wide open, no fire, or even^re- 
place in the house , except for culinary purposes. 

" To-day I saw the remains of the town of Actium,* 
near which Antony lost the world, in a small bay, where 
two frigates could hardly manoeuvre : a broken wall is 
the sole remnant. On another part of the gulf stands 
the ruins of Nicopolis, built by Augustus in honour of 
his victory. Last night I was at a Greek marriage ; but 
this and a thousand things more I have neither time nor 
space to describe. 

" I am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty men, to 
Patras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, where I 
shall winter. Two days ago I was nearly lost in a 
Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the cap- 
tain and crew, though the storm was not violent. Fletcher 
yelled after his wife, the Greeks called on all the saints, 
the Mussulmans on Alia : the captain burst into tears 
and ran below deck, telling us to call on God ; the sails 
were split, the mainyard shivered, the wind blowing 
fresh, the night setting in, and all our chance was to 
make Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as 
Fletcher pathetically termed it) ' a watery grave.' I did 
what I could to console Fletcher, but finding him incor- 
rigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote, (an 
immense cloak,) and lay down on deck to wait the worst. 
I have learned to philosophize in my travels, and if I had 
not, complaint was useless. Luckily the wind abated, 
and only drove us on the coast of Suli, on the main land, 
where we landed, and proceeded, by the help of the na- 
tives, to Prevesa again ; but I shall not trust Turkish 
sailors in future, though the Pacha had ordered one of 
his own galliots to take me to Patras. I am therefore 
going as far as Missolonghi by land, and there have only 
to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. 

" Fletcher's next epistle will be full of marvels : we 
were one night lost for nine hours in the mountains in a 
thunder-storm, and since nearly wrecked. In both 
cases, Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from apprehen- 
sions of famine and banditti in the first, and drowning in 
the second instance. His eyes were a little hurt by the 
lightning, or crying, (I don't know which,) but are now 
recovered. When you write, address to me at Mr. 
Strane's, English consul, Patras, Morea. 

" I could tell you I know not how many incidents 
that I think would amuse you, but they crowd on my 
mind as much as they would swell my paper, and I can 
neither arrange them in the one, nor put them down on 
the other, except in the greatest confusion. I like the 
Albanians much ; they are not all Turks; some tribes 
are Christians. But their religion makes little dif^ 
ference in their manner or conduct. They arc esteemed 
the best troops in the Turkish service. I lived on my 
route two days at once, and three days again, in a bar^ 
rack at Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, 
though I have been in, the garrisons of Gibraltar and 
Malta, and seen Spanish, French, Sicilian, and British 
troops in abundance. I have had nothing stolen, and 
was always welcome to their provision and milk. Not 
a week ago an Albanian chief, (every village has its 
chiefj who is called Primate,) after helping us out of the 
Turkish galley in her distress, feeding us, and lodging my 
suite, consisting of Fletcher, a Greek, two Athonians, 
a Greek priest, and my companion, Mr. Ilobhouse, re- 
fused any comi)eiisation but a written paper staling that 
I was well received ; and when I pressoii lam to accept 
a few seciuins, ' No,' he re[)liod ; ' 1 wish you to lovo me, 
not to pay me.' These are his words. 

" It is astonishing how far money goes in this country 
While I was in tho capital, 1 had nothing to jkiv, by the 
vizier's order ; but since, though I have generally had 
sixteen horses, and g<'uerally six ur seven men, the ex- 
pense has not been half as much as staymg only throa 



Set ClilM« IlnroM, Cnnlo II. ittnin i5. 



18 



LETTERS, I8I0. 



weeks in Malta, though Sir A. Ball, the governor, gave 
me a house for nothing, and I had only one servant. By- 
the-by, I expect Hanson to remit regularly ; for I am not 
about to stay in this province for ever. Let him write 
to me at Mr. Strane's, English consul, Patras. The 
fact is, the fertility of the plains is wonderful, and specie 
is scarce, which malces this remarkable cheapness. I 
am going to Athens to study modern Greek, which 
differs much from the ancient, though radically similar. 
I have no desire to return to England, nor shall I, unless 
compelled by absolute want, and Hanson's neglect ; but 
I shall not enter into Asia for a year or two, as I have 
much to see in Greece, and I may perhaps cross into 
Africa, at least the Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all 
Englishmen, is very much dissatisfied, though a little re- 
conciled to the Turks by a present of eighty piastres 
from the vizier, which, if you consider every thing, and 
the value of specie here, b nearly worth ten guineas 
English. He has suffered nothing but from cold, heat, 
and vermin, which those who he in cottages and cross 
mountains in a cold country must undergo, and of which 
I have equally partalcen with himself; but he is not 
valiant, and is afraid of robbers and tempests. I have 
no one to be remembered to in England, and wish to 
hear nothing from it, but that you are well, and a letter 
or two on business from Hanson, whom you may tell to 
write. I will write when I can, and beg you to be- 
lieve me, 

" Your affectionate son, 
•' Byron. 
"P. S. I have some very magnifique' Albanian 
dresses, the only expensive article in this country. 
They cost 60 guineas each, and have so much gold they 
would cost m England two hundred. I have been in- 
troduced to Hussim Bey and Mahmout Pacha, both 
little boys, grand- children of Ali, at Yanina. They are 
totally unlike our lads, have painted complexions like 
rouged dowagers, large black eyes, and features perfectly 
regular. They are the prettiest httle animals I ever 
saw, and arc broken into the court ceremonies already. 
The Turkish salute is a sUght inclination of the head, 
with the hand on the breast. Intimates always kiss. 
Mahmout is ten years old, and hopes to see me again. 
We are friends without understanding each other, like 
many other folks, though from a different cause. He 
has given me a letter to his father in the Morea, to whom 
I have also letters from AU Pacha." 



LETTER LI. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



" Smyrna, March 19, 1810. 
"dear mother, 

•• I cannot write you a long letter, but as I know you 
will not be sorry to receive any intelligence of my move- 
ments, pray accept what I can give. I have traversed 
the greatest part of Greece, besides Epirus, &c. &c. re- 
sided ten weeks at Athens, and am now on the Asiatic 
side on my way to Constantinople. I have just returned 
from viewing the ruins of Ephesus, a day's journey from 
Smyrna. I presume you have received a long letter I 
wrote from Albania, with an account of ray reception by 
the Pacha of the province. 

"When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall determine 
whether to proceed into Persia or return, which latter I 
do not wish, if I can avoid it. But I have no intelligence 
from Mr. Hanson, and but one letter from yourself. I 
shall stand in need of remittances whether I proceed or 
return. I have written to him repeatedly, that he may 
not plead ignorance of my situation for neglect. I can 
give you no acconnt of any thing, for I have not time or 
opportunity, the firigate sailing immediately. Indeed, 



the farther I go the more my laziness increases, and my 
aversion to letter-writing becomes more confirmed. I 
have written to no one but yourself and Mr. Hanson, 
and these are communications of business and duty ra- 
ther than of inclination. 

Fletcher is very much disgusted with his fatigues, 
though he has undergone nothing that I have not shared. 
He is a poor creature ; indeed English servants are de- 
testable travellers. I have, besides him, two Albanian 
soldiers and a Greek interpreter ; all excellent m their 
way. Greece, particularly in the vicinity of Athens, is 
delightful ; cloudless skies and lovely landscapes. But 
I must reserve all account of my adventures till we 
meet. I keep no journal, but my friend Hobhouse writes 
incessantly. Pray take care of Murray and Robert, 
and tell the boy it is the most fortunate thing for him 
that he did not accompany me to Turkey. Consider 
this as merely a notice of my safety, and believe me, 
"Yours, &c. &c. 
"Byron." 



LETTER LII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON, 

« Smyrna, April 10th, 1810. 

"dear MOTHER, 

" To-morrow, or this evening, I sail for Constantinoplo 
in the Salsette frigate, of thirty-six guns. She returns 
to England with our ambassador, whom she is going up 
on purpose to receive. I have written to you short 
letters from Athens, Smyrna, and a long one from Al- 
bania. I have not yet mustered courage for a secon' 
large epistle, and you must not be angry, since I take 
opportunities of apprizing you of my safety : but even 
that is an effort, writing is so irksome. I have been tra- 
versing Greece, and Epirus, lUyria, &c. &c. and you 
see by my date, have got into Asia. I have made but 
one excursion lately, to the ruins of Ephesus. Malta is 
the rendezvous of my letters, so address to that island. 
Mr. Hanson has not written, though I wished to hear of 
the Norfolk sale, the Lancashire lawsuit, &c. &c. I 
am anxiously expecting fresh remittances. I beUeve 
you will like Nottinghamshire, at least, my share of it. 
Pray accept my good wishes m lieu of a long letter, and 
believe me, 

" Yours, sincerely and affectionately, 
"Byron." 



-ns 

up - 

t>rti 

U-l 

ndfl 

al^l 

en" 



LETTER Lin. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" Salsette Frigate, off the Dardanelles?, April 17. 1810. 
"dear madam, 
"I write at anchor, (in our way to Constantinople,) off 
the Troad, which I traversed two days ago. All the re- 
mains of Troy are the tombs of her destroyers, among 
which I see that of Antilochus from my cabm window. 
These are large mounds of earth, lilce the barrows of the 
Danes in your island. There are several monuments, 
about twelve miles distant, of the Alexandrian Troas, 
which I also examined ; but by no means to be compared 
with the remnants of Athens and Ephesus. This will 
be sent in a ship of war bound with despatches for 
Malta. In a few days we shall be at Cwistantinople, 1 
barring accidents. I have also written from Smyrna, | 
and shall, from time to time, transmit short accounts of I 
my movements, but I feel totally unequal to long letters.^ 
"Believe me, 
" Yours very sincerely, 
"Byron." 
" P. S. No accoimts from Hanson ! Do not complain 
of short letters, I write to nobody but yourself and Mr. 
Hanson. 



LETTERS, 1810. 



19 



LETTER LIV. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Constantmople, May 18th, 1810. 
"dear madam, 
"1 arrived here in an English frigate from Smyrna, a 
few days ago, without any events worth mentioning, ex- 
cept landing to view the plains of Troy, and afterwards, 
when we were at anchor in the Dardanelles, ^sw;^»^ff^m^ 
from Sestos to Abydos, in imitation of Monsieur Lean- 
der, whose story you no doubt know too well for me to 
add any thing on the subject, except that I crossed the 
Hellespont without so good a motive for the undertaking. 
As I am just going to visit the Captain Pacha, you will 
excuse the brevity of my letter. When Mr, Adair 
takes leave, I am to see the Sultan and the mosques, &c 
" Believe me, yours ever, 
" Byron." 



LETTER LV. 

TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 

« Salsette Frigate, May 3d, 1810. 

*Mr DEAR DRURY, 

"When I left England, nearly a year ago, you re- 
quested me to write to you — I will do so. I have 
crossed Portugal, traversed the south of Spain, visited 
Sardmia, Sicily, Malta, and thence passed into Turkey, 
where I am still wandering. I first landed in Albania, 
the ancient Epirus, where we penetrated as far as Mount 
Tomarit— excellently treated by the chief Ali Pacha ; 
and, after journeying through Illyria, Chaonia, &c. 
crossed the gulf of Actium, with a guard of fifty Albani- 
ans, and passed the Achelous in our route through Acar- 
nania and JEtolia. We stopped a short time in the 
Morea, crossed the gulf of Lepanto, and landed at the 
foot of Parnassus ; saw all that Delphi retains, and so 
on to Thebes and Athens, at which last we remained 
ten weeks. 

"His majesty's ship Pylades brought us to Smyrna ; 
but not before we had topographized Attica, including, 
of course, Marathon and the Sunian promontory. From 
Smyrna to the Troad (which we visited when at anchor, 
for a fortnight, off the tomb of Antilochus) was our next 
stage ; and now we are in the Dardanelles, waiting for 
a wind to proceed to Constantinople. 

" This morning I swam from Sestos to Abydos.* The 
immediate distance is not above a mile, but the current 
renders it hazardous ; — so much so that I doubt whether 
Leander's conjugal affection must not have been a little 
chilled in his passage to Paradise. I attempted it a 
week ago, and failed, — owing to the north wind, and the 
wonderful rapidity .of the tide, — though I have been 
from my childhood a strong swimmer. But, this morn- 
ing being calmer, I succeeded, and crossed the ' broad 
Hellespont' in an hour and ten minutes. 

■ Well, my dear sir, I have left my home, and seen 
part of Africa and Asia, and a tolerable portion of Eu- 
rope. I have been with generals and admirals, princes 
and pachas, governors and ungovernables, — but I have 
not time or paper to expatiate. I wish to let you know 
that I live with a friendly remembrance of you, and a 
hope to meet you again ; and, if I do this as shortly as 
possible, attribute it to any thing but forgetfulness. 

" Greece, ancient and modern, you know too well to 
require description. Albania, indeed, I have seen more 
of than any Englishman, (except a Mr. Leake,) for it is 
a country rarely visited, from the savage character of 
the natives, though abounding in more natural beauties 
than the classical regions of Greece, — which, however, 



S«t Lett«r 4T7, &e. 



are still eminently beautiful, particularly Delphi and 
Cape Colonna in Attica. Yet these are nothing to parts 
of Illyria and Epirus, where places without a name, and 
rivers not laid down in maps, may, one day, v»-hen more 
known, be justly esteemed superior subjects, for the 
pencil and the pen, to the dry ditch of the Ihssus and 
the bogs of Boeotia. 

" The Troad is a fine field for conjecture and snipe- 
shooting, and a good sportsman and an ingenious scholar 
may exercise their feet and faculties to great advantage 
upon the spot ; — or, if they prefer riding, lose their way 
(as I did) in a cursed quagmire of the Scamander, who 
wriggles about as if the Dardan virgins still offered their 
wonted tribute. The only vestige of Troy, or her de- 
stroyers, are the barrovv's supposed to contain the car- 
casses of Achilles, Antilochus, Ajax, &c. — but Mount 
Ida is still in high feather, though the shepherds are 
now-a-days not much like G anymede. But why should 
I say more of these things ? are they not written in the 
Boke of Gell ? and has not K. got a journal ? I keep 
none, as I have renounced scribblhig. 

" I see not much difference between ourselves and the 
Turks, save that we have * *, and they have none— 
that they have long dresses, and we short, and that we 
talk much, and they little. + * * + * They 
are sensible people. Ali Pacha told me he was sure I 
was a man of rank, because I had small ears and Jiands 
and curling hair. By-the-by, I speak the Romaic, or 
modern Greek, tolerably. It does not differ from the 
ancient dialects so much as you would conceive ; but the 
pronunciation is diametrically opposite. Of verse, ex- 
cept in rhyme, they have no idea. 

" I like the Greeks, who are plausible rascals, — with 
all the Turkish vices, without their courage. However, 
some are brave, and all are beautiful, very much re- 
sembling the busts of Alcibiades : — the women not quite 
so handsome. I can swear in Turkish ; but, except one 
horrible oath, and 'pimp,' and 'bread,' and 'water,' 1 
have got no great vocabulary in that language. They 
are extremely polite to strangers of any rank, properly 
protected ; and as I have two servants and two soldiers, 
we get on with great eclat. We have been occasionally 
in danger of thieves, and once of shipwreck, — but always 
escaped. 

"At Malta I fell in love with a married woman,* and 
challenged an aid-de-camp of General ♦ * (a rude 
fellow, who grinned at something, — I never rightly knew 
what) — but he explained and apologized, and the lady 
embarked for Cadiz, and so I escaped murder and crim. 
con. Of Spain I sent some account to our Hodgson, 
but have subsequently written to no one, save notes to 
relations and lawyers, to keep them out of my premises. 
I mean to give up all connexion, on my return, with 
many of my best friends — as I supposed them — and to 
snarl all my life. But I hope to have one good-hu- 
moured laugli with you, and to embrace Dwycr, and 
pledge Hodgson, bcHirc I commence cynicism. 

" Tell Doctor Butler I am now writing with the gold 
pen he gave me before I left England, which is the rea- 
son my scrawl is more unintelligible than usual. I have 
been at Athens and seen plenty of these reeds for scrib- 
bling, some of which he refused to bestow upon me, be- 
cause topographic GoU had brought them from Attica. 
But I will not describe, — no — you must be satisfied with 
simple detail till my return ; and then we will unfold the 
floodgates of colloquy. I am in a 36 gun frigate, going 
up to fetch Bob Adair from Constanlinoplo, who will 
have the honour to carry this letter. 

"And so H.'s bnkc is out,j with some sentimental 
sing-song of my own to fill up, — and how does it take, 
eh ? and where the devil is the second edition of my 



* Sw r.cKer 49. 

t Hohhounc'i MincflUnifi, In wliich Mmrnl of Lord Djrron'i 
pleceiwere orlginRllypublUhed. 



20 



LETTERS, 1810. 



oatire, with additions ? and my name on the title-page ? 
and more lines tagged to the end, with a new exordium 
and what not, hot from my anvil before I cleared the 
Channel? The Mediterranean and the Atlantic roll 
between me and criticism ; and the thunders of the Hy- 
perborean Review are deafened by the roar of the 
Hellespont. 

" Remember me to Claridge, if not translated to col- 
lege, and present to Hodgson assurances of my high con- 
sideration. Now, you will ask, what shall I do ne.xt ? 
and I answer, I do not know. I may return in a few 
month.", but 1 have intents and projects after visiting 
Constant inojtle. — Hobhouse, however, will probably be 
back in September. 

"On the 2d of July we have left Albion one year 
' oblitus meorum oblivisoendus et illis.' I was sick of 
my own country, and not much prepossessed in favour of 
any other ; but I ' drag on' ' my chain' without ' length- 
ening it at each remove.' I am like the Jolly INIiller. 
caring for nobody, and not cared for. All countries are 
much the same in my eyes. 1 smoke, and stare at 
mountains, *and twirl my mustachios very independently. 
I miss no comforts, and the mosquitoes that wrack the 
morbid frame of H. have, luckily for me, little effect on 
mine, because I live more temperately. 

"I omitted Ejjhesus in my cattLlogue, which I visited 
during my sojourn at Smjrna ; but the Temple has al- 
most perished, and St. Paul need not trouble himself to 
epistolize the present brood of Ejjhesians, who have 
converted a large church built entirely of marble into a 
mosque, and 1 don't know that the edifice looks the 
worse for it. 

"My paper is full, and my ink ebbing — good afternoon ! 
If you address to me at Malta, the letter will be for- 
warded wherever I may be. Hobhouse greets you ; he 
pines for his poetry, — at least, some tidings of it. I al- 
most forgot to tell you that I am dying for love of three 
Greek girls at Athens, sisters. I lived in the same 
house. Teresa, Mariana, and Katinka, are the names 
of these divinities, — all of them imder 15. 

" Your TaneivoTaros 6y\os, 
« Byron.' 



out of the question. I have been very well treated by 
the Pachas and Governors, and have no complaint to 
make of any kind. Hobhouse will one day inform you 
of all our adventures, — were I to attempt the recital, 
neither my paper nor yozir patience would hold out 
during the operation. 

" Nobody, save yourself^ has written to me since I left 
England ; but indeed I did not request it. I except my 
relations, who wTite quite as often as I wish. Of Hob- 
house's volume I know nothing, except that it is out ; 
and of my second edition I do not even know that, and 
certainly do not, at this distance, interest myself in the 
matter. * * * * j hope you and Bland roll down 
the stream of sale with rapidity. 

"Of my return I cannot positively speak, but think it 
probable Hobhouse will precede me in that respect. 
We have been very nearly one year abroad. I should 
wish to gaze away another, at least, in these ever-green 
climates ; but I fear business, law business, the worst of 
emjjloyments, will recall me previous to that period, if 
not very quickly. If so, you shall have due notice. 

" I hope you will find me an altered personage, — I do 
not mean in body, but in manner, for I begin to find out 
that nothing but virtue will do in this d — d world. I am 
tolerably sick of vice, which I have tried in its agreeable 
varieties, and mean, on my return, to cut all my dissolute 
acquaintance, leave off wine and carnal company, and 
betake myself to politics and decorum. I am very 
serious and cynical, and a good deal disposed to moralize; 
but, fortunately for you, the coming homily is cut off by 
default of pen and defection of paper. 

"Good morrow! If you write, address to me at 
Malta, whence your letters will be forwarded. You 
need not remember me to any body, but beheve me, 
" Yours with all faith, 

" Bykon." 



LETTER LVI. 

TO MR. HODGSO:*, 

" Salsctte Frigate, in the Dardanelles, off 
Abydos, May 5th, 1810. 

"I am on my way to Conslantuiople, after a tour 
through Greece, Epirus, &c. and part of Asia Minor. 
some particulars of which I have just communicated to 
our friend and host H. Drury. With ihoso, then, I shall 
not trouble you •, but, as you will perhaps be pleased to 
hear tjjat I am well, kc, I take the opportunity of our 
ambassador's return to forward the few lines I have time 
to desiKitch. We have undergone some inconveniences 
and incurred partial perils, but no events worthy of com 
munication, unless you will deem it one that two days 
ago I swam from Sestos to Abydos. This,— with a few 
alarms from robbers, and some danger of shipwreck in a 
Turkish galliot six months ago, a visit to a Pacha, a pas- 
sion for a married woman at Malta, a challenge to an 
officer, an attachment to three Greek girls at Athens, 
with a great deal of buffoonery and fine prospects,— 
form all that has distinguished my progress since my 
departure from S[iain, 

« Hobhouse rhymes and journalizes ; I stare and do no- 
Uung— unless smoking can be deemed an active amuse- 
ment, 'i'he Turks take too much care of their women 
to permit them to be scrutinized ; but I have lived a good 
deal with the Greeks, wliose modern dialect I can con- 
verse in enough for my purposes. With the Turks I 
have also some male acquaintances— female society is 



LETTER LVIL 

TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BYRON. 

"Constantinople, May 24th, 1810. 
"dear mother, 

" I wrote to you very shortly the other day on my ar- 
rival here, and as another opportunity avails, take up my 
pen again, that the frequency of my letters may atone 
for their brevity. Pray did you ever receive a picture of 
me in oil by Sanders, in Vigo-lane, London ? (a noted 
limner ;) if not, write for it immediately ; it was paid for, 
except the frame, (if frame there be,) before I left Eng- 
land. I believe 1 mentioned to you m my last, that my 
only notable exploit, lately, has been swimming from 
Sestos to Abydos on the third of this month, in humble 
imitation of Leander, of amorous memory, though I had 
no Hero to receive me on the other shore of the^Heljes- 
pont. Of Constantinople you have, of course, read fifty 
descriptions by sundry travellers, which are in general 
so correct, that I have nothing to add on the subject. 

" When our ambassador takes his leave, I shall ac- 
company him to see the sultan, and afterward probably 
return to Greece. I have heard nothing of Mr. Hanson, 
but one remittance, without any letter from that gentle- 
man. If you have occasion for any pecuniary supply, 
pray use my funds as far as they go without reserve ; 
and, lest this should not be enough, in my next to Mr. 
Hanson I will direct him to advance any sum you may 
want, leaving it to your discretion how much, in the pre- 
sent state of my affairs, you may Uiinlc proper \o require. 
I have already seen the most interesting parts of Turkey 



. „ parts of Turkey 

in Europe and Asia Minor, but shall not proceed farther 
till I hear from England : in the mean time I shall ex- 
pect occasional supplies, according 



and shall 
Greeks of the Mc 



shall ex- 
circumstances ; 
pass my summer among my friends, the 



LETTERS, 1810. 



21 



" You will direct to Malta, where my letters are for- 
warded, and believe me to be, 

" With great sincerity, 

"Yours ever. 
"P. S. Fletcher is well; pray take care of my boy 
Robert, and the old man Murray. It is fortunate they 
returned ; neither the youth of the one, nor the age of the 
other, would have suited the changes of cUmate and fa- 
tigue of travelling." 



LETTER LVIII. 



TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 



"Constantinople, June 17th, 1810. 

" Though I wrote to you so recently, I break in upon 
you again to congratulate you on a child being bom, as a 
letter from Hodgson apprizes me of that event, in which 
I rejoice. 

" I am just come from an expedition through the Bos- 
phorus to the Black Sea and the Cyanean Symplegades, 
up which last I scrambled at as great a risk as ever the 
Argonauts escaped in their hoy. You remember the 
beginning of the nurse's dole in the Medea, of which I beg 
you to take the following translation, done on the summit. 

" Oh how I wish that an embargo 
Had kept in port the good ship Argo ! 
Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks, 
Had never pass'd the Azure rocks ; 
But now I fear her trip will be a 
DanM'd business for my Miss Medea, &c. &c. 

as it very nearly was to me ; — for, had not this sublime 
passage been in my head, I should never have dreamed 
of ascending the said rocks,* and bruising my carcass in 
honour of the ancients. 

" I have now sat on the Cyaneans, swam from Sestos 
to Abydos, (as I trumpeted in my last,) and, after passing 
through the Morea again, shall set sail for Santa Maura, 
and toss myself from the Leucadian promontory ; — sur- 
viving which operation, I shall probably rejoin you in 
England. H. who will deliver this, is bound straight for 
these parts ; and as he is bursting with his travels, I shall 
not anticipate his narratives, but merely beg you not to 
believe one word he says, but reserve your ear for me, if 
you have any desire to be acquainted with the truth. 
♦ + ** + *** + 

" I am bound for Athens once more, and thence to the 
Morea ; but my stay depends so much on my caprice, 
that I can say nothing of its probable duration. I have 
been out a year already, and may stay another ; but I am 
quicksilver, and say nothing positively. We are all very 
much occupied doing nothing, at present. We have seen 
every thing but the mosques, which we are to view with a 
firman on Tuesday next. But of these and other sun- 
dries let H. relate, with this {)roviso, that / am to be re- 
ferred to for authenticity ; and 1 beg leave to contradict 
all those things whereon he lays particular stress. But, 
if he soars, at any time, into wif, I give you leave to ap- 
plaud, because that is necessarily stolen from his follow- 
pUgrim. Tell Davies that H, has made excellent use of 
his best jokes in many of his majesty's ships of war ; but 
add, also, that I always took care to restore them to the 
right owner ; in consequence of which he, (Davies,) is no 
less famous by water than by land, and reigas unrivalled 
in the cabm, as in the 'Cocoa Tree.' 

"And Hodgson has been publishing more pocsy-4 
wish he would send me his ' Sir Edgar,' and ' Bland's 
Anthology' to Malta, where they will be forwarded. In 
my last, which I hope you received, I gave an outline of 
the ground we have covered. If you have not been over- 
taken by this despatch, II.'s tongue is at your service. 
Remember me to Dwyer, who owes me rloven guineas. 
Tell him to put them in my banker's hands at Gibraltar 



or Constantinople. I believe he paid them once, but 
that goes for nothing, as it was an annuity. 

" I wish you would write. I have heard from Hodgson 
frequently. Malta is my post-office. I mean to be 
with you by next Montem. You remember the last, — I 
hope for such another ; but, after having swam across the 
' broad Hellespont,' I disdain Datchett. Good afternoon ! 
" I am yours, very sincerely, 
"Byron." 



• See ChUdc Harold, Canto IV, iionxa 170 ; aUo •n.wer to Uowlet. 



LETTER LIX. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Constantinople, June 28th, 1810. 

"my dear MOTHER, 

" I regret to perceive by your last letter, that several of 
mine have not arrived, particularly a very long one, 
written in November last, from Albania, when I was on a 
visit to the Pacha of that province. Fletcher has also 
written to his spouse perpetually. Mr. Hobhouse, who 
will forward or dehver this, and is on his return to Eng- 
land, can inform you of our different movements, but I am 
very uncertain as to my own return. He will probably 
be down to Nott's, some time or other; but Fletcher, 
whom I send back as an incumbrance, (English servants 
are sad travellers,) will supply his place in the interim, 
and describe our travels, which have been tolerably ex- 
tensive. I have written twice briefly from this capital, 
from Smyrna, from Athens, and other parts of Greece ; 
from Albania, the Pacha of which province desired his 
respects to my mother, and said he was sure I was a 
man of high birth, because I had small ears, curling hair, 
and white hands ! ! He was very kind to me, begged me 
to consider him as a father, and gave me a guard of forty 
soldiers through the forests of Acarnania. But of this and 
other circumstances I have written to you at large, and 
yet hope you will receive my letters. 

" I remember Mahmout Pacha, the grandson of All 
Pacha, at Yanina, (a Uttle fellow often years of age, with 
large black eyes, which our ladies would purchase at any 
price, and those regular features which distinguish the 
Turks,) asked me how I came to travel so young, without 
any body to take care of me. This question was put by 
the little man with all the gravity of threescore. I cannot 
now write copiously ; I have only time to tell you that I 
have passed many a fatiguing, but never a tedious mo- 
ment ; and that all I am afraid of is, that I shall contract 
a gipsy-Uke wandering disposition, which will make home 
tiresome to me : this, 1 am told, is very common with men 
in the habit of peregrination, and, indeed, I feel it so. On 
the third of May, I swam from Sestos to Abydos. You 
know the story of Leander, but I had no Hero to receive 
me at landing. 

" I also passed a fortnight in the Troad : the tombs of 
Achilles and Esyetes still exist in large barrows, similar 
to those you have, doubtless, seen in the North. The 
other day I was at Belgrade, (a village in these environs,) 
to see the house built on the same site as Lady Mary 
Wortley's ; by-the-by, her Ladyship, as far as I can 
judge, has lied, but not half so much as any other woman 
would have done in the same situation. 1 have been in 
all the principal mosques by the virtue of a firman ; this 
is a favour rarely permitted to infidels, but the ambassa- 
dor's de[)arture obtained it for us. I have been up the 
Bosphorus into the Black Sea, round the walls of the 
city, and indeed I know more of it by sight, than I do of 
London. 

I hope to amuse you some winter's evening with the 
details, but at present you must excuse mo ; I am not 
able to write long letters in June. 1 return to spend my 
summer in Greece. I shall not proceed fiirthcr into 
Asia, as I have visited Smyrna, Kphesus, and the Troad. 
I write oflen, but you must not be alarmed when you do 
not receive my letters ; consider wo have no regular poet 



22 



LETTERS, 1810. 



further than Malta, where I beg you will in future send 
your letters, and not to this city. Fletcher is a poor 
creature, and requires comforts that I can dispense with. 
He is very sick of his travels, but you must not believe his 
account of the country ; he sighs for ale, and idleness, and 
a wife, and the devil knows what besides. I have not 
been disappointed or disgusted. I have hved with the 
highest and the lowest. I have been for days in a 
Pacha's palace, and have passed many a night in a cow- 
house, and I find the people inoffensive and kind. I have 
also passed some time with the principal Greeks in the 
Morea and Livadia, and, though inferior to the Turks, 
they are better than the Spaniards, who, in their turn, 
excel the Portuguese. Of Constantinople you will find 
many descriptions in different travels ; but Lady Wortley 
errs strangely when she says, 'St. Paul's would cut a 
strange figure by St. Sophia's.' I have been in both, 
surveyed them inside and out attentively. St. Sophia's 
is undoubtedly the most interesting from its immense an- 
tiquity, and the circumstance of all the Greek emperors, 
from Justinian, having been crowned there, and several 
murdered at the altar, besides the Turkish sultans who 
attend it regularly. But it is inferior in beauty and size 
to some of the mosques, particularly ' Soleyman,' &c. 
and not to be mentioned in the same page with St. Paul's, 
(I speak Uke a Cockney.) However, I prefer the Gothic 
cathedral of Seville to St. Paul's, St. Sophia's, and any 
religious building I have ever seen. 

** The walls of the Seraglio are like the walls of New- 
stead gardens, only higher, and much in the same order ; 
but the ride by the walls of the city, on the land side, is 
beautiful. Imagine four miles of immense triple battle- 
ments, covered with ivy, surmounted with 218 towers, and, 
on the other side of the road, Turkish burying-grounds, 
(the loveliest spots on earth,) full of enormous cy- 
presses. I have seen the ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, 
■and Delphi. I have traversed great part of Turkey, and 
<many other parts of Europe, and some of Asia ; but I 
Jiever beheld a work of nature or art which yielded an 
impression like the prospect on each side from the 
Seven Towers to the end of the Golden Horn. 

'•Now for England. 1 am glad to hear of the pro- 
gress of ' English Bards,' &c. — of course, you observed 
Ihave made great additions to the new edition. Have 
you received my picture from Sanders, Vigo-lane, Lon- 
don ? It was finished and paid for long before I left 
England : pray, send for it. You seem to be a mighty 
reader of magazines : where do you pick up all this in- 
telligence, quotations, &c. &c. ? Though I was happy 
to obtain my seat without the assistance of Lord Carlisle, 
I had no measures to keep with a man who declined in- 
terfering as my relation on that occasion, and I have 
done with him, though I regret distressing Mrs. Leigh, 
poor thing I — I hope she is happy. 

" It is my opinion that Mr. B * * ought to marry Miss 
R * *. Our first duty is not to do evil ; but, alas! that 
is impossible : our next is to repair it, if in our power. 
The girl is his equal : if she were his inferior, a sum of 
money and provision for the child would be some, though 
a poor compensation : as it is, he should marry her. I 
will have no gay deceivers on my estate, and I shall not 
allow my tenants a privilege I do not permit myself, 
that of debauching each other's daughters. God knows, 
I have been guilty of many excesses ; but, as I have laid 
down a resolution to reform, and lately kept it, I expect 
thb Lothario to follow the example, and begin by re- 
storing this girl to society, or, by the beard of my father I 
he shall hear of it. Pray take some notice of Robert, 
who will miss his master : poor boy, he was very un- 
willing to return. I trust you are well and happy. It 
will be a pleasure to hear from you. 

* Believe me, yours very sincerely, 

"BVROIf. 

■ P. S. How is Joe Murray ? 



I 



"P. S. I opened my letter again to tell you that 
Fletcher ha^^ng petitioned to accompany me into the 
Morea, I have talvcn him with me, contrary to the inten- 
tion expressed in my letter." 



LETTER LX. 

TO MHS. EYRON. 

"Athens, July 25, 1810. 
"dear mother, 

"I have arrived here in four days from Constantinople, 
which is considered as singularly quick, particularly for 
the season of the year. You northern gentry can have 
no conception of a Greek summer ; which, however, is a 
perfect frost compared with Malta and Gibraltar, where 
I reposed myself in the shade last year, after a gentle 
gallop of four hundred miles, without intermission, 
through Portugal and Spain. You see, by my date, 
that I am at Athens again, a place which I think I 
prefer, upon the whole, to any I have seen. + + * 

"My next movement is to-morrow into the Morea, 
where I shall probably remain a month or two, and then ■ 
return to winter here, if I do not change my plans, ■ 
which, however, are very variable, as you may suppose ; M 
but none of them verge to England. 

" The Marquis of Sligo, my old fellow-collegian, is 
here, and wishes to accompany me into the Morea. 
We shall go together for that purpose. Lord S. will 
afterward pursue liis way to the capital ; and Lord B. 
having seen all the wonders in that quarter, will let you 
loiow what he does next, of which at present he is not 
quite certain. Malta is my perpetual post-office, from 
hich my letters are forwarded to all parts of the habita- 
ble globe : — by-the-by, I have now been in Asia, Africa, 
and the east of Europe, and, indeed, made the most of 
my time, without hurrying over the most interesting 
scenes of the ancient world. Fletcher, after having J 
been toasted, and roasted, and baked, and grilled, and ■ 
eaten by all sorts of creeping things, begins to philoso- 
phize, is grown a refined as well as resigned character, 
and promises at liis return to become an ornament to 
his own parish, and a very prominent person in the 
future family pedigree of tlie Fletcher's, whom I take to 
be Goths by their accomplishments, Greeks by their 
acuteness, and ancient Saxons by their appetite. He 
(Fletcher) begs leave to send half a dozen sighs to 
Sally his spouse, and wonders (though I do not) that his 
ill-written and worse spelled letters have never come to 
hand ; as for that matter, there is no great loss in either 
of our letters, saving and except that I wish you to 
know we are well, and warm enough at this present 
^^Titing, God knows. Y'ou must not expect long letters 
at present, for they are written with the sweat of my 
brow, I assure you. It is rather singular that Mr. Han- 
son has not written a syllable since my departure. 
Your letters I have mostly received, as well as others; 
from which I conjecture that the man of law is either 
angry or busy. 

I trust you like Newstead, and agree with your 
neighbours ; but you know you are a vixen — is not that 
a dutiful appellation? Pray, take care of my books, 
and several boxes of papers in the hands of Joseph ; and 
pray leave me a few bottles of champagne to drink, for 
I am very thirsty ; — but I do not insist on the last article, 
without you like it. I suppose you have your house full 
of silly women, prating scandalous things. Have you 
ever received my picture in oil from Sanders, London ? 
It has been paid for these sixteen months : why do you 
not get it? My suite, consisting of two Turks, two 
Greeks, a Lutheran, and the nondescript Fletcher, are 
making so much noise that I am glad to sign myself 
"Yours, &c. &c, 
"Byrok." 



LETTERS, 1810. 



23 



LETTER LXL 



TO MKS. BYRON. 



"Patras, July 30, 1810. 
"dear madam, 

"In four days from Constantmople, ^vith a favourable 
wind, I arrived in the frigate at the island of Ceos, from 
whence I took a boat to Alliens, where I met my friend 
the Marquis of Sligo, who expressed a vv-ish to proceed 
with me as far as Corinth. At Corinth we separated, 
he for Tripolitza, I for Patras, where I had some business 
with the consul, Mr. Strane, in whose house I now 
write. He has rendered me every service in his power 
since I quitted Malta on my way to Constantinople, 
whence I have written to you twice or thrice. In a few 
days I visit the Pacha at Tripolitza, make the tour of 
the Morea, and return again to Athens, which at present 
is my headquarters. The heat is at present mtense. 
In England, if it reaches 98°, you are all on fire : the 
other day, in travelling between Athens and Megara, 
the thermometer was at 125° ! ! Yet I feel no incon- 
venience ; of course I am much bronzed, but I live tem- 
perately, and never enjoyed better health. 

" Before I left Constantinople, I saw the Sultan, (with 
Mr. Adair,) and the interior of the mosques, things 
which rarely happen to travellers, Mr. Hobhouse is 
gone to England : I am in no hurry to return, but have 
no particular communications for your country, except 
my surprise at Mr. Hanson's silence, and ray desire 
that he will remit regularly. I suppose some arrange- 
ment has been made with regard to Wymondham and 
Rochdale. Malta is my post-office, or to Mr. Strane, 
consul-general, Patras, Morea. You complain of my 
silence — I have written twenty or thirty times within the 
last year: never less than twice a month, and often 
more. If my letters do not arrive, you must not con- 
clude that we are eaten, or that there is a war, or a pesti- 
lence, or famine : neither must you credit silly reports, 
which I dare say you have in Notts, as usual. I am 
very well, and neither more nor less happy than I usually 
am ; except that I am very glad to be once more alone, 
for I was sick of my companion, — not that he was a bad 
one, but because my nature leads me to solitude, and 
tliat every day adds to this disposition. If I chose, 
here are many men who would wish to join me — one 
wants me to go to Egypt, another to Asia, of which I 
have seen enough. The greater part of Greece is al- 
ready my own, so that I shall only go over my old 
ground, and look upon my old seas and mountains, the 
only acquaintances I ever found improve upon me. 

" I have a tolerable suite, a Tartar, two Albanians, an 
interpreter, besides Fletcher ; but in this country these 
are easily maintained. Adair received me wonderfully 
well, and indeed I have no complaints against any one. 
Hospitahty here is necessary, for inns are not. I have 
lived in the houses of Greeks, Turks, Italians, and 
English — to-day in a palace, to-morrow in a cowhouse ; 
this day with the Pacha, the next with a shepherd. I 
shall continue to write briefly, but frequently, and am 
glad to hear from you ; but you fill your letters with 
things from the papers, as if English papers wore not 
found all over the world. I have at this moment a dozen 
before me. Pray talie care of my books, and believe me, 
" My dear Mother, yours very faithfully, 

" BVRON." 



LETTER LXII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Patras, Oct. 2d, 1810. 
"dear madam, 
* It ia now several months since I have received any 
communication from you; but at this I am not sui^ 



prised, nor indeed have I any complaint to make, since 
you have written frequently, for which I thank you ; but 
I very much condemn Mr. Hanson, who has not taken 
the smallest notice of my many letters, nor of mv re- 
quest before I left England, which I sailed from on this 
very day fifteen months ago. Thus one year and a 
quarter have passed away, without my receiving the 
least intelligence on the state of my affairs, and they 
were not in a posture to admit of neglect, and I do con- 
ceive and declare that Mr. Hanson has acted negli- 
gently and culpably in not apprizing me of his proceed- 
ings : I will also add uncivilly. His letters, were there 
any, could not easily miscarry; the communications 
with the Levant are slow, but tolerably secure, at least 
as far as JMalta, and there I left directions which I know 
would be observed. I have written to you several 
times from Constantinople and Smyrna. You will per- 
ceive by my date I am returned into the Morea^ of 
which I have been making the tour, and visiting the 
Pacha, who gave me a fine horse, and paid me all possi- 
ble honours and attention. I have now seen a good 
portion of Turkey in Europe and Asia Minor, and shall 
remain at Athens, and in the vicinity, till I hear from 
England. I have punctually obeyed your injunctions of 
writing frequently, but I shall not pretend to describe 
countries which have been already amply treated of. I 
believe before this time Mr. Hobhouse will have arrived 
in England, and he brings letters from me, Avritten at 
Constantinople. In these I mention having seen the 
Sultan and the mosques, and that I swam from Sestos 
to Abydos, an exploit of which I take care to boast. 

" I am here on business at present, but Athens is my 
headquarters, where I am very pleasantly situated in & 
Franciscan convent. 

" Believe me to be, with great sincerity,. 

" Yours, very affectionately,. 
" Byron. 

"P. S. Fletcher is well, and discontented as usual; 
his wife don't write, at least her scrawls have not ar- 
rived. You will address to Malta. Pray have you 
never received my picture m oU from Sanders, Vigo- 
lane, London ?" 



LETTER LXIII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



"Patras, Morea, October 3d, 1810. 

"As I have just escaped from a physician and a fever, 
which confined me five days to bed, you won't expect 
much ' allegrezza' in the ensuing letter. In this place 
there is an indigenous distemper, which, when the wind 
blows from the gulf of Corinth, (as it does five months 
out of six,) attacks great and small, and malies woful 
work with visiters. Here be also two physicians, one of 
whom trusts to his genius (never having studied) — the 
other to a campaign of eighteen months against the sick 
of Otranto, which he made in his youth with great 
effect. 

" When I was seized with my disorder, I protested 
against both these assassins ; — but what can a helpless, 
feverish, toasted-and-watered poor wretch do ? In spite 
of my teeth and tongue, the English consul, my Tartar, 
Albanians, dragoman, forced a physician upon mo, and 
in three days vomited and glystered me to tlie last gasp. 
In this state I made my epitaph — talie it. 

" Youth, Nutiire, wid relcn'.Uig Jove 
To keep my Inmp in ttronf;!; ■Irov* ; 
Out Romanctli wai so stout, 
He beat all iliree— «ud bltw it out. 

But Nature and Jove, being piqued at ray doubts, did, in 
fact, at last, beat Romanelli, and here I am, well but 
weakly, at your service. 



24 



LETTERS, 1811. 



« Since I left Constantinople, I have made a tour of 
the Morea, and visited Vely Pacha, who paid me great 
honours and gave me a pretty stallion. H. is doubtless 
in England before even the date of this letter — he bears 
a despatch from me to your hardship. He writes to me 
from Malta, and requests my journal, if I keep one. I 
have none, or he should have it ; but I have replied, in a 
consolatory and exhortatory epistle, praying him to 
abate three and sixpence in the price of his next Boke, 
seeing that half a guinea is a price not to be given for 
any thing save an opera-ticket. 

" As for England, it is long since I have heard from it. 
Every one at all connected with my concerns is asleep, 
and you are my only correspondent, agents excepted. 
I have really no friends in the world ; though all my old 
school-companions are gone forth into that world, and 
walk about there in monstrous disguises, in the garb of 
guardsmen, lawyers, parsons, fine gentlemen, and such 
other masquerade dresses. So, I here shake hands and 
cut with all these busy people, none of whom write to 
me. Indeed, I asked it not ; — and here I am, a poor 
traveller and heathenish philosopher, who hath peram- 
bulated the greatest part of the Levant, and seen a 
great quantity of very improvable land and sea, and, 
after all, am no better than when I set out — ^Lord help 
me! 

"I have been out fifteen months this very day, and I 
believe my concerns will draw me to England soon ; but 
of this I will apprize you regularly from Malta. On all 
points, Hobhouse will inform you, if you are curious as 
to our adventures. 1 have seen some old English pa- 
pers up to the 15th of May. I see the 'Lady of the 
Lake' advertised. Of course it is in his old ballad 
style, and pretty. After all, Scott is the best of them. 
The end of all scribblement is to amuse, and he certainly 
succeeds there. I long to read his new romance. 

" And how does ' Sir Edgar ?' and your friend. Bland ? 
I suppose you are involved in some literary squabble. 
The only way is to despise all brothers of the quill. I 
suppose you won't allow me to be an author, but 1 con- 
temn you all, you dogs I — I do. 

" You don't know D s, do you? He had a farce 

ready for the stage before I left England, and asked me 
for a prologue, which I promised, but sailed in such a 
hurry, I never penned a couplet. I am afraid to ask 
after his drama, for fear it should be damned — Lord for- 
give me for using such a word ! — but the pit, sir, you 
know, the pit — they will do those things, in spite of 
merit. I remember this farce from a curious circum- 
stance. When Drury-lane was burnt to the ground, by 
which accident Sheridan and his son lost the few re- 
maining shillings they were worth, what doth my friend 

D do ? Why, before the fire was out, he writes a 

note to Tom Sheridan, the manager of this combustible 
concern, to inquire whether this farce was not converted 
into fuel, with about two thousand other unactable 
manuscripts, which of course were in great peril, if not 
actually consumed. Now, was not this characteristic ? 
— the ruling passions of Pope are nothing to it. While 
the poor distracted manager was bewailing the loss of a 
building only worth 300,000/. together with some twenty 
tliousand pounds of rags and tinsel in the tiring rooms, 
Bluebeard's elephants, and all that — in comes a note 
from a scorching author, requiring at his hands two acts 
and odd scenes of a farce ! ! 

"Dear H. remind Drury that I am his well-wisher, 
and let Scrope Davies be well affected towards me. I 
look forward to meeting you at Newstead, and renewing 
our old Champagne evenings with all the glee of antici- 
pation. I have written by every opportunity, and ex- 
pect responses as regular as those of the liturgy, and 
somewhat longer. As it is impossible for a man in his 
senses to hope for happy days, let us at least look 
forward to merry ones, which come nearest to the other 



in appearance, if not in reaUty ; and in such expectationa 
I remain, &c. 



LETTER LXIV. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



"Athens, January 14, 181L 
"my dear madam, 

" I seize an occasion to write as usual, shortly, but 
frequently, as the arrival of letters, where there exists no 
regular communication, is, of course, very precarious. I 
have lately made several small tours of some hundred or 
two miles about the Morea, Attica, &c. as I have 
finished my grand giro by the Troad, Constantinople, 
&c. and am returned down again to Athens. I beheve 
I have mentioned to you more than once, that I swam 
(in imitation of Leander, though without his lady) across 
the Hellespont, from Sestos to Abydos. Of this, and 
all other particulars, F. whom I have sent home with 
papers, &c. will apprize you. I cannot find that he is 
any loss, being tolerably master of the Italian and 
modern Greek languages, which last I am also studying 
with a master, I can order and discourse more than 
enough for a reasonable man. Besides the perpetual 
lamentations after beef and beer, the stupid, bigoted con- 
tempt for every thing foreign, and insurmountable inca- 
pacity of acquiring even a few words of any language, 
rendered him, like all other English servants, an incum- 
brance. I do assure you, the plague of speaking for 
him, the comforts he required, (more than myself by far,) 
the pilaws, (a Turkish dish of rice and meat,) which he 
could not eat, the wines which he could not drink, the beds 
where he could not sleep, and the long hst of calamities, 
such as stumbling horses, want of tea ! ! ! Sac. which as- 
sailed him, would have made a lasting source of laughter 
to a spectator, and inconvenience to a master. After all, 
the man is honest enough, and, in Christendom, capable 
enough ; but in Turkey, Lord forgive me ! my Albanian 
soldiers, my Tartars and Janizary, worked for him and 
us too, as my friend Hobhouse can testify. 

" It is probable I may steer homewards in spring ; but, 
to enable me to do "that, I must have remittances. My 
own funds would have lasted me very well ; but I was 
obliged to assist a friend, who, I know, will pay me ; but, 
in the mean time, I am out of pocket. At present, I do 
not care to venture a winter's voyage, even if I were 
otherwise tired of travelling ; but 1 am so convinced of 
he advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading 
about them, and the bitter effects of staying at home 
with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I 
think there should be a law among us, to set our youn^ 
men abroad, for a term, among the few allies our wars 
have left us. 

" Here I see and have conversed with French, Italians, 
Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Americans, &c. &c. 
&c. ; and, without losing sight of my own, I can judofe of 
the countries and manners of others. Where I see the 
superiority of England, (which, by-the-by, we are a good 
deal mistaken about in many things,) I am pleased, and 
where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. 
Now, I might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or 
fogged in your country, a century, without being sure of 
this, and without acquiring any thing more useful or 
amusing at home. I keep no journal, nor have I any 
intention of scribbling my travels. I have done with 
authorship ; and if, in my last production, I have con- 
vinced the critics of the world I was something more 
than they took me for, I am satisfied ; nor will I hazard 
that reputation by a future effort. It is true I have some 
others in manuscript, but I leave them for those who 
come after me ; and, if deemed worth publishing, they 
may serve to prolong my memory when I myself shall 
cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian artist 



LETTERS, 1811. 



25 



taking some views of Athens, &c. &c. for me. This 
will be better than scribbling, a disease I hope myself 
cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet, recluse 
life, but God knows and does best for us all ; at least, so 
they say, and I have nothing to object, as, on the whole, I 
have no reason to complain of my lot. I am convinced, 
however, that men do more harm to themselves than 
ever the devil could do to them. I trust this will find 
you well, and as happy as Ave can be ; you will, at least, 
be pleased to hear I am so, and yours ever." 



LETTER LXV. 



TQ MRS. EYRON. 



« Athens, Feb. 28, 181L 
"dear madam, 

"As I have received a firman for Egypt, &c. I shall 
proceed to that quarter in the spring, and I beg you will 
state to Mr. Hanson that it is necessary to further re- 
mittances. On the subject of Newstead I answer, as 
before, no. If it is necessary to sell, sell Rochdale. 
Fletcher will have arrived by this time with my letters to 
that purport. I will tell you fairly, I have, in the first 
place, no opinion of funded property ; i^ by any particu- 
lar circumstances, I shall be led to adopt such a deter- 
mination, I will, at all events, pass my life abroad, as my 
only tie to England is Newstead, and, that once gone, 
neither interest nor inchnation lead me northward. 
Competence in your country is ample wealth in the east, 
such is the difference in the value of money and the 
abundance of the necessaries of life ; and 1 feel myself 
so much a citizen of the world, that the spot where I can 
enjoy a delicious climate, and every luxury, at a less ex- 
pense thqn a common college life in England, will air 
ways be a country to me ; and such are in fact the 
shores of the Archipelago. This then is the alternative 
— if I preserve Newstead, I return ; if I sell it, I stay 
away. I have had no letters since yours of June, but I 
have written several times, and shall continue, as usual, 
on the same plan. 

" Believe me, yours evpr, 
" Byron, 

^P. S. I shall most likely see you in the course of the 
summer, but, of course, at such a distance, I cannot spe^ 
oify any particular month." 



LETTER LXVL 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



" Volage frigate, at sea, June 25th, 1811. 
"dear mother, 
" This letter, wliich will be forwarded on our arrival at 
Portsmouth, probably about the fourth of July, is begun 
about twenty-three days after our departure from Malta. 
I have just been two years (to a day, on the second of 
July) absent from England, and I return to it with much 
the same feelings which prevailed on my departure, viz. 
indifference; but within that apathy I certainly do not 
comprise yourself, as I will prove by every means in my 
power. You will be good enough to get my apartments 
ready at Newstead, but don't disturb yourself on any 
account, particularly mine, nor consider mo irj any other 
light than as a visiter. I must only inform you that for 
a long time I have been restricted to jin entire vegetable 
diet, neither fish nor flesh coming within my regimen ; so 
I expect a powerful slock of potatoes, greens, and biscuit ; 
I drink no wine. I have two servants, niiddlc-agod men, 
and both Greeks. It is my intention to procci-d first to 
town, to sec Mr. Hanson, and thence to Nowsload, on 
fpjy way to Rochdale. I have only to beg you will not 



forget my diet, which it is very necessary for me to ob- 
serve. I am well in health, as I have generally been, 
with the exception of two agues, both of which I quickly 
got over. 

"My plans will so much depend on circumstances, 
that I shall not venture to lay down an opinion on, the 
subject. My prospects are not very promising,, but I 
suppose we shall wrestle through life like our neighbours ; 
indeed, by H.'s last advices, I have some apprehensions 
of finding Newstead disniantled by Messrs. Brothers, 
&c. and he seems determined to force me into selling it, 
but he will be baffled. I don't suppose I shall be much 
pestered with visiters ; but if I am, you mvist receive 
them, for I am determined to have nobody breaking jh 
upon my retirement : you know that I never was fond of 
society, and I am less so than before. I have brought 
you a shawl, and a quantity of attar of roses, but these I 
must smuggle, if possible. I trust to find my library in 
tolerable order, 

" Fletcher is no doubt arrived. I shall separate the 
mill from Mr. B * *'s farm, for his son is too gay a de- 
ceiver to inherit both, and place Fletcher in it, who has 
served me faithfully, and whose wife is a good woman ; 
besides, it is necessary to sober young Mr. B * *, or he 
will people the parish with bastards. In a word, if he hacj 
seduced a dairymaid, he might have found something 
like an apology ; but the girl is his equal, and in high hfe 
or low life reparation is made in such circumstances. 
But I shall not interfere further than (hke Buonaparte) 
by dismembering Mr. B.'s kingdam^ and erecting part of 
it mto a principality for field-marshal Fletcher ! I hope 
you govern my little empire and its sad load of national 
debt with a wary hand. To drop my metaphorj I beg 
leave to subscribe myself, yours, &c. 

" P. S. This letter was written to be sent from Ports- 
mouth, but, on arriving there, the squadron was ordered 
to the Nore, from whence I shall forward it. This I 
have not done before, supposing you might be alarmed 
by the intervc^l mentioned in the letter being longer than 
expected betwepp our ?LrrivJ^l in port £^nd my appearance 
at Newstead." 



LETTER LXVII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



'? Volage frigate, at sea, June 29th, 1811. 

" In a week, with a feir wind, we shall be at Ports- 
mouth, and on the 2d of July, I shall have completed (to 
a day) two years of peregrination, fl-om which I am re-? 
turning with as little emotion as I set out. I think, upon 
the whole, I was more grieved at leaving Greece than 
England, which I am impatient to see, simply because I 
am tired of a long voyage. 

" Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Epi- 
barrassed in my private affairs, indifferent to public, 
solitary without the wish to be social, with a body a little 
enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spirit, I trust, 
yet unbroken, I am returning home without a hope, and 
almost without a desire. The first thing I shall have to 
encounter will be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then 
colliers, farmers, surveyors, and all the agreeable attachp 
ments to estates out of repair and contested coal-pits. 
In short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a little re- 
paired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march, either 
to campaign in Spain, or back agaui to the East, where I 
can at least have cloudless skies and a cessation from 
impertinence. 

" I trust to meet, or see you, in town or at Newstead, 
whenever you can make it convenient. — I suppose you 
are in love and in poetry, as usual. That husband, 11. 
lOniry, has never written to me, albeit I have sent him 
more than one letter ; — but I dare say the poor man has 
a family, and of course all his cares are confined to his 
circle. 



I 



26 



LETTERS, 1811. 



«< ' For children fresh expenses get, 

And Dicky now for school is fit.'— VTarton. 

If you see him, tell him I have a letter for him from 
Tucker, a regimental chirurgeon and friend of his, who 
prescribed for me, * * * and is a very worthy 
man, but too fond of hard words. I should be too late 
for a speech-day, or I should probably go down to Har- 
row. 

******** 

I regretted very much in Greece having omitted to carry 
the Anthology with me— I mean Bland and Merivale's. 

♦ *"'^ * + * * + * 

What has Sir Edgar done ? And the Imitations and 
Translations— where are they? I suppose you don't 
mean to let the public off so easily, but charge them 
home with a quarto. For me, I am ' sick of fops and 
poesy and prate,' and shall leave the 'whole Castalian 
state' to Bufo, or any body else. But you are a senti- 
mental and sensibilitous person, and will rhyme to the 
end of the chapter. Howbeit, I have written some 4000 
lines, of one kind or another, on my travels. 

" I need not repeat that 1 shall be happy to see you. 
I shall be in town about the 8th, at Dorant's Hotel, in 
Albemarle-street, and proceed in a few days to Notts, 
and thence to Rochdale on business. 

" I am, here and there, yours, &c." 



LETTER LXVHL 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



« Volage frigate, at sea, June 28th, 1811. 

"After two years' absence, (to a day, on the 2d of 
July, before which we shall not arrive at Portsmouth,) I 
am retracing my way to England. I have, as you know, 
spent the greater part of that period in Turkey, except 
two months in Spain and Portugal, which were then ac- 
cessible. I have seen every thing most remarkable in 
Turkey, particularly the Troad, Greece, Constantinople, 
and Albania, into which last region very few have pene- 
trated 80 high as Hobhouse and myself I don't know 
that I have done any thing to distinguish me from other 
voyagers, unless you will reckon my swimming from 
Sestos to Abydos, on May 3d, 1810, a tolerable feat for a 
modem. 

*' I am coming back with little prospect of pleasure at 
home, and with a body a little shaken by one or two 
smart fevers, but a spirit I hope yet unbroken. My 
affairs, it seems, are considerably involved, and much 
business must be done with lawyers, colliers, farmers, 
and creditors. Now this, to a man who hates bustle sis 
he hates a bishop, is a serious concern. But enough of 
my home department. 

"I find I have been scolding Cawthorn without a 
cause, as I found two parcels with two letters from you 
on my return to Malta. By these it appears you have 
not received a letter from Constantinople, addressed to 
Longman's, but it was of no consequence. 
*My Satire, it seems, is in a fourth edition, a success rather 
above the middling run, but not much for a production 
which, from its topics, must be temporary, and of course 
be successful at first, or not at all. At this period, 
when I can think and act more coolly, I regret that I 
have written it, though I shall probably find it forgotten 
by all except those whom it has offended. 

" Mr. Hobhouse's MLsccllany has not succeeded, but 
he himself writes so good humouredly on the subject, I 
don't know whether to laugh or cry with him. He met 
with your son at Cadiz, of whom he speaks highly. 

" Yours and Pratt's protege, Blackett the cobbler,* is 
dead, in spite of his rhymes, and is probably one of the in- 



See not« to HlnU rrora Horace, page 390. 



stances where death has saved a man from damnation. 
You were the ruin of that poor fellow among you : had it 
not been for his patrons, he might now have been in very 
good plight, shoe (not verse) making ; but you have 
made him immortal with a vengeance. I write this, sup- 
posing poetry, patronage, and strong waters to have been 
the death of him. If you are in town in or about the be- 
ginning of July, you will find me at Dorant's in Albe- 
marle-street, glad to see you. I have an Imitation of 
Horace's Art of Poetry ready for Cawthorn, but don't let 
that deter you, for I shan't inflict it upon you. You 
know I never read my rhymes to visiters. I shall quit 
town in a few days for Notts, and thence to Rochdale. 
I shall send this the moment we arrive in harbour, that 
is a week hence. 

" Yours ever sincerely, 
« Byron." 



LETTER LXIX. 

TO MR. HENRY DRXTRY. 

"Volage frigate, offUshant, July 17th, 181L 

"my dear DRURY, 

" Afler two years' absence (on the second) and some 
odd days, I am approaching your country. The day of 
our arrival you will see by the outside date of my letter. 
At present, we are becalmed comfortably, close to Brest 
Harbour ; I have never been so near it since I lefl Duck 
Puddle. ******** 
We lefl Malta thirty-four days ago, and have had a te- 
dious passage of it. You will either see or hear from or 
of me, soon afler the receipt of this, as I pass through 
town to repair my irreparable affairs ; and thence I want 
to go to Notts, and raise rents, and to Lanes, and sell 
collieries, and back to London and pay debts ; for it 
seems I shall neither have coals or contort till I go down 
to Rochdale in person. 

" I have brought home some marbles for Hobhouse ; fl 
for myself, four ancient Athenian skulls,* dug out of ■ 
Sarcophagi ; a phial of attic hemlock ;f four live tortoises; 
a greyhound, (died on the passage ;) two live Greek ser- 
vants, one an Athenian, t' other a Yaniote, who can 
speak nothing but Romaic and Italian ; and myself as 
Moses in the Vicar of Wakefield says, slily, and I may 
say it too, for I have as little cause to boast of my expedi- 
tion as he had of his to the fair. 

" I wrote to you from the Cyanean Rocks, to tell you I 
had swum from Sestos to Abydos ; have you received my 
letter? * * * Hodgson, I suppose, is four 

deep by this time. What would he have given to have 
seen, lUie me, the real Parnassus, where I robbed the 
Bishop of Crissae of a book of geography ; but this I only 
call plagiarism, as it was done within an hour's ride of 
Delphi." 



LETTER LXX. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

« Reddish's Hotel, July 23d, 1811, 

" St. James's-street, London. 
•my dear madam, 
" I am only detained by Mr. Hanson, to sign some 
copyhold papers, suid will give you timely notice of my 
approach. It is with great reluctance I remain in town. 1 
I shall pay a short visit as we go on to Lancashire on I 
Rochdale business. I shall attend to your directions, of * 
course, and am, 

* With great respect, yours ever, 
"Bykon. 
"P. S. You will consider Newstead as your house, 
not mine ; and me only as a visiter." 



• Glren aflerwtkrd to Sir Walter Scott, 
t In the poweuion of Mr. Murray. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



27 



LETTER LXXL 



TO DR. PI60T. 



« Newport Pagnell, August 2, 1811. 
"my dear doctor, 

" My poor mother died yesterday ! and I am on my 
way from town to attend her to the family vault. I 
heard one day of her illness, the next of her death. — 
Thajik God her last moments were most tranquil. I am 
told she was in little pain, and not aware of her situation. 
—I now feel the truth of Mr. Gray's observation, ' That 
we can only have one mother.' — Peace be with her ! I 
have to thank you for your expressions of regard, and as 
in six weeks I shall be in Lancashire on business, I may 
extend to Liverpool and Chester, — at least I shall en- 
deavour. 

" If it will be any satisfaction, I have to inform you 
that in November next the editor of the Scourge will be 
tried for two different libels on the late Mrs. B. and 
myself, (the decease of Mrs. B. makes no difference in 
the proceedings,) and as he is guilty, by his very foolish 
and unfounded assertion, of a breach of privilege, he will 
be prosecuted with the utmost rigour. 

" I inform you of this, as you seem interested in the 
affair, which is now in the hands of the attorney-ge- 
neral. 

" 1 shall remain at Newstead the greater part of this 
month, where I shall be happy to hear from you, afler 
my two years' absence in the East. 

" I am, dear Pigot, 
" Yours very truly, 
" Byron." 



LETTER LXXIL 

TO MR. SCROPE DAVIES. 

•'Newstead Abbey, August 7th, 1811. 

" MY DEAREST DAVIES, 

" Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother 
lies a corpse in this house : one of my best friends is 
drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do ? 
I received a letter from him the day before yesterday. 
My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come 
down to me, I want a friend. Matthews's last letter 
was written on Friday, — on Saturday he was not. In 
ability, who was like Matthews?* How did we all 
shrink before him? You do me but justice in saying, I 
would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved 
his. This very evening did I mean to write, inviting 
him, as I invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. 
God forgive * * * for his apathy ! What will our poor 
Hobhouse feel ! His letters breathe but of Matthews. 
Come to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate — left almost 
alone in the world — I had but you, and H. and M. and 
let me enjoy the survivors while I can. Poor M. in his 
letter of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for Cam- 
bridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or 
come, but come if you can, or one or both. 

" Yours over." 



LETTER LXXIIL 

TO EOLTON, ESQ. 

« Newstead Abbey, August 12th, 1811. 

«6IR, 

I enclose a rough draft of my intended will, which I 
beg to have drawn up as soon as possible in the firmest 
manner. The alterations are principally made in con- 
sequence of the death of Mrs. Byron. I have only to 



request that it may be got ready in a short time, and have 
the honour to be, 

" Your most obedient humble servant, 
"Byron." 

" Newstead Abbey, August 12th, 181L 

"directions for the CONTENTS OF A WILL TO 
BE DRAW.N UP IMMEDIATELY. 

" The estate of Newstead to be entailed (subject to 
certain deductions) on George Anson Byron, heir at law, 
or whoever may be the heir at law on the death of Lord 
B. The Rochdale property to be sold in part or the 
whole, according to the debts and legacies of the present 
Lord B. 

" To Nicolo Giraud of Athens, subject of France, but 
born in Greece, the sum of seven thousand pounds ster- 
ling, to be paid from the sale of such parts of Rochdale, 
Newstead, or ebewhere, as may enable the said Nicolo 
Giraud, (resident at Athens and Malta in the year 1810,) 
to receive the above sum on his attaining the age of 
twenty-one years. 

" To William Fletcher, Joseph Murray, and Demetrius 
Zograffo,* (native of Greece,) servants, the sum of fifty 
pounds per ann. each, for their natural lives. To W™ 
Fletcher the mill at Newstead, on condition that he 
payeth the rent, but not subject to the caprice of tlie 
landlord. To R* Rushton the sum of fifty pounds per 
ann. for life, and a further sum of one thousand pounds 
on attaining the age of twenty- five years. 

" To J" Hanson, Esq. the sum of two thousand pounds 
sterling. 

" The claims of S. B. Davies, Esq. to be satisfied on 
proving the amount of the same. 

" The body of Lord B. to be buried in the vault of the 
garden of Newstead, without any ceremony or burial- 
service whatever, or any inscription, save his name and 
age. His dog not to be removed from the said vault. 

" My library and furniture of every description to my 
friends J" Cam Hobhouse, Esq. and S. B. Davies, Esq. 
my executors. In case of their decease, the Rev. J. 
Becher of Southwell, Notts, and R. C. Dallas, Esq. of 
Mortlake, Surrey, to be executors. 

" The produce of the sale of Wymondham in Norfolk, 
and the late Mrs. B.'s Scotch property, to be appropri- 
ated in aid of the payment of debts and legacies." 



" This is the last will and testament of me the Rt. 
Hon'''* George Gordon Lord Byron, Baron Byron of 
Rochdale in the county of Lancaster. — I desire that my 
body may be buried in the vault of the garden of New- 
stead, without any ceremony or burial-service whatever, 
and that no inscription, save my name and age, be written 
on the tomb or tablet ; and it is my will that my faithful 
dog may not be removed from the said vault. To the 
performance of this my particular desire, I rely on the 
attention of my executors hereinafter named." 

" It is submitted to Ixird Bi/ron whether this clause re- 
lative to tlie funeral had not better be omitted. The sub- 
stance of it can be given ui a letter from his lordship to the 
executors, and accompany the will; and the will may 
state that the funeral shall be performed in such manner as 
his lordship may by letter direct, an'l, in default of any 
such letter, then at the discretion of his executors.''^ 

"It must stand. "B." 

"I do hereby specifically order and direct that all 
the claims of the said S. B. Davies upon me shall be 
fully paid and satisfied as soon as conveniently may bo 
after my decease, on hisjmwing [by vouchers, or othor- 



• ' If the pnpors lip not, (which llu.>y geni-rnlly do,) Oenirtrhi* Zo- 
Rinffo of Alhi'ii* is al ihc lii-iul of thi' AUuiiiiiii pi\i t of the Uix-rk iiiiiir. 
rcrlioii. He wivs my f.ivnnl in 1809, 1810, 1^11. IHIQ, m diffcront 
inlcrvulH in (hose yeiiri, (for 1 left him In iTi recce when I went to ("on- 
itnntinoplc,) and necomiianicil me to iCnftlnnd in 1811 ; he returned to 
(in-ece, ■pring, 1813. He win a clever, but not nppartntiv an enter- 
prising man ; but circomilancei make men. Hii two loni (thtn infant*) 
were named Mlllladca and Alclbladei i may the omen b« happy I — 
MS, Journal. 



2d 



LETTERS, 1811. 



wise, to the satisfaction of ray executors hereinafter 
named+J the amount thereof and the correctness of the 
same." 

" If Mr. Davies has any unsettled claims upon Lord 
Byron, that circumstance is a reason for his not being ap- 
pointed execulor ; each execulir having an opportunity of 
paying himself his oum debt wilhnut coniuRing his co- 
executors." 

" So much the better-'-if possible, let him be an exccu- 
tOTv i>- 



In sending a copy of the will, framed on these in- 
structions, to Lord Byron, the solicitor accompanied 
some of the clauses with marginal queries, calling the at- 
tention of his client to points which he considered inex- 
pedient or questionable : one or two of the clauses are 
here inserted in full, with the respective queries and an- 
swers annexed. 



The twro folloMvlng letters contain further instructions 
on the same subject : 

LETTER LXXIV. 

TO MR, BOLTON. 

"Newstead Abbey, August 16th, 1811. 

«SIR, 

"I have answered the queries on the margin. f I 
wish Mr. Davies's claims to be most fully allowed, and, 
further, that he be one of my executors. I wish the will 
to be made in a manner to prevent all discussion, if possi- 
ble, after my decease ; and this 1 leave to you, as a pro- 
fessional gentleman. 

" With regard to the few and simple directions for the 
disposal of my carcass, I must have them implicitly ful- 
filled, as they will, at least, prevent trouble and expense : 
' — and (what would be of little consequence to me, but 
may quiet the conscience of the survivors) the garden is 
consecrated ground. These directions are copied verba- 
tim from my former will ; the alterations in other parts 
J»aye arisen fronj the death of Mrs. B. 

" I have the honour to be. 
''Your most obedient, humble servant, 

"BVRON." 



LETTER LXXV. 

TO MR. BOLTON, 

" Newstead Abbey, Atigust 20, 18H. 



SIR, 



•The witnesses shall be provided from among my 
tenants, and I shall bo happy to see yon on any day most 
convenient to yourself. 1 forgot lo mention that it must 
be specified by codicil, or othoruise, that my body is on 
no account to be removed from the vault where I have di- 
rected it to be placed ; and, in case any of my successors 
within the entail, (from bigotry, or otherwise,) might 
think proper to remove the carcass, such proceeding shall 
W attended by forfeiture of the estate, which, in such 
case, shall go to my sister, tlie Ilon^'''' Augusta Leigh 
fcnd her heirs on similar conditions. I have the honour 
to bo, siii "Your very obedient, humble servant, 

^ " BVRON." 

• OTtr 111* wordii hm-e fvlnccfl between brnckeH., Lord Byron drew 

t I">l»>e<-laii»eenMmcratin(;thcnnmeiiniidpInce«oral)odeoftliecxecu- 
lori, the inliclior had left liliinlm for ilie Chrimian nnmeg of these ccntle- 
men, and Lord Byron, huying filled up all but that of Dallas, writes in the 
margin— "I forRet tli- < hristiaii name of Dallas— cut him out." He 
• taoeiecutedM.nlhe2Slhof this month, a codicil, by which he revoked 
the bequest of his " hous^.hold goods and furniture, hbrary, j.ictures, sa- 
Dret, watches, plaU", liiieii, innkets, and other personal estate, (except 
montj and securities,) situate within the walls of the mansion-house and 
pr«ntK«es at his decease— and bequeathed the same (except his wine and 
•piritiious >.om.rs) to his friends, the said J. C. Hobhouse, S. I!. Davies 
and t ranc« Hod..on, their executors, tc. lo be equally divided between 
them for thrir own use ;-«nd he bequeathed his wine and spirituous 
Jiquors, which should be m the cellars and premises at Newstead, unto 
il'll J •?,"*,•'• ".««'"•■'<"• his own use, and requested the said J. C. 

Hobhouje. 8. U. Davies. P. Hodgson, and J. Becher, respectively, to 
bii'cri '!uhi*3''"' *'" '^°""'"*''' *° ''"="* respectively, as a tokeo of 



LETTER LXXVI. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" Newstead Abbey, Notts, August 12, 1811. 

"Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake 
them. With a sigh to the departed, let us resume the 
dull business of hfe, in the certainty that we shall also 
have our repose. Besides her who gave me being, I 
have lost more than one who made that being tolerable. 
— The best friend of my friend Hobhouse, Matthews, a 
man of the first talents, and also not the worst of my 
narrow circle, has perished miserably in the muddy 
waves of the Cam, always fatal to genius : — my poor 
schoolfellow Wingfield, at Coimbra — within a month,* 
and while I had heard from all three, but not seen one. 
Matthews wrote to me the very day before his death 5 
and though I feel for his fate, I am still more anxious for 
Hobhouse, who, I very much fear, will hardly retain his 
senses 5 his letters to me since the event have been most 
incoherent. But let this pass — we shall all one day 
pass along with the rest — the world is too full of such 
things, and our very sorrow is selfish. 

" I received a letter from you which my late occupa-f 
tions prevented me from duly noticing, — I hope your 
friends and family will long hold together, I shall be 
glad to hear from you, on business, on commonplace, or 
any thing, or nothing — but death — I am already too fa- 
miliar with the dead. It is strange that I look on the 
skulls which stand beside me (I have always had four 
in my study) without emotion, but I cannot strip the 
features of those I have Imo^vn of their fleshy covering, 
even in idea, without a hideous sensation ; but the 
worms are less ceremonious. — Surely, the Romans did 
well when they burned the dead. — I shall be happy to 
hear from you, and am " Yours, &c.'' 



LETTER LXXVIL 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



t 



"Newstead Abbey, August 22d, 1811. 

"You may have heard of the sudden death of my mo» 
ther, and poor Matthews, which, with that of Wingfield, 
(of which I was not fully aware till just before I left 
town, and indeed hardly believed it,) has made a sad 
chasm in my connexions. Indeed the blows followed 
each other so rapidly that I am yet stupid from the 
shock, and though I do eat, and drink, and talk, and 
even laugh, at times, yet I can hardly persuade myself 
that I am awake, did not every morning convince me 
mournfully to the contrary. — 1 shall now waive the sul> 
ject, — the dead are at rest, and none but the dead can 
be so. 

" You will feel for poor Hobhouse, — Matthews was 
the * god of his idolatry ;' and if intellect could exalt a 
man above his fellows, no one could refuse him pre-emi- 
nence, I knew him most intimately, and valued hinj 
proportionably, but I am recurring— so let us talk of life 
and the living. 

" If you should feel a disposition to come here, you 
will find ' beef and a sea-coal fire,' and not ungenerous 
wine. Whether Otvvay's two other requisites for an 
Englishman or not, I cannot tell, but probably one of 
them. — Let me know when I may expect you, that I 
may tell you when I go and when return.— I have not 
yet been to Lanes. **♦ + * + 

Davies has been here, and has invited me to Cambridge 
for a week in October, so that, peradventure, we may 
encounter glass to glass. His gayety (death cannot 
mar it) has done me service ; but, after all, ours was a 
hollow laughter. 



• See Childe Harold, note 19lh, to Canto I. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



2^ 



" You will write to me ? I am solitary, and I never 
felt solitude irksome before. Your anxiety about the 
critique on * *'s book is amusing ; as it was anonymous, 
certes, it was of little consequence : I wish it had pro- 
duced a little more confusion, being a lover of literary 
malice. Are yoil doing nothing? writing nothing? 
printing nothing ? why not your Satire on Methodism ? 
the subject (supposing the public to be blind to merit) 
would do wonders. Besides, it would be as well for a 
destmed deacon to prove his orthodoxy. — It really would 
give me pleasure to see you properly appreciated. I 
say really^ as, being an author, my humanity might be 
^spected. 

" Believe me, dear H. yours always." 



LETTER LXXVIII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" Newstead, August 21, 1811. 

" Your letter gives me credit for more acute feelings 
than I possess ; for though I feel tolerably miserable, yet 
I am at the same time subject to a kind of hysterical 
merriment, or rather laughter without merriment, which 
I can neither account for nor conquer, and yet I do not 
feel relieved by it ; but an indifferent person would think 
me in excellent spirits. ' We must forget these things,' 
and have recourse to our old selfish comforts, or rather 
comfortable selfishness. I do not thinlc I shall return to 
London immediately, and shall therefore accept freely 
what is offered courteously — your mediation between 
me and Murray. I don't think my name will answer 
the purpose, and you must be aware that my plaguy 
Satire will bring the north and south Grub-streets down 
upon the ' Pilgrimage ;' — but, nevertheless, if Murray 
makes a point of it, and you coincide with him, I will do 
it daringly; so let it be entitled, 'By the Author of 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' My remarks 
on the Romaic, &c. once intended to accompany the 
' Hints from Horace,' shall go along with the other, as 
being indeed more appropriate ; also the smaller poems 
now in my possession, with a few selected from those 
published in Hobhouse's Miscellany. I have found 
among my poor mother's papers all my letters from the 
East, and one in particular of some length from Albania. 
From this, if necessary, I can work up a note or two on 
that subject. As I kept no journal, the letters written 
on the spot are the best. But of this anon, when we 
have definitively arranged. 

" Has Murray shown the work to any one ? He may 
— but I will have no traps for applause. Of course there 
are little things I would wish to alter, and perhaps the 
two stanzas of a buffooning cast on London's Sunday are 
as well left out. I much wish to avoid identifying 
Childc Harold's character with mine, and that, in sooth, 
is my second objection to my name appearing in the 
titlepage. When you have made arrangements as to 
time, size, type, &c. favour me with a reply. I am 
giving you a universe of trouble, which thanks cannot 
atone for. I made a kind of prose apology for my skep- 
ticism at the head of the MS. whicli, on recollection, is 
so much more lilic an attack than a defence, tliat, haply, 
it might better be omitted : — perpend, pronounce. After 
all, I fear Murray will be in a scrape with the ortliodox ; 
but I cannot help it, though I wish him well through it. 
As for me, ' I have supped full of criticism,' and I don't 
think that the ' most dismal treatise' will stir and rouse 
my 'fell of hair' till ' Birnam-wood do come to Dunsi- 
nane.' 

" I shall continue to write at intervals, and hope you 
will pay me in kind. How docs Pratt got on, or rather 
got off Joe Blackett's posthumous stock? You killed 
that poor man among you, in spite of your Ionian friend 
and mvself, wL ) would iiave saved him from Pratt, 



poetry, present poverty, and posthumous oblivion. Cruel 
patronage ! to ruin a man at his calling ; but then he is a 
divine subject for subscription and biography ; and Pratt, 
who makes the most of his dedications, has inscribed the 
volume to no less than five families of distinction. 

" I am sorry you don't like Harry White ; with a great 
deal of cant, which in him was sincere, (indeed, it lulled 
him as you killed Joe Blackett,) certes, there is poesy 
and genius. I don't say this on account of my simile 
and rhymes ;* but surely he was beyond all the Bloora- 
fields and Blacketts, and their collateral cobblers, whom 
Loflfl and Pratt have or may kidnap from their calling 
into the service of the trade. You must excuse my flip- 
pancy, for I am writing I know not what, to escape from 
myself Hobhouse is gone to Ireland. Mr. Davies has 
been here on his way to Harrowgate. 

" You did not know Mr. Matthews ; he was a man of 
the most astonishing powers, as he sufficiently proved at 
Cambridge, by carrying off more prizes and fellowships, 
against the ablest candidates, than any other graduate on 
record ; but a most decided atheist, indeed, noxiously so, 
for he proclaimed his principles in all societies. I knew 
him well, and feel a loss not easily to be supplied to my- 
self—to Hobhouse never. Let me hear from you, and 
" BeUeve me, &c." 



LETTER LXXIX. 

TO MR. MXJRRAy. 

« Newstead Abbey, Notts, August 23, 1811. 

" SIR, 

" A domestic calamity in the death of a near relation 
has hitherto prevented my addressing you on the subject 
of this letter. — My friend Mr. Dallas has placed in your 
hands a manuscript poem written by me in Greece, 
which he tells me you do not object to publishing. But 
he also informed me in London that you wished to send 
the MS. to Mr. Gifford. Now, though no one would 
feel more gratified by the chance of obtaining his obser- 
vations on a work than myself, there is in such a proceed- 
ing a kind of petition for praise, that neither my pride — 
or whatever you please to call it — will admit. Mr. G. 
is not only the first satirist of the day, but editor of one of 
the principal Reviews. As such, he is the last man 
whose censure (however eager to avoid it) I would de- 
precate by clandestine means. You will therefore re- 
tain the MS. in your o^^^l care, or, if it must needs be 
shown, send it to another. Though not very patient of 
censure, I would fain obtain fairly any little praise my 
rhymes might deserve, at all events not by extortion and 
the humble solicitations of a bandied-about MS. I am 
sure a little consideration will com-ince you it would be 
wrong. 

" If you determine on publication, I have some smaller 
poems, (never published,) a few notes, and a short disser- 
tation on the literature of the modern Greeks, (written at 
Athens,) which will come in at the end of the volume. — 
And if the present poem should succeed, it is my inten- 
tion, at some subsequent period, to publish some selec- 
tions from my first work, — my Satire, — another nearly 
the same length, and a few other things, with the MS. 
now in your hands, in two volumes. — But of these here- 
afler. You will apprize me of your determination. I 
am, sir, " Your very obedient, &€." 



LETTER LXXX. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Newstead Abbey, August 25, 1811. 
" Being fortunately enabled lo frank, I do not spare 
scribbling, having sent you packets within the last ten 



* Set " Eiigliih Bard*. 



30 



LETTERS, 1811. 



days. I am passing solitary, and do not expect my 
agent to accompany me to Rochdale before the second 
\veck in September, a delay which perplexes me, as I 
wish the business over, and should at present welcome 
employment. I sent you exordiums, annotations, &c. for 
the forthcoming quarto, if quarto it is to be ; and I also 
have written to Mr. Murray my objection to sending 
the MS. to Juvenal, but allowing him to show it to any 
others of the calling. Hobhouse is among the types al- 
ready ; so, between his prose and my verse, the world 
will be decently drawn upon for its paper money and pa- 
tience. Besides all this, my ' Imitation of Horace' is 
gasping for the press at Cawthorn's, but I am hesitating 
as to the hmv and the ivhen^ the single or the double, the 
present or the future. You must excuse all this, for I 
have nothing to say in this lone mansion but of myself 
and yet I would willingly talk or think of aught else. 

" What are you about to do ? Do you think of perch'^- 
in*' in Cumberland, as you opined when I was in the me- 
tropolis? If you mean to retire, why not occupy Miss 
* * +'3 'Cottage of Friendship,' late the seat of Cob- 
bler Joe, for whose death you and others are answer- 
able? His ' Orphan Daughter' (pathetic Pratt!) will, 
certes, turn out a shoeniakmg Sappho. Have you no 
remorse ? I tliink that elegant address to Miss Dallas 
should be inscribed on the cenotaph which Miss * + * 
means to stitch to his memory. 

" The newspapers seem much disappointed at his 
majesty's not dying, or doing something better. I pre- 
sume it is almost over. If parliament meets in October, 
I shall be in town to attend. I am also invited to Cam- 
bridge for the beginning of that month, but am first to 
jaunt to Rochdale. Now Matthews is gone, and Hob- 
house in Ireland, I have hardly one left there to bid me 
welcome, except my inviter. At three-and-twenty I 
am left alone, and what more can we be at seventy ? It 
is true, 1 am young enough to begin again, but with 
whom can I retrace the laughing part of life? It is odd 
how few of my friends have died a quiet death, — I mean, 
in tlieir beds. But a quiet life is of more consequence. 
Yet one loves squabbling and jostling better than yavm- 
ing. This last word admonishes me to reheve you from 
" Yours very truly, &c." 



LETTER LXXXL 

TO MR. D.\LLAS. 

"Newstead Abbey, August 27, 1811. 

" I was so sincere in my note on the late Charles 
Matthews, and do feel myself so totally unable to do 
justice to his talents, that the passage must stand for the 
very reason you bring against it. To him all the men I 
ever knew were pigmies. He was an intellectual giant. 
It is true I loved W. better ; he vvas the earhest and the 
dearest, and one of the few one could never repent of 
having loved : but in ability — ah ! you did not know 
Matthews ! 

" * Childe Harold' may wait and welcome — books are 
never the worse for delay in the pubhcation. So you 
have got our heir, George Anson Byron, and his sister, 
with you. 

♦ ♦**** + + 

**** + ♦** 

" You may say what you please, but you are one of 
the murderers of Blackett, and yet you won't allow 
Harry White's genius. Setting aside his bigotry, he 
surely ranks next to Chatterton. It is astonishing how 
little he was known ; and at Cambridge no one thought 
or heard of such a man, till his death rendered all notice 
useless. For my own part, I should have been most 
proud of such an acquaintance: his very prejudices 
were respectable. There is a sucking epic poet at 
Grants, a Mr. Townsend, pro/^g^^ of the late Cumber- 



land. Did you ever hear of him and his ' Armageddon ?' 
I think his plan (the man I don't know) borders on the 
sublime ; though, perhaps, the anticipation of the ' Last 
Day,' (according to you Nazarenes,) is a little too daring : 
at least, it looks like teUing the Lord what he is to do, 
and might remind an ill-natured person of the line — 
" ' And fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' 

" But I don't mean to cavil, only other folks will, and he 
may bring all the lambs of Jacob Behmen about his ears. 
However, I hope he will bring it to a conclusion, though 
Milton is in his way. 

" Write to me — I dote on gossip — and make a bow to 
Ju — ,* and shake George by the hand for me ; but, take 
care, for he has a sad sea-paw. 

" P. S. I would ask George here, but I don't know how 
to amuse him — all my horses were sold when I left Eng- 
land, and I have not had time to replace them. Never- 
theless, if he will come down and shoot in September, he 
will be very welcome ; but he must bring a gun, for I 
gave away all mine to Ali Pacha, and other Turks. 
Dogs, a keeper, and plenty of game, with a very large 
manor, I have — a lalce, a boat, house-room, and neat 



LETTER LXXXII. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESq. 



"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 4, 1811. 
"my dear sir, 
" I am at present anxious, as Cawthorn seems to wish 
it, to have a small edition of the " Hints from Horace" 
published immediately ; but the Latin (the most difficult 
poem in the language) renders it necessary to be very 
particular not only in correcting the proofs with Horace 
open, but in adapting the parallel passages of the imita- 
tion in such places to the original as may enable the rea- 
der not to lose sight of the allusion. I don't know whe- 
ther I ought to ask you to do this, but I am too far off to 
do it for myself; and if you can condescend to my school- 
boy erudition, you wdll oblige me by setting this thing 
going, though you will smile at the importance I attach 
to it. " Believe me, ever yours, 

« Byron." 



LETTER LXXXIH. 



TO MR. MXTRRAY. 



"Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 5, ISIL 

" SIR, 

" The time seems to be past when (as Dr. Johnson 
said) a man was certain to 'hear the truth from his 
bookseller,' for you have paid me so many coniphments, 
that, if I was not the veriest scribbler on earth, I should 
feel affronted. As I accept your compliments, it is but 
fair I should give equal or greater credit to your objec- 
tions, the more so, as I believe them to be well founded. 
With regard to the political and metaphysical parts, I am 
afraid I can alter nothing ; but I have high authority for 
my errors in that point, for even the .^neid was a politi- 
cal poem, and written for a political purpose ; and as to 
my unlucky opinions on subjects of more importance, I 
am too sincere in them for recantation. On Spanish 
affairs I have said what I saw, and every day confirms 
me in that notion of the result formed on the spdl ; and 
I rather thinlv honest John Bull is beginning to come 
round again to that sobriety which Massena's retreat 
had begun to reel from its centre — the usual consequence 
of unusual success. So you perceive I cannot alter the 
sentiments ; but if there are any alterations in the struc- 
ture of the versification you would wish to be made, I 



Julia Heath, George Byron's »i»ter. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



31 



will tag rhymes and turn stanzas as much as you please. 
As for the ' orthodox^ let us hope they will buy, on pur- 
pose to abuse — you will forgive the one, if they will do 
the other. You are aware that any thing from my pen 
must expect no quarter, on many accounts ; and as the 
present publication is of a nature very different from the 
former, we must not be sanguine. 

" You have given me no answer to my question — tell 
me fairly, did you show the MS. to some of your corps ? 
— I sent an introductory stanza to Mr. Dallas, to be for- 
warded to you ; the poem else will open too abruptly.* 
The stanzas had better be numbered in Roman charac- 
ters. There is a disquisition on the Uterature of the 
modern Greeks, and some smaller poems, to come in at 
the close. These are now at Newstead, but will be sent 
in time. If Mr. D. has lost the stanza and note annexed 
to it, write, and I will send it myself — You tell me to add 
two Cantos, but I am about to visit my collieries in Lan^ 
cashire on the 15th inst. which is so unpoetical an em- 
ployment that I need say no more. I am, sir, 

" Your most obedient, &c.' 



LETTER LXXXIV. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 7, 1811. 

" As Giffbrd has been ever my ' Magnus Apollo,' any 
approbation, such as you mention, would, of course, be 
more welcome than ' all Bokara's vaunted gold, than all 
the gems of Samarkand.' But I am sorry the MS. was 
shown to him in such a manner, and I had written to 
Murray to say as much, before I was aware that it was 
too late. 

" Your objection to the expression ' central line,' I can 
only meet by saying that, before Childe Harold left Eng- 
land, it was his full intention to traverse Persia, and re- 
turn by India, which he could not have done without 
passing the equinoctial. 

" The other errors you mention, I must correct in the 
progress through the press. I feel honoured by the wish 
of such men that the poem should be continued, but to do 
that, I must return to Greece and Asia ; I must have a 
warm sun and a blue sky ; I cannot describe scenes so 
dear to me by a sea-coal fire. I had projected an addi- 
tional Canto when I was in the Troad and Constantino- 
ple, and if I saw them again, it would go on ; but under 
existing circumstances and serisations, I have neither 
harp, ' heart, nor voice' to proceed. I feel that you are 
all right as to the metaphysical part ; but I also feel that 
I am sincere, and that if I am only to write, ' ad captan- 
dum vulgus,^ I might as well edit a magazine at once, or 
spin canzonettas for Vauxhall. 

*** + * + * + 

' My work must make its way as well as it can ; I 
know I have every thing against me, angry poets and 
prejudices ; but if the poem is a poem, it will surmount 
these obstacles, and if not, it deserves its fate. Your 
friend's Ode I have read — it is no great compliment to 
pronounce it far superior to S * *'s on the same sub- 
ject, or to the merits of the new chancellor. It is evi- 
dently the production of a man of taste, and a poet, 
though I should not be willing to say it was fully equal to 
what might be expected from the author oV HoroB loniceB.' 
I thank you for it, and that is more than I would do for 
any other Ode of the present day. 

"I am very sensible of your good wishes, and, indeed, 
I have need of them. My whole life has been at vari- 
ance with propriety, not to say decency; my circum- 
stances are become involved ; my friends are dead or 
estranged, and my existence a dreary void. In Mat- 
thews I have lost my ' guide, philosopher, and friend ;' 



in Wingfield a friend only, but one whom I could have 
wished to have preceded in his long journey. 

" Matthews was indeed an extraordinary man ; it has 
not entered into the heart of a stranger to conceive such 
a man ; there was the stamp of immortality in all he said 
or did ; and now what is he ? When we see such men 
pass away and be no more — men, who seem created to 
display what the Creator could make his creatures, ga- 
thered into corruption, before the maturity of minds that 
might have been the pride of posterity, what are we to 
conclude ? For my own part I am bewildered. To mo 
he was much, to Hobhouse every thing. — My poor Hob- 
house doted on Matthews. For me, I did not love quite 
so much as I honoured him ; I was indeed so sensible of 
his infinite superiority, that though I did not envy, I stood 
in awe of it. He, Hobhouse, Davies, and myself formed 
a coterie of our own at Cambridge and elsewhere. Da- 
vies is a wit and man of the world, and feels as much as 
such a character can do ; but not as Hobhouse has been 
affected. Davies, who is not a scribbler, has always 
beaten us all in the war of words, and by his colloquial 
powers at once delighted and kept us in order. H. and 
myself always had the worst of it with the other two ; and 
even M. yielded to the dashing vivacity of S. D. But I 
am talking to you of men, or boys, as if you cared about 
such beings. 

" I expect mine agent down on the 14th to proceed to 
Lancashire, where, I hear from all quarters, that I have 
a very valuable property in coals, &c. I then intend to 
accept an invitation to Cambridge in October, and shall, 
perhaps, run up to tovm. I have four invitations — to 
Wales, Dorset, Cambridge, and Chester ; but I must be 
a man of business. I am quite alone, as these long 
letters sadly testify. I perceive, by referring to your 
letter, that the Ode is from the author ; make my thanks 
acceptable to him. His muse is worthy a nobler theme 
You will write, as usual, I hope. I wish you a good 
evening, " And am, &€." 



Tbe pre<ea( wcond iianza ori|iaally (tood first. 



LETTER LXXXV. 

TO K. C. DALLAS, ESq. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 10, 181 1. 
"dear sir, 
"I rather think in one of the opening stanzas of Childe 
Harold there is this line — 

" ' 'TLs said at times the EuUen tear would start.' 

Now, a line or two ailer, I have a repetition of the 
epithet 'sullen reverie;' so (if it be so) let us have, 
' speechless reverie,' or ' silent reverie ;' but, at all events, 
do away the recurrence. 

" Yours ever, " B . 

"P. S. Perhaps, as 'reverie' impHes sUetice of itself 
wayward, downcast, gloomy, wrinkling, joyless, may be 
better epithets." 



LETTER LXXXVL 



TO MR. MTRRAY. 



"Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 14, 1811; 

« SIR, 

" Since your former letter, Mr. Dallas informs me that 
the MS. has been submitted to the perusal of Mr. Gifford, 
most contrary to my wishes, as Mr. D. could have ex- 
plained, and as my own letter to you did, in fact, explain, 
with my motives for objecting to such a procetnling. 
Some late domestic events, of which you are probably 
aware, prevented my letter from being sent befi)re ; in- 
deed, I hardly conceived you would so hastily thrust my 
productions into the hands of a stranger, who could be as 
little pleased by receiving them, as their author is at 
Uitiir being offered in such a manner, and to such a man. 



32 



LETTERS, 1811. 



"My address, when I leave Newstead, will be to 
'Rochdale, Lancashire;' but I have not yet fixed the 
day of departure, and 1 will apprize you when ready to 
set off. 

" You have placed me in a very ridiculous situation, 
but it is past, and nothing more is to be said on the subject. 
You hinted to me that you wished some alterations to be 
made ; if they have nothing to do with politics or religion, 
I will make them with great readiness. 

"I am, sir, &c. &c." 



LETTER LXXXVII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESq.. 

« Newstead Abbey, Sept. 15, 181L 
"my dear sir, 

" My agent will not be here for at least a week, and 
even afterwards my letters will be forwarded to Roch- 
dale. I am sorry that Murray should groan on my ac- 
count, though that is better than the anticipation of ap- 
plause, of which men and boolcs are generally disap- 
pointed, 

" The notes I sent are merely matter to be divided, ar- 
ranged, and published for notes hereafter, in proper 
places ; at present I am too much occupied with earthly 
cares, to waste time or trouble upon rhyme, or its modern 
indispensables, annotations. 

" Pray let me hear from you, when at leisure, I have 
written to abuse Murray for showing the MS. to Mr. 
Gifford ; who must certainly think it was done by my 
wish, though you know the contrary. 

" Believe me, yours ever. 



LETTER LXXXVIII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. 

" DEAR SIR, 

" I send you a motto — * 

" ' L'univers est uneespdce de livre, &c.' 
If not too long, I think it will suit the book. The pas- 
sage is from a French volume, a great favourite with me, 
which I picked up in the Archipelago. I don't thinlc it 
is well known in England. Moubron is the author, but 
it is a work sixty years old. Good morning. I won't 
take up your time. « Yours ever, 

"Byron." 



LETTER LXXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



''Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. 

"I return the proof, which I should wish to be shown 
to Mr. Dallas, who understands typographical arrange- 
ments much better than I can protend to do. The 
printer may place the notes in his own way, or any way, 
■o that they are out of my way ; 1 care nothing about 
types or margins, 

" If you have any communication to make, I shall be 
here at least a week or ten days longer, 

" I am, sir, &c, fee," 



LETTER XC. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811, 
•I can easily excuse your not writing, as you have, I 
hope, something better to do, an d you must pardon my 
• For "GhildeHarolJ." 



frequent invasions on your attention, because I have a,t 
this moment nothing to interpose between you and my 
epistles. 

" I cannot settle to any thing, and my days pass, with 
the exception of bodily exercise to some extent, with uni- 
form indolence, and idle insipidity. I have been ex- 
pecting, and still expect, my agent, when I shall have 
enough to occupy rny reflections in business of no very 
pleasant aspect. Before my journey to Rochdale, you 
shall have due notice where to address me — I beUeve at 
the postoifice of that township. From Murray I re- 
ceived a second proof of the same pages, which I re- 
quested him to show you, that any thing which may have 
escaped my observation may be detected before the prin- 
ter lays the corner-stone of an errata column. 

" I am now not quite alone, having an old acquaintance 
and schoolfellow with me, so old, indeed, that we have 
nothing new to say on any subject, and yawn at each 
other in a sort of quiet inquietude. I hear nothing from 
Cawthorn, or Captain Hobhouse, and their quarto — Lord 
have niercy on mankind ! We come on like Cerberus 
with our triple publications. As for myself, by myself, I 
must be satisfied with a comparison to Janus. 

" I am not at all pleased with Murray for showing the 
MS. ; and I am certain Gifford rnust see it in the same 
light that I do. His praise is nothing to the purpose : 
what could he say ? He could not spit in the face of one 
who had praised him in every possible way, I must 
own that I wish to have the impression removed from his 
mind, that I had any concern in such a paltry transac- 
tion. The more I think, the more it disquiets me ; so I 
will say no more about it. It is bad enough to be a, 
scribbler, without having recourse to such shifts to extort 
praise, or deprecate censure. It is anticipating, it is 
begging, kneeling, adulating — the devil! the devil! the 
devil ! and all without my wish, and contrary to my ex- 
press desire, I wish Murray had been tied to Payne^s 
neck when he jumped into the Paddington Canal, and so 
tell him, — that is the proper receptacle for publishers. 
You have thoughts of settling in the country, why not 
try Notts ? I think there are places which would suit 
you in all points, and then you are nearer the metropolis. 
But of this anon. 

" I am yours, &c." 

LETTER XCL 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 181L 
<'dear sir, 
" I have just discovered some pages of observations on 
the modem Greeks, written at Athens, by me, under the 
title of ' Noctes Atticse.' They will do to ciU up into 
notes, and to be cut up afterwards, which is all that notes 
are generally good for. They were written at Athens, 
as you will see by the date. 

"Yours ever. ««B." 



LETTER XCIL 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

« Newstead Abbey, Sept. 21, 1811. 
I have shown my respect for your suggestions by 
adopting them ; but I have made many alterations in the 
first proof, over and above 5 as, for example : 



Jlellaa deem'4 of heavenly birth, 



" ' Oh Thou, 
&c. &c.' 

" ' Since, thamedfuU oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine, &c.' 

" ' Yet there / 've leander'd by the vaunted rill ;' 

and so on. Sol have got rid of Dr. Lowth, and ' drunk* 



LETTERS, 1811. 



33 



to boot, and very glad I am to say so. I have also sul- 
lenized the line as heretofore, and in short have been 
quite conformable. 

'* Pray, write ; you shall hear when I remove to Lanes. 
I have brought you and my friend Juvenal Hodgson upon 
my back, on the score of revelation. You are fervent, 
but he is quite glowing ; and if he takes half the pains to 
save his own soul, which he volunteers to redeem mine, 
great will be his reward hereafter. I honour and thank 
you both, but am convinced by neither. Now for notes. 
Besides those I have sent, I shall send the observations 
on the Edinburgh Reviewer's remarks on the modern 
Greek, an Albanian song in the Albanian {not Greek) lan- 
guage, specimens of modern Greek from their New 
Testament, a comedy of Goldoni's translated, one scene, 
a prospectus of a friend's book, and perhaps a song or 
two, all in Romaic, besides their Pater Noster ; so there 
vrill be enough, if not too much, with what I have already 
sent. Have you received the ' Noctes Atticae T I sent 
also an annotation on Portugal. Hobhouse is also forth- 
coming." 



LETTER XCm. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 23, 1811. 

" Lisboa is the Portuguese word, consequently the 
very best. Ulissipont is pedantic 5 and, as' I have Hellas 
and Eros not long before, there would be something like 
an affectation of Greek terms, which I wish to avoid, 
since I shall have a perilous quantity of modern Greek in 
my notes, as specimens of the tongue ; therefore Lisboa 
may keep its place. You are right about the ' Hints ;' 
they must not precede the 'Romaunt;' but CawthornT! 
will be savage if they don't ; however, keep them back, 
and him in good humour, if we can, but do not let him 
publish. 

" I have adopted, I believe, most of your suggestions, 
but ' Lisboa' will be an exception, to prove the rule. I 
have sent a quantity of notes, and shall continue ; but 
pray let them be copied ; no devil can read my hand. 
By-the-by, I do not mean to exchange the ninth verse of 
the ' Good Night.' I have no reason to suppose my 
dog better than his brother brutes, mankind ; and Argus 
we know to be a fable.* The ' Cosmopolite' was an ac- 
quisition abroad. 1 do not believe it is to be found in 
England. It is an amusing little volume, and full of 
French flippancy. I read, though I do not speak, the 
language. 

I will be angry with Murray. It was a bookselling, 
backshop, Paternoster-row, paltry proceeding, and if the 
experiment had turned out as it deserved, I would have 
raised all Fleet-street, and borrowed the giant's staff 
from St. Dunstan's church, to immolate the betrayer of 
trust. I have written to him as he never was written to 
before by an author, I '11 be sworn, and I hope you will 
amplify my wrath, till it has an effect upon him. You toll 
me always you have much to write about. Write it, 
but let us drop metaphysics; — on tliat point we shall 
never agree. I am dull and drowsy, as usual. I do no- 
thing, and even that nothing fatigues me. Adieu." 



LETTER XCIV. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESq. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 26, 1811. 
"my dear sir, 
" In a stanza towards the end of canto first there is, in 
the concludmg lino, 

' Some Ijlltcr bubUluB iip, nnd c'l'n on roie» stini;a.' 



I have altered it as follows : — 

' Full from the heart of joy's cWicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings,' 

" If you will point out the stanzas on Cintra which you 
wish recast, I will send you mine answer. Be good 
enough to address your letters here, and they will either 
be forwarded or ^aved till my return. My agent comes 
to-morrow, and we shall set out immediately. 

" The press must not proceed of course without my 
seeing the proofs, as I. have much to do. Pray do you 
think any alterations should be made in the stanzas on 
Vathek? I should be sorry to make any improper 
allusion, as I merely wish to adduce an example of 
wasted wealth, and the reflection which arose in survey- 
ing the most desolate mansion in the most beautiful spot 
I ever beheld. 

" Pray keep Cawthorn back; he was not to begin till 
November, and even that will be two months too soon. 
I am so sorry my hand is uninteDigible ; but I can neither 
deny your accusation, nor remove the cause of it. — It is 
a sad scrawl, certes. — A perilous quantity of annotation 
hath been sent ; I think almost enough, with the speci- 
mens of Romaic I mean to annex. 

" I will have nothing to say to your metaphysics, and 
allegories of rocks and beaches ; we shall all go to the 
bottom together, so ' let us eat and drink, for to-morrow, 
&c.' 1 am as comfortable in my creed as others, inas- 
much as it is better to sleep than to be awake. 

" I have heard nothing of Murray ; I hope he is 
ashamed of himself. He sent me a vastly complimentary 
e])istle, with a request to alter the two, and finish another 
canto. I sent him as civil an answer as if I had been 
engaged to translate by the sheet, declined altering any 
thing in sentiment, but offered to tag rhymes, and mend 
them as long as he liked. 

" I will write from Rochdale when I arrive, if my affairs 
allow me ; but I shall be so busy and savage all the time, 
with the whole set, that my letters will be as pettish as 
myself. If so, lay the blame on coal and coal-heavers. 
Very probably I may proceed to town by way of New- 
stead on my return from Lanes. I mean to be at Cam- 
bridge in November, so that at all events we shall be 
nearer. I will not apologize for the trouble I have given, 
and do give you, though I ought to do so ; but I have 
worn out my politest periods, and can only say that I am 
very much obliged to you. 

" Believe me, yours always, 
"Byron." 



LETTER XCV. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" Newstead Abbey, Oct. 10, 1811. 

" DEAR SIR, 

" Stanzas 24, 26, 29, though crossed, must stand with 
their alterations. The other t/iree are cut out to your 
wishes.* Wo must, however, have a repetition of the 
proof, which is the first. I will write soon. 

" Yours ever, *' B. 

*' P. S. Yesterday I returned from Lanes." 



The fullowliiK nre (lie lix slanr.as na (hey uriKinally iIoihI. Thoia 
m. ill an nitfreil time. 
Tue ataiixua luuikeil 



np|M-arini; below, as '24, 26, 29, Bj>penn'<I in (he poem, in an nUereil »(«te 
r the fir«icau(o. 



i<« 24,25,26 
below 25, 27, and 28, wcro those oniiilod : 



XXIV. 



SccLetler253. 

5 



Hcluild the hnll wh»re rhlefs were late convened, 

Oh, dome (ILiplennhiR unto Urill«h eye I 
Withilliidcni hlght FuuUriip, lot a fleiid, 

A liKlr lit-nil (luit .icofl's incvMiindy, 
There nits In piirrliinciit robe arrBVtMl, and by 

Hi* li.!.- Ik hiini; n «• xl .iiul tnblo tcrnll, 
Where IiIh/omimI »(lnre« n MKine «pell VVelloilcy : 

Whrrt!n( the mthiii poindi unit huight wKh all hU •oul. 



34 



LETTERS, 1811. 



LETTER XCVL 

TO MR. DALLAS, 

"Newstead Abbey, Oct, 11, 1811. 
"I have returned from Lanes, and ascertained that 
my property there may be made very valuable, but vari- 
ous circumstances very much circumscribe my exertions 
at present. I shall be in town on business in the begin- 
ning of November, and perhaps at Cambridge before the 
end of this month ; but of my movements you shall be 



XXV. 
In golden characters, right well designed, 

First on the list appeareth one " Junot :" 
Then certain other glorious names we find ; 

(Which rhyme compelleth me to place below ;) 
Dull victors ! baffled by a vanquished foe, 

Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due, 
Stand, worthy of each other, in a row 

Sirs Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew 
Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of tothcr tew. 

XXVI. 
Convent ion is the dwarfy demon styled 

Thai foiled the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 

And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
For well 1 wot, when first the news did come, 

That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost ; 
For paragraph ne paper scarce had room. 

Such pisns teemed for our triumphaul host. 
In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post. 

xxvir. 

But when Convention sent his handy work, 

Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar ; 
Mayor, aldermen, laid down th' uplified fork ; 

The bench of Bishops half forgot to snore ; 
Stem Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore 

To question aught, once more with transport leapt. 
And bit his dev'lish quill agen, and swore 

With foe soch treaty never should be kept. 
Then burst the blatant' beast, and roared and raged, and — slept! ! ! 

XXVIII. 
Thus unto heaven appealed the people ; heaven. 

Which loves the lieges of our gracious king. 
Decreed that ere our generals were forgiven, 

Inquiry should be held about the thing. 
But mercy cloaked the babes beneath her wing ; 

And as they spared our foes so spared we them. 
(Wliere was the pity of our sires for Byng.'')t 

Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn. 
Then live ye, gallant knights ! and bless your judges' phlegm. 

XXIX. 
But erer since that martial synod met, 

Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention sweat. 

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
How will posterity the deed preclaim I 

Will not our own and fellow nations sneer. 
To view these champions cheated of their fame 

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where scorn her finger points through many a coming year ? 

Originally, the " lilUe page," and "yeoman," of Childe Harold, 
Canto I. were introtluced in the following stanzas, which were after- 
ward! erased : 

And of his train there was a henchman page 
A peasant boy, who served his master well ; 
And often would his pranksome prate engage 
Childe Biirun's ear when his proud heart did swell 
With sullen thoughts ihal he disdain'd to tell. 
Then would he smile on him, and Alwinl smiled, 
When aught that from his young lips archly fell 
The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled. 

Him and one yeoman only did he take 
To travel eastward to a far countrie ; 
And though the boy was grieved to leave the lake, 
On whoso fair banks he grew from infancy, 
F.ftsoons his little heart beat merrily, 
With hoi)e of foreign nations to behold. 
And many things right marvellous losee, 
Of which our vaunting travellers oft have told, 
From Mandeville 

Tbii stanza waa also omitted : 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Sighu, saints, antiques, arts, anecdotes, and war. 
Go, hie ye henct to Paternoster-row, — 
Are they not written in the hoke of Carr ? 
Green Krin's Knight, and Kuropc's wandering star ! 
Then lislpn, readers, to the .Man of Ink. 
Hear what he didj and sought, and wrote nfar, 
All these are coop d within one tluario's brink, 
Tbii borrow, steal, (don't buy,) and tell us what you think. 

* " Blatant beast," a figure for the mob; I think first used by 
Smollett in his Adventures nf lui Atom. Horace has the " Bellu multo- 
rum c«|iitum." In England, forlunalely enough, the illustrious mo- 
bility have ni>t even one. 

t By this query it is not meant that our foolish generals should have 
been shot, but that Byng might have been spared ; though Hie one 
•offered and the others cscafied, probably for Candidc's reason, "pour 
cncourager lei aiilrii." 

I In the MS. the names " Robhi" anrl " Rupert" had been sue 
eeasively ini«rted h«re and scratched out again. 



regularly apprized. Your objections I have in part done 
away by alterations, which I hope will suffice ; and I 
have sent two or three additional stanzas for both 
' Fyttes.^ I have been again shocked with a death^ and 
have lost one very dear to me in happier times ; but ' I 
have almost forgot the taste of grie^' and ' supped full of 
horrors' till I have become callous, nor have I a tear left 
for an event which five years ago would have bowed 
down my head to the earth. It seems as though I were 
to experience in my youth the greatest misery of age. 
My friends fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely 



The second paragraph in the preface was originally thus : 
"It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a 
high value, that in the fictitious character of ' Childe Harold,' I may in- 
cur the suspicion of having drawn ' from myself.' This I beg leave once 
for all to disclaim. I wanted a character to give some connexions to the 
poem, and the one adopted suited my purpose as well as any other. In 
some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be 
grounds for such an idea ; but in the main points, I should hope none 
whatever. My reader will observe that when the author speaks in hi» 
own person, be assumes a very dift'erent tone from that of 

' The cheerless thing, the man without a friend,' 

at least till death had deprived him of his nearest connexions . 

" I crave pardon for tins egotism, which proceeds from my wish to dis- 
card any probable imputation of it to the text." 

The note to Canto I. stanza 21, was in the manuscript as follows : 

" In the year 1809, it is a well-known fact, that the assassinations in 
the streets of Lisbon and its viciuity, were not confined by the I'ortu- 
guese to their countrymen ; but Englishmen were daily bulc'nered, and 
so far from the survivors obtaining redress, they were requested ' not to 
interfere' if Ihey perceived their compatriot defending himself against his 
amiable allies. I was once slopped in the way to the theatre, at eight in 
the evening, when the sireels were not more empty than they generally 
are, opposite to an open shop, and in a caniage with a friend, by three 
of OUT allies; and had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the 
least doubt we should have ' adorned a tale,' instead of telling it. We 
have heard wonders of the Portuguese lately, and their gallantry,— 
pray Heaven it continue: yet 'would it were bedtime Hal, and al! 
were well!' They must fight a great many hours 'by Shrewsbury 
clock,' before the number of their slain equals that of our countrymen 
butchered by these kind creatures, now metamorphosed into 'Caca- 
dores,' and what not. I merely state a fact n^t confined to Portugal, 
for in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished ! Tire 
neglect of protection is disgraceful to our government and governors, few 
the murders are as notorious as ihe moon that shines upon them, and 
the apathy that overlooks them. The Portuguese, it is to be hoped, are 
complimented with the •Forlorn Hope.' If the cowards are become 
brave, (like the rest of their kind, in a corner,) pray let them display it. 
But there is a subscription for these ' ^pacri dtAov,' (they need not be 
ashamed of the epithet once applied to the Spartans,) and all the cha- 
ritable patronymicks, from ostentatious A to diffident Z, and 1/. Is. O'Z. 
from ' an admirer of valour,' are in requisition for the lists at Lloyds, 
and the honour of British benevolence. Well, we have fought and sub- 
scribed, and bestowed peerages, and buried the killed by our friends 
and foes ; and lo ! all this is to be done over again ! Like ' Young 
The.' (in Goldsmith's Citizen of the World,) as we ■ grow older, we 
grow never the better.' It would be pleasant to learn who will sub- 
scribe for us, in or about the year 1825, and what nation will send fifty 
thousand men, first to be decimated in the capital, and then decimated 
again (in the Irish fashion nine out of ten) in the bed of honour, which, 
as Serjeant Kite says, is considerably larger and more commodious than 
the ' bed of Ware.' Then they must have a poet to write the ' Vision 
of Don Perceval,' and generously bestow the profits of the well and 
widely pointed quarto to reUjild the ' Backmynd' and the ' Canongate,' 
or furnish new kilts for the lialf-roasled Highlanders. Lord Welling- 
ton, however, has enacted marvels ; and so did his oriental brother, 
whom I saw charioteering over the French flag, and heard clipping bad 
Spanish, after listening to the speech of a patriotic cobbler of Cadiz, ou 
the event of his own entry into that city, and the exit of some five thou- 
sand bold Britons out of this ' best of all possible worlds.' Sorely were 
we puzzled how to dispose of that same victory of Talavera ;'anda 
victory it surely was somewhere, for every body claimed it. The Spa- 
nish despatch and mob called it Cuestas, and made no great mention of 
the Viscount ; the French called it theirs, (to my great discomfiture, for 
a French consul stopped my mouth in Greece with a pestilent Paris CJa- 
zette, iust as I had killed Sebastiana ' in buckram,' and King Joseph in 
' Kendal green,') and we have not yet determined what to call it, or 
whose, for certes it was none of our own. Howbeit, Massena's retreat 
is a great comfort, and as we have not been in the habit of pursuing for 
some years past, no wonder we are a little awkward at fii-st. No doubt 
we shall improve, or if not, we have only to take to our old way of re- 
trograding, and then we are at home." 

The following m te to Canto II. stanza 8, was in ths original manu- 
script, but omitted in the publication : 

" In this age of bigotry, when the puritan and priest have changed 
places, and the wr« ched catholic is visited with the ' sins of his fathers,' 
even unto generations far beyond the pale of the commandment, tlic cast 
of opinion in these stanzas wi'll doubtless meet with many a contemptuous 
anathema. But let it be remembered, that the spirit they breathe ii 
desponding, not sneering, skepticism ; that he who has seen the Greek 
and Moslem superstitions contending for mastery over the former shrines 
of Polytheism,— who has left in his own Counti-y ' Pharisees thanking 
God that they are not publicans and sinners,' and Spaniards in theirs, 
abhorring the heretics, who have holpeu them in their need ;— will be 
not a little bewilderpd, and begin to think that as only one of them can 
be right, they may most of them be wrong. With regard to morals, and 
the etlect of religion on mankind, it appears, from all historical testi- 
mony, to have had less effect in making them love their neighbours, 
than inducing that cordial christian abhorrence between sectaries and 
schisnialicB. The Turks and Q,uakers are the most tolerant. If an in- 
fidel pays his hcrntik to the former, he may pray how, when, and wbave 
he pleases ; and the mild tenets and devout demeanourof the latter, mafc* 
their lives the truest commentary on the Sermon on the Mount." 



LETTERS, 1811. 



35 



tree berore I am withered. Other men can always take 
refuge in their families ; I have no resource but my own 
reflections, and they present no prospect here or here- 
after, except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my bet- 
ters. I am indeed very wretched, and you will excuse 
my saying so, as you know I am not apt to cant of sen- 
sibility. 

" Instead of tiring yourself with my concerns, I should 
be glad to hear your plans of retirement. I suppose 
you would not hke to be wholly shut out of society ? 
Now I know a large village or small town, about twelve 
miles off, where your family would have the advantage 
of very genteel society, without the hazard of being an- 
noyed by mercantile affluence ; where you would meet 
with men of information and independence ; and where I 
have friends to whom 1 should be proud to introduce 
you. There are besides, a coffee-room, assemblies, &c. 
&c. which brmg people together. My mother had a 
house there some years, and I am well acquainted with 
the economy of Southwell, the name of this little com- 
monwealth. Lastly, you will not be very remote from 
me; and though I am the very worst companion for 
young people in the world, this objection would not 
apply to you, whom I could see frequently. Your ex- 
penses too would be such as best suit your inclinations, 
more or less, as you thought proper 5 but very little 
would be requisite to enable you to enter into all the 
gayeties of a country life. You could be as quiet or 
bustling as you liked, and certainly as well situated as on 
the lakes of Cumberland, unless you have a particular 
wish to be picturesque. 

" Pray, is your Ionian friend in town ? You have 
promised me an introduction. — You mention having con- 
sulted some friends on the MSS. — Is not this contrary 
to our usual way ? Instruct Mr. Murray not to allow 
his shopman to call the work 'Child of Harrow's Pilgri- 
mage ! ! ! ! i' as he has done to some of my astonished 
friends, who wrote to inquire after my sanity on the oc- 
casion, as well they might. I have heard nothing of 
Murray, whom I scolded heartily. — Must I write more 
notes? — Are there not enough? — Cawthorn must be 
kept back with the 'Hints.' — I hope he is getting on 
with Hobhouse's quarto. Good evening. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER XCVII. 



TO 



I. HODGSON. 



"Newstead Abbey, Oct. 13, 1811. 

" You will begin to deem me a most liberal corre- 
spondent ; but as my letters are free, you will overlook 
their frequency. I have sent you answers in prose and 
verse to all your late communications, and though I am 
invading your ease again, I don't know why, or what to 
put down that you are not acquainted with already. I 
am growing neruoMS (how you will laugh!) — but it is 
true, — really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically ner- 
vous. Your climate kills me ; I can neither read, write, 
nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are list- 
less, and my nights restless ; I have very seldom any 
society, and when I have, I run out of it. At ' this pre- 
sent writing,' there are in the next room three ladies, 
and I have stolen away to write tins grumblmg letter. — 
I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity, for I find a 
want of method in arranging my thoughts that [)crplexes 
me strangely ; but this looks moro like sillini'ss than 
madness, as Scropo Uavies would facetiously remark in 
his consoling manner. I must try the hartshorn of your 
company ; and a session of Parliament would suit me 
well, — any thing to euro me of conjugating Iho accursed 
verb '■ennuyer.^ 

"When shall you be at Cambridge? You have 
hinted, I think, that your friend Bland is returned from 



Holland. I have always had a great respect for his 
talents, and for all that I have heard of his character ; 
but of me, I believe, he knows nothing, except that he 
heard my sixth-form repetitions ten months together, at 
the average of two hues a morning, and those never per- 
fect. I remembered him and his ' Slaves' as I passed 
between Capes Matapan, St. Angelo, and his Isle of 
Ceriga, and I always bewailed the absence of the An- 
thology. I suppose he will now translate Vondel, the 
Dutch Shakspeare, and ' Gysbert van Amstel' will easily 
be accommodated to our stage in its present state ; and 
I presume he saw the Dutch poem, where the love of 
Pyramus and Thisbe is compared to the passion of 
Christ ; also the love of Lucifer for Eve, and other va- 
rieties of Low Country literature. No doubt you will 
think me crazed to talk of such things, but they are all 
in black and white and good repute on the banlis of every 
canal from Amsterdam to Alkmaar. 



'Yours ever, 



«B. 



" P. S. My Poesy is in the hands of its various pub- 
lishers; but the 'Hints from Horace,' (to which I have 
subjoined some savage lines on Methodism, and fero- 
cious notes on the vanity of the triple Editory of the 
Edin. Annual Register,) my '■ Hints^ I say, stand still ; 
and why? — 1 have not a friend in the world (but you 
and Drury) who can construe Horace's Latin, or my 
English, well enough to adjust them for the press, or to 
correct the proofs in a grammatical way. So that, unless 
you have bowels when you return to town, (I am too far 
off" to do it for myself,) this ineffable work will be lost to 
the world for — I don't know how many weeks. 

" ' Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' must wait till Murray's 
is finished. He is making a tour in Middlesex, and is 
to return soon, when high matter may be expected. He 
wants to have it in quarto, which is a cursed unsaleable 
size ; but it is pestilent long, and one must obey one's 
bookseller. I trust Murray will pass the Paddington 
Canal without being seduced by Payne and Mackinlay's 
example, — I say Payne and Mackinlay, supposing that 
the partnership held good. Drury, the villain, has not 
written to me ; ' I am never (as Mrs. Lumpkin says to 
Tony) to be gratified with the monster's dear wild 
notes.' 

" So you are going (going indeed !) into orders. You 
must make your peace with the Eclectic Reviewers — 
they accuse you of impiety, I fear, with injustice. De- 
metrius, the 'Sicf^cr of Cities,' is here, with 'Gilpin 
Horner.' The painter is not necessary, as the portraits 
he already painted are (by anticipation) very like the 
new animals. — Write, and send me your ' Love Song' — 
but I want ' paulo majora' from you. Make a dash be- 
fore you are a deacon, and try a dry publisher. 

" Yours always, <» B." 



LETTER XCVIII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

"October 14,1811, 

" DEAR SIR, 

" Stanza 9, for Canto II. somewhat altered, to avoid a 
recurrence in a former stanza. 

STANZA IX. 
' There, thou I— wlioso lovo and life together fled, 
Hiivc left me here lo love uiul live in vnin : — 
Twined with my heorl, and win 1 deem Iheo dead, 

Wlicn busy memory fluslics o'er my brnin? 
Well — 1 will drenm that wo may meet again, 

And woo the vi^iion (o my vacant breast : 
If aught of yunng roincrobranco then remain, 
Ue as it may 

Whalo'er besido Futnrily's behest ; 
or, — Howe 'or may 1)b 

For rae 'twere bliii enough to see thy spirit bleill' 



36 



LETTERS, 1811. 



«I think it proper to state to you, that this stanza 
alludes to an event which has taken place since my 
arrival here, and not to the death of any male friend. 
"Yours, "B." 



LETTER XCIX. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

« Newstead Abbey, Oct. 16, 1811. 
« I am on the wing for Cambridge. Thence, after a 
short stay, to London. Will you be good enough to 
keep an account of all the MSS. you receive, for fear of 
omission ? Have you adopted the three altered stanzas 
of the lates* proof ? I can do nothing more with them. — 
1 am glad you like the new ones. — Of the last, and of the 
trio^ I sent you a new edition — to-day Sl fresh note. The 
lines of the second sheet I fear must stand ; I will give 
you reasons when we meet, 

" Believe me, yours ever, 
"ByRON." 



LETTER C. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

«Cambridge,Oct. 25, 1811. 
"dear sir, 
" I send you a conclusion to the whole. In a stanza 
towards the end of Canto I. in the hne, 

' Oh, known the earliest and beloved the most,' 

I shall alter the epithet to * esteemed the most.' The 
present stanzas are for the end of Canto II. In the be- 
ginning of the week 1 shall be at No. 8, my old lodgings, 
in St, James's-street, where I hope to have the pleasure 
of seeing you. 

"Yours ever, "B." 



LETTER CL 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" 8, St, James's-street, Oct, 31, 1811. 

" DEAR SIR, 

" I have already taken up so much of your time that 
there needs no excuse on your part, but a great many on 
mine, for the present interruption, I have altered the 
passages according to your wish, "With this note I 
send a few stanzas on a subject whicJi has lately occupied 
much of my thoughts. They refer to the death of one 
to whose name you are a stranger, and, consequently, 
cannot be interested. I mean ihem to complete the 
present volume. They relate to the same person whom 
I have mentioned in Canto II. and at the conclusion of 
the poem.* 

" 1 by no means intend to identify myself with Harold, 
but to deny all connexion with him. If in parts I may 
be thought to have drawn from myself, believe me it is 
but in parts, and I shall not own even to that. As to 
the 'Monastic dome^ &c. I thought those circumstances 
would suit him as well as any other, and I could de- 
scribe what I had seen better than I could invent. I 
would not be such a fellow as I have made my h ro for 
the world. 

" Yours ever, •' B." 



LETTER CIL 

TO MISS PIOOT. 

"Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1811. 

"dear MADAM, 
" I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet 
I cannot well do otherwise. You may remember a 



* Mr. EUlctlon. See the Letter following. 



cornelian,* which some years ago I consigned to Miss 
* * * *, indeed gave to her, and now I am going to make 
the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who 
gave it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and 
though a long time has elapsed since we met, as it was 
the only memorial I possessed of that person, (in whom 
I was very much interested,) it has acquired a value by 
this event I could have wished it never to have borne in 
my eyes, Ifj therefore, Miss * + * + should have pre- 
served it, I must, under these circumstances, beg her to 
excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me at No. 
8, St. James's-street, London, and I will replace it by 
something she may remember me by equally well. As 
she was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate 
of him that formed the subject of our conversation, you 
may tell her that the giver of that cornehan died in May 
last of a consumption, at the age of twenty-one, making 
the sixth, within four months, of friends and relatives that 
I have lost — between May and the end of August. 
" Believe me, dear Madam, 

" Yours very sincerely, 
"Byron. 
"P. S. I go to London to-morrow." 



LETTER CIIL 

MR. MOORE TO LORD BTRON. 

"Dublm, January 1, 1810. 

"my LORD, 

"Having just seen the name of 'Lord Byron' pre- 
fixed to a work, entitled 'English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers,' in which, as it appears to me, the lie is given 
to a public statement of mine, respecting an affair with 
Mr. Jeffrey some years since, I beg you will have the 
goodness to inform me whether I may consider your 
lordship as the author of this publication. 

" I shall not, I fear, be able to return to London for a 
week or two ; but, in the mean time, I trust your lord- 
ship will not deny me the satisfaction of knowing whether 
you avow the insult contained in the passages alluded to. 

" It is needless to suggest to your lordship the pro- 
priety of keeping our correspondence secret. 
" I have the honour to be, 
" Your lordship's very humble servant, 
"Thomas Moo be. 

"22, Molesworth-street." 



'sir, 



LETTER CIV. 

TO MR, MOORE. 

"Cambridge, Oct. 27, 1811. 



" Your letter followed me from Notts, to this place, 
which will account for the delay of my reply. Your 



• See Letter 17. 

t The above letter was transmitted by Mr. Moore to a friend of bis 
n London, with a request that he would deliver it in person, but as it did 
not reacli London until a few days after Lord Byron's departure for ihe 
Continent, Mr. Moore's friend placed it the hands of Mr. Hodgson, who 
unileriook to forward it, but, as appeai-s by the correspondence to which 
" enve rise, neglected to do so. On Lord Byron's return to England, 
Mr. Moore ncain wrote to him referring to his former letter, expressing 
doubts of its having reached him, and restating in nearly the same wordg 
the nature of the insult wliich, as it appeared to him, the passage in 
question was calculated to cunvev. " It is now useless," he continued 
'• to spealk of the steps wiib which it wag my intention to follow up that 
lellcr. The time which lias elapsed since then, though it has done away 
neither the injury nor the feeling of it, has, in many respects, materially 
altered my siiuation : and the only object which i have now in writing to 
your lordship is, to preserve some consistency with that former letter 
and to prove to you that the injured feeling still exists, however circum- 
stances may compel me to be deaf to its dictates at present. When I 
say ' injured feeling,' let me assure your lordship that there is not a 
single vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you. I mean but to ex- 
press that uneasiness, under (what I consider to be) a charge of false- 
hood, which must haunt a man of anv feeling to his grave, unless the 
insult be retracted or atoned for ; and which, if I did not feel. I should, 
indeed, deserve far worse than your lordship's Satire could inflict upon 
me." hi conclusion he added, '■ that so far from being inflr.enced by any 
angry or resentful feeling towards him, it would give him sincere plea- 
sure, if, by any saliafiictory explanation, he would enable him to seek 
the honour of being henceforward ranked among his acquaiatltuce." 
To thu letter, Lord Byrou returned the above answer. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



37 



former letter 1 never had the honour to receive ; — be as- 
sured, in vk^hatever part of the world it had found me, I 
should have deemed it my duty to return and answer it 
in person. 

" The advertisement you mention, I know nothing of. 
—At the time of your meeting with Mr. Jeffrey, I had 
recently entered College, and remember to have heard 
and read a number of squibs on the occasion, and from 
the recollection of these I derived all my knowledge on 
the subject, without the slightest idea of 'giving the he' 
to an address which I never beheld. "When I put my 
name to the production which has occasioned this cor- 
respondence, I became responsible to all whom it might 
concern, — to explain where it requires explanation, and 
where insufficiently or too sufficiently explicit, at all 
events to satisfy. My situation leaves me no choice ; 
it rests with the injured and the angry to obtain repara- 
tion in their own way. 

" With regard to the passage in question, you were 
certainly not the person towards whom I felt personally 
hostile. On the contrary, my whole thoughts were en- 
grossed by one whom I had reason to consider as my 
worst literary enemy, nor could I foresee that his former 
antagonist was about to become his champion. You 
do not specify what you would wish to have done : I can 
neither retract nor apologize for a charge of falsehood 
whicy I never advanced. 

" In the beginning of the week, I shall be at No. 8, St. 
James's-street.— Neither the letter nor the friend to 
whom you stated your intention ever made their ap- 
pearance. 

" Your friend, Mr. Rogers, or any other gentleman 
delegated by you, will find me most ready to adopt any 
conciliatory proposition which shall not compromise my 
own honour, — or, failing in that, to make the atonement 
you deem it necessary to require. 

" I have the honour to be, sir, 

" Your most obedient, humble servant, 

« Byron." 



BETTER CV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

«8, St. James's-street, Oct. 29, 1811. 

"sir, 

** Soon after my return to England, my friend, Mr. 
Hodgson, apprized me that a letter for me was in his 
possession; but a domestic event hurrying me from 
London immediately after, the letter (which may most 
probably be your own) is still unopened in his keeping. 
IfJ on examination of the address, the similarity of the 
handwriting should lead to such a conclusion, it shall be 
opened in your presence, for the satisfaction of all parties. 
Mr. H. is at present out of town •, — on Friday I shall see 
him. and request him to forward it to my address. 

" Witn regard to the latter part of both your letters, 
until the principal point was discussed between us, I felt 
myself at a loss in what manner to reply. Was I to an- 
ticipate friendship from one, who conceived me to have 
charged him with falsehood? Were not advances 
under such circumstances, to be misconstrued, — not, 
perhaps, by the person to whom they were addressed, 
but by others? In my case, such a step was imjjracti- 
cable. If you, who conceived yourself to be the oiroiuk-d 
person, are satisfied that you had no cause for offence, it 
will not be difficult to convince me of it. My situation, 
as I have before stated, leaves me no choice. I should 
have felt proud of your acquaintance, had it commenced 
tinder other circumstances ; but it must rest with you to 
determine how far it may proceed alter so auspicious a 
beginning. 

" I have the honour to bo, &c." 



LETTER CVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



«8, St. James's-street, Oct. 30, 1811. 

« SIR, 

" You must excuse my troubling you once more upon 
this very unpleasant subject. It would be a satisfaction 
to me, and I should think, to yourself, that the unopened 
letter in Mr. Hodgson's possession, (supposing it to prove 
your own,) should be returned 'in statu quo' to the 
writer, particularly as you expressed yourself ' not 
quite easy under the manner in which I had dwelt on its 
miscarriage.' 

"A few words more, and I shall not trouble you 
further. 1 felt, and still feel, very much flattered by 
those parts of your correspondence, which held out the 
prospect of our becoming acquainted. If I did not 
meet them in the first instance as perhaps I ought, let 
the situation in which I was placed be my defence. 
You have now declared yourself satisfied^ and on that 
point we are no longer at issue. If, therefore, you still 
retain any wish to do me the honour you hinted at, I 
shall be most happy to meet you, when, where, and how 
you please, and I presume you will not attribute my 
saying thus much to any unworthy motive. 

" I have the honour to remain, Stc." 



LETTER CVIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



«8, St. James's-street, Nov. 1, 1811. 

" SIR, 

" As I should be very sorry to interrupt your Sunday's 
engagement, if Monday, or any other day of the ensuing 
week, would be equally convenient to yourself and friend, 
I will then have the honour of accepting his invitation. 
Of the professions of esteem with which Mr. Rogers has 
honoured me, I cannot but feel proud, though undeserv- 
ing. I should be wanting to myself if insensible to the 
praise of such a man : and should my approaching in- 
terview with him and his friend lead to any degree of 
intimacy with both or either, I shall regard our past cor- 
respondence as one of the happiest events of my life. 
" I have the honour to be, 
"Your very sincere and obedient servant, 

«Byron.» 



LETTER CVIII. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

«8, St. James's-street, Dec. 6, 1811. 

"my dear HARNESS, 

" I will write again, but don't suppose I mean to lay 
such a tax on your pen and patience as to expect regular 
replies. When you are inclined, write ; when silent, I 
shall have the consolation of knowing that you are much 
better employed. Yesterday, Bland and 1 called on 
Mr. Miller, who. being then out, will call on Bland to- 
day or to-morrow. I shall certainly endeavour to bring 
them together. — You are censorious, child ; when you 
are a little older, you will learn to dislilie every body, but 
abuse nobody. 

" With regard to tlic person of whom you speak, your 
own good sense must direct you. I never pretend to 
advise, being an implicit believer in tJio old proverb. 
This present frost is detestable. It is the first I have 
felt these three years, though I longed for one in tho 
oriental summer, when no such thing is to bo had, unless 
I had gone to the top of llymottus for it. 

" I thank you most truly for the concluding part of 
your letter. I have been of late not much accustomed 
to kindness from any quarter, and I otu not tiic losd 



38 



LETTERS, 1811. 



pleased to meet with it again from one, where I had 
known it earliest. I have not changed in all my ram- 
blings, — Harrow and, of course, yourself never left me, 
and the 

' Dulces reminiscitur Argos' 

attended me to the very spot to which that sentence al- 
ludes in the mind of the fallen Argive. — Our intimacy 
began before we began to date at all, and it rests with 
you to continue it till the hour which must number it and 
me with the thmgs that were. 

" Do read mathematics, — I should think X plus Y at 
least as amusing as the Curse of Kehama, and much 
more intelligible. Master S.'s poems are, in fact, what 
parallel lines might be — viz. prolonged ad infinitum 
without meeting any thing half so absurd as themselves. 

' What news, what news ? ftueea Oreaca, 
What news of scribblers five .' 

S , W , C e, L— <1, and L— e ?— 

All damn'd, though yet alive.' 

"Coleridge is lecturing. 'Many an old fool,' said 
Hannibal to some such lecturer, ' but such as this, never.' 
"Ever yours, &c." 

LETTER CIX. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

"8, St. James's-strect, Dec. 8, 1811. 

" Behold a most formidable sheet, without gilt or black 
edging, and consequently very vulgar and indecorous, 
particularly to one of your precision \ but this being Sun- 
day, I can procure no better, and will atone for its length 
by not filling it. Eland I have not seen since my last 
letter ; but on Tuesday he dines with me and will meet 
M * * e, the epitome of all that is exquisite in poetical or 
personal accomplishments. How Bland has settled 
with Miller, I know not. I have very little interest with 
either, and they must arrange their concerns according 
to their own gusto. I have done my endeavours, at your 
request, to bring them together, and hope they may agree 
to their mutual advantage. 

"Coleridge has been lecturing against Campbell. 
Rogers was present, and from him I derive the informa- 
tion. We are going to make a party to hear this Ma- 
nichean of poesy. — Pole is to marry Miss Long, and 
will be a very miserable dog for all that. The present 
ministers are to continue, and his majesty does continue 
in the same state. So there 's folly and madness for you, 
both in a breath. 

" I never heard but of one man truly fortunate, and he 
was Beaumarchais, the author of Figaro, who buried 
two wives and gained three lawsuits before he was 
thirty. 

" And now, child, what art thou doing ? Reading, I 
trust. I want to see you take a degree. Remember 
this is the most important period of your life ; and don't 
disappoint your papa and your aunt, and all your kin — 
besides myself. Don't you know that all male children 
are begotten for the express purpose of being graduates ? 
and that even I am an A. M. though how I became so 
the Public Orator only can resolve. Besides, you are 
to be a priest ; and to confute Sir William Drummond's 
late book about the Bible, (printed, but not published,) 
and all other infidels whatever. Now leave master H.'s 
gig, and master S.'s Sapphics, and become as immortal 
as Cambridge can make you. 

"You see, Mio Carissimo, what a pestilent corre- 
spondent I am likely to become ; but then you shall be as 
quiet at Newstcad as you please, and I won't disturb 
your studies, as I do now. When do you fix the day, 
that I may take you up according to contract ? Hodg- 
son talks of making a third in our journey : but we can't 
Btow him, inside at least. Positively you shall go with 
me as was agreed, and don't let me have any of your 
politeate to H. on the occasion. I shall manage to ar- 



range for both with a little contrivance. I wish H. was 
not "quite so fat, and we should pack better. Has he 
left off vinous hquors ? He is an excellent soul ; but I 
don't think water would improve him, at least internally. M I 
You will want to know what I am doing — chewing || 
tobacco. 

"You see nothing of my allies, Scrope Davies and 
Matthews — they don't suit you ; and how does it happen 
that I — who am a pipkin of the same pottery — continue 
in your good graces ? Good night, — I will go on in the 
morning. 

" Dec. 9. — In a morning I 'm always sullen, and to- 
day is as sombre as myself. Rain and mist are worse 
than a sirocco, particularly in a beef-eating and beer- 
drinking country. My bookseller, Cawthorne, has just 
left me, and tells me, with a most important face, that he 
is in treaty for a novel of Madame D'Arblay's, for which 
1000 guineas are asked ! He wants me to read the MS. 
(if he obtains it,) which I shall do with pleasure ; but I 
should be very cautious in venturing an opinion on her 
whose Cecilia Dr. Johnson superintended. If he lends 
it to me, I shall put it into the hands of Rogers and 
Moore, who are truly men of taste. I have filled the 
sheet, and beg your pardon ; I will not do it again. I 
shall, perhaps, write again, but if not, believe, silent or 
scribbling, that I am, 

"My dearest William, ever, &c." 



LETTER ex. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

« London, Dec. 8, 1811. 

" I sent you a sad Tale of Three Friars the other day, 
and now take a dose in another style. I wrote it a day 
or two ago, on hearing a song of former days. 
' Away, away, ye notes of wo,* &c. &c.' 

" I have gotten a book by Sir W.Drummond, (printed, 
but not published,) entitled CEdipus Judaicus, in which 
he attempts to prove the greater part of the Old Testa- 
ment an allegory, particularly Genesis and Joshua. He 
professes himself a theist in the preface, and handles the 
literal interpretation very roughly. I wish you could 
see it. Mr. W * * has lent it me, and I confess, to me, 
it is worth fifty Watsons. 

" You and Harness must fix on the time for your visit 
to Newstead ; I can command mine at your wish, unless 
any thing particular occurs in the interim. * * * 
Bland dines with me on Tuesday to meet Moore. 
Coleridge has attacked the 'Pleasures of Hope,' and 
all other pleasures whatsoever. Mr. Rogers was pre- 
sent, and heard himself indirectly rowed by the lecturer. 
We are going in a party to hear the new Art of Poetry 
by this reformed schismatic ; and were I one of these 
poetical luminaries, or of sufficient consequence to be 
noticed by the man of lectures, I should not hear him 
without an answer. For, you know, ' an' a man will be 
beaten with brains, he shall never keep a clean doublet.' 
Campbell will be desperately annoyed. I never saw a 

man (and of him I have seen very little) so sensitive ; 

what a happy temp^araent ! I am sorry for it ; what 
can he fear from criticism ? I don't know if Bland has 
seen Miller, who was to call on him yesterday. 

" To-day is the Sabbath,— a day I never pass plea- 
santly, but at Cambridge ; and, even there, the organ is 
a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant enough in 
town,— as long as they don't retrograde, 't is all very well. 
Hobhouse writes and writes and writes, and is an author. 
I do nothing but eschew tobacco. I wish parliament 
were assembled, that I may hear, and perhaps some day 
be heard ; — but on this point I am not very sanguine, I 
have many plans ; — sometimes I think of the East again, 



See Poemi p. 186. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



39 



and dearly beloved Greece. I am well, but weakly. 
Yesterday Kinnaird told me I looked very ill, and sent 
me home happy. 

" You will never give up wine ; — see what it is to be 
thirty ; if you were six years younger, you might leave 
off any thing. You dnnk and repent, you repent and 
drink. Is Scrope still interesting and invalid? And 
how does Hinde with his cursed chymistry ? To Har- 
ness I have written, and he has written, and we have all 
written, and have nothing now to do but write again, till 
death splits up the pen and the scribbler. 

" The Alfred has 354 candidates for six vacancies. 
The cook has run away and left us liable, which makes 
our committee very plaintive. Master Brook, our head 
serving man, has the gout, and our new cook is none of 
the best. 1 speak from report, — for what is cookery to 
a leguminous-eating ascetic? So now you know as 
much of the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still 
there, and they may dress their dishes in their own way 
for me. Let me know your determination as to New- 
stead, and believe me. Yours ever, 

" Nwatpwj;." 

LETTER CXI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

«8, St. James's-street, Dec. 12, 1811. 

" Why, Hodgson ! I fear you have left off wine and me 
at the same time, — I have written and written and 
written, and no answer! My dear Sir Edgar, water 
disagrees with you, — drink sack and write. Bland did 
not come to his appointment, being unwell, but Moore 
supplied all other vacancies most delectably. I have 
hopes of his joining us at Newstead. I am sure you 
would like him more and more as he developes, — at 
least I do. 

"How Miller and Bland go on, I don't know. Caw- 
thorne talks of being in treaty for a novel of M^. D'Ar- 
blay's, and if he obtains it (at 1000 gs. ! !) wishes me to 
see the MS. This I should read with pleasure, — not 
that I should ever dare to venture a criticism on her 
whose writings Dr. Johnson once revised, but for the 
pleasure of the thmg. If my worthy pubhsher wanted a 
sound opinion, I should send the MS. to Rogers and 
Moore, as men most alive to true taste. I have had 
frequent letters from Wm. Harness, and you are silent ; 
certes, you are not a schoolboy. However, I have the 
consolation of knowing that you are better employed, viz. 
reviewing. You don't deserve that I should add another 
syllable, and I won't. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I only wait for your answer to fix our meeting." 



LETTER CXII. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

"8, St. James's-street, Dec. 15, 1811. 
" I wrote you an answer to your last, which, on reflec- 
tion, pleases me as little as it probably has pleased your- 
self I will not wait for your rejoinder ; but proceed to 
tell yoii,that I had just then been greeted with an epistle 
of **'8, full of his petty grievances, and this at the mo- 
ment when (from circumstances it is not necessary to 
enter upon) I was bearing up against recollections to 
which his imaginary sufferings are as a scratch to a 
cancer. These things combined, put me out of humour 
with him and all mankind. The latter part of my life 
has been a perpetual struggle against affections which 
imbittered the earliest portion ; and though I (latter 
myself I have in a great measure conquered them, yet 
there are moments (and this was one) when I am as 
foolish as formerly. I nt;ver said so much before, nor 
had I said this now, if I did not suspect myself of having 
been rather savage in my letter, and wish to inform you 



thus much of the cause. You know I am not one of 
your dolorous gentlemen : so now let us laugh acrain. 

" Yesterday I went with Moore to Sydenham to visit 
Campbell. He was not visible, so we jogged homeward, 
merrily enough. To-morrow I dine with Rogers, and 
am to hear Coleridge, who is a kind of rage at present. 
Last night I saw Kemble in Coriolanus ; — he was glori- 
ous, and exerted himself wonderfully. By good luck, I 
got an excellent place in the best part of the house, which 
was more than overflowing. Clare and Delaware, who 
were there on the same speculation, were less fortunate. 
I saw them by accident, — we were not together. I 
wished for you, to gratify your love of Shakspeare and of 
fine acting to its fullest extent. Last week I saw an ex- 
hibition of a different kind in a Mr. Coates, at the Hay- 
market, who performed Lothario in a damned and damn- 
able manner. 

" I told you of the fate of B. and H. in my last. So 
much for these sentimentalists, who console themselves 
in their stews for the loss — the never to be recovered 
loss — the despair of the refined attachment of a couple 
of drabs ! You censure my life. Harness : when I com- 
pare myself with these men, my elders and my betters, I 
really begin to conceive myself a monument of prudence 
— a walking statue — without feeling or failing ; and yet 
the world in general hath given me a proud pre-eminence 
over them in profligacy. Yet I lilce the men, and, God 
knows, ought not to condemn their aberrations. But I 
own I feel provoked when they dignify all this by the 
name of love — romantic attachments for things market- 
able for a dollar ! 

"Dec. 16. — I have just received your letter. I feel 
your kindness very deeply. The foregoing part of my 
letter, written yesterday, will 1 hope, account for the tone 
of the former, though it cannot excuse it. I do like to 
hear from you — more than like. Next to seeing you, I 
have no greater satisfaction. But you have other duties 
and greater pleasures, and I should regret to take a mo- 
ment from either. H * * was to call to-day, but I have 
not seen him. The circumstances you mention at the 
close of your letter is another proof in favour of my opi- 
nion of mankind. Such you will always find them — 
selfish and distrustful. I except none. The cause of 
this is the state of society. In the world, every one is to 
stir for himself — it is useless, perhaps selfish, to expect 
any thing from his neighbour. But I do not thinlt we 
are born of this disposition ; for you fmd friendship as a 
schoolboy, and love enough before twenty. 

" I went to see * * ; he keeps me in town, where I 
don't wish to be at present. He is a good man, but 
totally without conduct. And now, my dearest William, 
I must wish you good morrow, and remain ever most sin- 
cerely and affectionately yours, &c." 



LETTER CXIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"December 11, 1811. 

" MY DEAR MOORE, 

" If you please, we will drop our formal monosyllables, 
and atlherc to the appellations sanctioned by our godfa- 
thers and godmothers. If you make it a point, I will 
withdraw your name ; at the same time there is no oc- 
casion, as I have this day postponed your election ' sine 
die,' till it shall suit your wishes to bo among us. I do 
not sav this from any awkwardness the erasure of your 
proposal would occasion to me, but simjjly such is the 
state of the case ; and, indeed, the longer your name is 
up, the stronger will become the probability of success, 
and your voters more numerous. Of course you will de- 
ride — your wish shall bo my law. If my zeal has 
already outrun discretion, pardon me, and attribute my 
officiousurss to an excusable motive. 



40 



LETTERS, 1812. 



"I wish you would go down with me to Newstead. 
Hodgson will be there, and a young friend, named Har- 
ness, the earUest and dearest 1 ever had from the third 
form at Harrow to this hour. I can promise you good 
wine, and, if you like shooting, a manor of 4000 acres, 
fires, books, your own free will, and my own very indif- 
ferent company. ' Balnea, vina * +' + * + 

" Hodgson will plague you, I fear, with verse ; — for my 
own part, I will conclude, with Martial, ' nil recitabo 
tibi ;' and surely the last inducement is not the least. 
Ponder on my proposition, and believe me, my dear 
Moore, "Yours ever, "Byrox." 



LETTER CXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"January 29, 1812. 

"my DEAR MOORE, 

" I wish very much I could have seen you ; I am in a 
state of ludicrous tribulation. 

♦ + ** + * + * 

" Why do you say that I dislike your poesy? I have 
expressed no such opinion, either in print or elsewhere. 
In scribbling, myself, it was necessary for me to find fault, 
and I fixed upon the trite charge of immorality, because 
I could discover no other, and was so perfectly qualified, 
in the innocence of my heart, to ' pluck that mote from 
my neighbour's eye.' 

" I feel very, very much obliged by your approbation ; 
but, at this moment, praise, even your praise, passes by 
me like ' the idle wind.' I meant and mean to send you 
a copy the moment of publication ; but now, I can think 
of nothing but damned, deceitful, — delightful woman, as 
Mr. Listonsays in the Knight of Snowdon. 
"Beheve me, my dear Moore, 

" ever yours, most affectionately, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CXV. 

TO ROBERT RtTSHTON, 

" 8, St. James's-strcet, Jan. 21, 1812. 

"Though I have no objection to your refusal to carry 
letters to Mealey's, you will take care that the letters are 
taken by Spero at the proper time. I have also to ob- 
serve, that Susan [a servant in the family] is to be 
treated with civility, and not insulted by any person over 
whom I have the smallest control, or, indeed, by any one 
whatever, while I have the power to protect her. I am 
truly sorry to have any subject of complaint against 7/oit ; 
I have too good an opinion of you to think I shall have 
occasion to repeat it, after the care I have taken of you, 
and my favourable intentions in your behalf. I see no 
occasion for any communication whatever between you 
and the womeru, and wish you to occupy yourself in pre- 
paring for the situation in which you will be placed. If 
a common sense of decency wmnot prevent you from 
conducting yourself towards them with rudeness, I should 
at least hope that your own interest, and regard for a 
master who has never treated you with unkindness, will 
have some weight. " Yours, &c. 

" Byron. 

"P. S. — I wish you to attend to your arithmetic, to 
occupy yourself in surveying, measuring, and making 
yourself acquainted with every particular relative to the 
land of Newstead, and you will vmite to me one letter 
every week, that I may know how you go on." 



LETTER CXVL 

TO ROBERT RUSHTON. 

"8, St. Jamcs's-street, Jan. 25, 1812. 

■ Your refusal to carry the letter was not a subject of 

remonstrance ; it was not a part of your business ; but 



the language you used to the girl was (as she stated it) 
highly improper. 

'= You say that you also have something to complain 
of; then state it to me immediately ; it would be very 
unfair, and very contrary to my disposition, not to hear 
both sides of the question. 

"If any thing has passed between you before or since 
my last visit to Newstead, do not be afraid to mention it. 
I am aure you would not deceive me, though she would. 
Whatever it is. you shall be forgiven. I have not been 
without some suspicions on the subject, and am certain 
that, at your time of life, the blame could not attach to 
you. You will not consult any one as to your answer, 
but write to me immediately. I shall be more ready to 
hear what you have to advance, as I do not remember 
ever to have heard a word from you before against any 
human being, which convinces me you would not ma- 
Uciously assert an untruth. There is not any one who 
can do the least injury to you while you conduct yourself 
properly. I shall expect your answer immediately. 

"Yours, &c. "Byron." 



LETTER CXVn. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

« 8, St. James's-street, Feb. 16, 1812. 

"dear HODGSON, 

" I send you a proof. Last week I was very ill and 
confined to bed with stone in the kidney, but I am now 
quite recovered. If the stone had got into my heart in- 
stead of my kidneys, it would have been all the better. 
The women are gone to their relatives, after many at- 
tempts to explain what was already too clear. However, 
I have quite recovered that also, and only wonder at my 
folly in excepting my o\vn strumpets from the general 
corruption, — albeit, a two months' weakness is better 
than ten years. I have one request to make, which is, 
never mention a woman again in any letter to me, or 
even allude to the existence of the sex. I won't even 
read a word of the feminine gender ; it must all be 
' propria quae maribus.' 

"In the spring of 1813 I shall leave England for ever. 
Every thing in my affairs tends to this, and my inclina- 
tions and health do not discourage it. Neither my 
habits nor constitution are improved by your customs or 
your climate. I shall find employment in making myself 
a good oriental scholar. I shall retain a mansion in one 
of the fairest islands, and retrace, at intervals, the most 
interesting portions of the East. In the mean time, I 
am adjusting my concerns, which will (when arranged) 
leave me with wealth— sufficient even for home, but enough 
for a principality in Turkey. At present they are in- 
volved, but I hope, by taking some necessary but un- 
pleasant steps, to clear every thing. Hobhouse is ex- 
pected daily in London ; we shall be very glad to see 
him ; and, perhaps, you will come up and ' drink deep 
ere he depart,' if not, ' Mahomet must go to the moun- 
tain ;' but Cambridge will bring sad recollections to him, 
and worse to me, though for very different reasons. I 
beheve the only human being that ever loved me in truth 
and entirely was of, or belonging to, Cambridge, and, in 
that, no change can now take place. There is one con- 
solation in death — where he sets his seal, the impression 
can neither be melted or broken, but endureth for ever. 
" Yours always, « B." 



LETTER C XVIII. 

TO MASTER JOHN COWELL. 

«8, St. James's-street, Feb. 12, 1812. 

"my DEAR JOHN, 

" You have probably long ago forgotten the writer of 
these lines, who would, perhaps, be unable to recognise 



LETTERS, 1812. 



41 



yourself, from the difference which must naturally have 
taken place in your stature and appearance since he 
saw you last. 1 have been rambling through Portugal, 
Spain, Greece, &c. &c. for some years, and have found 
so many changes on my return, that it would be very 
unfair not to eicpect that you should have had your share 
of alteration and improvement with the rest. I write to 
request a favour of you : a little boy of eleven years, the 
son of Mr. * *, my particular friend, is about to become 
an Etonian, and I should esteem any act of protection or 
kindness to him as an obligation to myself; let me beg 
of you then to take some little notice of him at first, till 
he is able to shift for himself. 

" I was happy to hear a very favourable account of 
you from a schoolfellow a few weeks ago, and should be 
glad to learn that your family are as well as I wish them 
to be. I presume you are in the upper school ; as an 
Etonian, you will look down upon a Harrow man ; but I 
never, even in my boyish days, disputed your superiority, 
which I once experienced in a cricket match, where I 
had the honour of making one of eleven, who were 
beaten to their hearts' content by your college in one 
innings. 

"■ Believe me to be, with great truth, &c. &c." 



LETTER CXIX. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"February 4, 1812. 

**My DEAR SIR, 

" With my best acknowledgments to Lord Holland, I 
have to offer my perfect concurrence in the propriety of 
the question previously to be put to ministers. If their 
answer is in the negative, I shall, with his lordship's ap- 
probation, give notice of a motion for a Conmiittee of In- 
quiry. I would also gladly avail myself of his most able 
advice, and any information or documents with which he 
might be pleased to intrust me, to bear me out in the 
statement of facts it may be necessary to submit to the 
House. 

" From all that fell under my own observation during 
my Christmas visit to Newstead, I feel convinced that, 
if conciliatory measures are not very soon adopted, the 
most unhappy consequences may be apprehended. 
Nightly outrage and daily depredation are already at 
their height, and not only the masters of frames, who 
are obnoxious on account of their occupation, but persons 
in no degree connected with the malcontents or their 
oppressors, are liable to insult and pillage. 

" I am very much obhged to you for the trouble you 
have taken on my account, and beg you to believe me 
ever your obliged and sincere, &c." 



LETTER CXX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

« 8, St. James's-street, Feb. 25, 1812. 

"my LORD, 

** With my best thanks, I have the honour to return 
the Notts, letter to your lordship. I have read it with 
attention, but do not think I shall venture to avail myself 
of its contents, as my view of the question differs in some 
measure from Mr. Coldham's. I hope I do not wrong 
him, but his objections to tlic bill appear to me to be 
founded on certain apprehensions that he and iiis coad- 
jutors might be mistaken for tiie ' orii^nal advisers^ (to 
quote him) of tlie measure. For my own part, I con- 
sider the manufacturers as a much injured body of men, 
sacrificed to the views of certain individuals who have 
enriched themselves by tliose practices wliich have de- 
prived the frame-workers of employment. I<'or instance : 
— by the adoption of a certain kind of frame, one man 
performs the work of seven — six are thus thrown out of 
business. But it is to be observed that liic work thus 



done is far inferior in quality, hardly marketable at home, 
and hurried over with a view to exportation. Surely, 
my lord, however we may rejoice in any improvement in 
the arts which may be beneficial to mankind, we must 
not allow manldnd to be sacrificed to improvements in 
mechanism. The maintenance and well-doing of the 
industrious poor is an object of greater consequence to 
the community than the enrichment of a few monopolists 
by any improvement in the implements of trade, which 
deprives the workman of his bread, and renders the la- 
bourer 'unworthy of his hire.' My own motive for op- 
posing the bill is founded on its palpable injustice, and 
its certain inefficacy. I have seen the state of these 
miserable men, and it is a disgrace to a civihzed country. 
Their excesses may be condemned, but cannot be 
subject of wonder. The effect of the present bill would 
be to drive them into actual rebellion. The few words 
I shall venture to offer on Thursday will be founded 
upon these opinions formed from my own observations 
on the spot.* By previous inquiry, I am convinced 
these men would have been restored to employment and 
the county to tranquillity. It is, perhaps, not yet too 
late, and is surely worth the trial. It can never be too 
late to employ force in such circumstances. I believe 
your lordship does not coincide with me entirely on this 
subject, and most cheerfully and sincerely shall 1 submit 
to your superior judgment and experience, and take 
some other line of argument against the biU, or be silent 
altogether, should you deem it more advisable. Con- 
demning, as every one must condemn, the conduct of 
these wretches, I beUeve in the existence of grievances 
which call rather for pity than punishment. I have tbo 
honour to be, with great respect, my lord, 
" Your lordship's 
" most obedient and obhged servant, 
" Byron. 
"P. S. — I am a little apprehensive that your lordship 
will think me too lenient towards these men, and half a 
frame-breaker myself." 



LETTER CXXL 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" 8, St. James's-street, March 5, 1812. 

"my dear HODGSON, 

" TVe are not answerable for reports of speeches in 
the papers, they are always given incorrectly, and on 
this occasion more so than usual, from the debate in the 
Commons on the same night. The Morning Post should 
have said eighteen years. However, you will find the 
speech, as spoken, in the Parliamentary Register, when 
it comes out. Lords Holland and G renville, particularly 
the latter, paid me some high compliments in the course 
of their speeches, as you may have seen in the papers, 
and Lords Eldon and Harrowby answered me. I have 
had many marvellous eulogies repeated (o nic since, in 
person and by proxy, from divers persons 7ninisteriul — • 
yea ministerial ! — as well as oppositionists ; of them I 
shall only mention Sir F. Burdett. He says, it is the 
best speech by a lord since tlie ^ Lord knows when,' 
probably from a fellow-feeling in the sentiments.' Lord 
II. tells me I shall beat them all if I persevere, and 
Lord G. remaiked that the oonstruclion of some of my 
periods are very like JSwtAt'a/.' And so mucli for 
vanity. 1 s|)oke very violent sentences witli a sort of 
modest impudence, abused every thing and every body, 
and put the Lord Chancellor very much out of humour ; 
anil if 1 may believe what I hear, have not lost any 
cluiracter by tlic experiment. As to my di-livery, loud 
and lluent enough, perhaps a little theatrical. I could 
not recognise myself or luiy one else in the newspapers. 
+ * ♦ 



• b>« hii flrrt Pi'tech, pngc 37? 



42 



LETTERS, 1812. 



"My poesy comes out on Saturday. Hobhouse is 
here ; I ehall tell him to write. My stone is gone for 
the present, but I fear is part of my habit. We all talk 
of a visit to Cambridge. 

"Yours ever. "B." 



LETTER CXXII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" St. James's-street, March 6th, 1812. 

"my lord, 

"May I request your Lordship to accept a copy* of 

the thing which accompanies this note? You have 

already so fully proved the truth of tJie first line of 

Pope's couplet, 

' Forgiveness to the injured doth belong, 

tliat I long for an opportunity to give the lie to the verse 
that follows. If I were not perfectly convinced that any 
thing I may have formerly uttered in the boyish rashness 
of my misplaced resentment had made as little impres- 
sion as it deserved to make, I should hardly have the con- 
fidence — perhaps your lordship may give it a stronger 
and more appropriate appellation — to send you a quarto 
of the same scribbler. But your lordship, I am sorry to 
observe to-day, is troubled with the gout : if my book can 
produce a laugh against itself or the author, it will be of 
some service. If it can set you to sleq), the benefit will 
be yet greater; and as some facetious personage observed 
half a century ago, that ' poetry is a mere drug,' I offer 
you mine as an humble assistant to the ' eau medecinale.' 
1 trust you will forgive this and all my other buffooneries, 
and believe me to be, with great respect, 

" Your lordship's obliged and sincere servant, 
" Byron." 



In relation to the following note of Lord Byron, Mr. 
Moore says : — 

"Not long after the publication of Childe Harold, the 
noble author paid me a visit, one morning, and, putting a 
letter into my hands, which he had just received, request- 
ed that I would undertake to manage for him whatever 
proceedings it might render necessary. This letter, I 
found, had been delivered to him by Mr. Leckie, (a gen- 
tleman well known by a work on Sicilian affairs,) and 
came from a once active and popular member of the 
fashionable world, Colonel Greville, — its purport being to 
require of his lordship, as author of 'English Bards, &c.' 
such reparation as it was in his power to make for the 
injury which, as Colonel Greville conceived, certain pas- 
sages in that Satire, reflecting upon his conduct, as 
manager of the Argyle Institution, were calculated to 
inflict upon his character. In the appeal of the gallant 
colonel, there were some expressions of rather an angry 
cast, which Lord Byron, though fully coiiscious of the 
length to which he himself had gone, was but little in- 
clined to brook, and, on my returning the letter into his 
hands, he said, ' To such a letter as that there can be 
but one sort of answer.' He agreed, however, to trust 
the matter entirely to my discretion, and I had, shortly 
after, an interview with the friend of Colonel Greville. 
By this gentleman, who was then an utter stranger to 
me, I was received with much courtesy, and with every 
disposition fo bring the affair intrusted to us to an ami- 
cable issue. On my premising that the tone of his friend's 
letter stooti in the way of negotiation, and that some ob- 
noxious expressions which it conlamed must be removed 
before I could proceed a single step towards explanation, 



• Chlldc Hnrold. To his Bitter, Mig. Liifih, one of the first presen- 
U'.ion copies was alio senl, wiili tlic followiiiK inscription in it : — 

" To Augusta, my dearest sinter, and my best friend, who hoi ever 
loved me much belter than I descrred, this volume is presented by her 
fathtr't MO, ftiid rao«l effcctinnato brother, " B." 



he most readily consented to remove this obstacle. At 
his request I drew a pen across the parts I considered 
objectionable, and he undertook to send me the letter, 
re-written, next morning. In the mean time, I received 
from Lord Byron the following paper for my guidance." 

« With regard to the passage on Mr. Way's loss, no 
unfair play was hinted at, as may be seen by referring to 
the book ; and it is expressly added that the managers 
were ignorant of that transaction. As to the prevalence 
of play at the Argyle, it cannot be denied that there were 
billiards and dice;— Lord B. has been a witness to the 
use of both at the Argyle Rooms. These, it is pre- 
sumed, come under the denomination of play. If play 
be allowed, the President of the Institution can hardly 
complain of being termed the 'Arbiter of Play,' — or 
what becomes of his authority ? 

" Lord B. has no personal animosity to Colonel 
Greville. A public institution, to which he, himself, was 
a subscriber, he considered himself to have a right to 
notice publicly. Of that institution. Colonel Greville 
was the avowed director ; — it is too late to enter into the 
discussion of its merits or demerits. 

"Lord B. must leave the discussion of the reparation, 
for the real or supposed injury, to Colonel G.'s friend 
and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord B. — begging them to 
recollect that, while they consider Colonel G.'s honour. 
Lord B. must also maintain his own. If the business 
can be settled amicably. Lord B. will do as much as can 
and ought to be done by a man of honour towards con- 
ciliation ; — if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. in the man- 
ner most conducive to his further wishes." 



" In the morning I received the letter, in its new form, 
from Mr. Leckie, with the annexed note. 
"'my dear sir, 
" 'I found my friend very ill in bed ; he has, however, 
managed to copy the enclosed, with the alterations pro- 
posed. Perhaps you may wish to see me in the morn- 
ing ; I shall therefore be glad to see you any time till 
twelve o'clock. If you rather wish me to call on you, 
tell me, and I shall obey your summons. 

'"Yours, very truly, 

"'G.T. Leckie. 
" With such facilities towards pacification, it is almost 
needless to add, that there was but little delay in settling 
the matter amicably." 



LETTER CXXIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

"April 20th, 1812. 

"my dear BANKES, 

" I feel rather hurt (not savagely) at the speech you 
made to me last night, and my hope is, that it was only 
one of your profane jests. I should be very sorry that 
any part of my behaviour should give you cause to sup- 
pose that I think higher of myself^ or otherwise of you, 
than I have always done. I can assure you that I am 
as much the humblest of your servants as at Trin. Coll.; 
and if I have not been at home when you favoured me 
with a call, the loss was more mine than yours. In the 
bustle of buzzing parties, there is, there can be, no 
rational conversation ; but when I can enjoy it, there is 
nobody's I can prefer to your own. 

"Beheve me ever faithfully 

" and most affectionately yours, 

"By ROM.*' 

LETTER CXXIV. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 
"my dear BANKES, 

"My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I 
trust, convinced you that whatever my unlucky manner 



LETTERS, 1812. 



43 



might inadvertently be, the change was as unintentional 
as (if intended) it would have been ungrateful. I really 
was not aware that, while we were together, I had 
evinced such caprices ; that we were not so much in 
each other's company as I could have v.ished, I well 
know, but 1 thinlt so acute an observer as yourself must 
have perceived enough to explain this, without supposing 
any slight to one in whose society I have pride and 
pleasure. Recollect that I do not allude here to ' ex- 
tended' or 'extending' acquaintances, but to circum- 
stances you will understand, I think, on a little reflection. 

" And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by 
supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, otherwise 
than I trust we have long thought. You told me not 
ong ago that my temper was improved, and I should be 
sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your 
friendship is of more account to me than all those absurd 
vanities in which, I fear, you conceive me to take too 
much interest. I have never disputed your superiority, 
or doubted (seriously) your good will, and no one shall 
ever * make mischief between us' without the sincere 
regret on the part of your ever affectionate, &c. 

** P. S. I shall see you, 1 hope, at Lady Jersey's. 
Hobhouse goes also." 



NOTES TO MR. MOORE. 

« March 25th, 1812. 

" Know all men by these presents, that you, Thomas 
Moore, stand indicted — no — invited, by special and par- 
ticular solicitation, to Lady Caroline Lamb's, to-morrow 
even, at half-past nine o'clock, where you will meet with 
a civil reception and decent entertainment. Pray, come 
—I was so examined after you this morning, that I en- 
treat you to answer in person. BeUeve me, &c." 

" Friday noon. 

" I should have answered your note yesterday, but 1 
hoped to have seen you this morning. I must consult 
with you about the day we dine with Sir Francis. I 
suppose we shall meet at Lady Spencer's to-night. I 
did not know that you were at Miss Berry's the other 
night, or I should have certainly gone there. 

"As usual, I am in all sorts of scrapes, though none, 
at present, of a martial description. Believe me, &c." 

"May 8th, 1812. 
" I am too proud of being your friend to care with 
whom I am linked in your estimation, and, God knows, 
I want friends more at this time than at any other. I 
am 'taking care of myself' to no great purpose. If you 
knew my situation in every point of view, you would 
excuse apparent and unintentional neglect. * * 

I shall leave town, I think ; but do not you leave it with- 
out seeing me. I wish you, from my soul, every happi- 
ness you can wish yourself; and I think you have taken 
the road to secure it. Peace be with you I I fear she 
has abandoned me. Ever, &c," 

« May 20th, 1812. 

" On Monday, after sitting up all night, I saw BelUng- 

ham launched into eternity, and at three the same day 

I saw ♦ * * launched into the country. * * + 

" I believe, in the beginning of June, I shall bo down 

for a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat you up 

*en passant' with Hobhouse, who is endeavouring, 

like you and every body else, to keep me out of scrapes 

"I meant to have written you a long letter, but I find 1 

cannot. If any thing remarkable occurs, you will hear 

it from me — if good ; if bad, there are plenty to tell it, 

In the mean time do you be happy. 

'• Ever yours, &c. 
"P. S. My best wishes and respects to Mrs. Moore, 
— she is beautiful. I may say so even to you, for I 
never was more struck with a countenance." 



LETTER CXXV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"June 25th, 1812. 

"my dear LORD, 

"I must appear very ungrateful, and have, indeed, 
been very negligent, but till last night I was not apprized 
of Lady Holland's restoration, and I shall call to-morrow 
to have the satisfaction, I trust, of hearing that she is 
well. — I hope that neither poUtics nor gout have assailed 
your lordship since I last saw you, and that you also are 
' as well as could be expected.' 

" The other night, at a ball, I was presented by order 
to our gracious Regent, who honoured me with some 
conversation, and professed a predilection for poetry. — 
I confess it was a most unexpected honour, and I thought 
of poor Brummell's adventure, with some apprehensions 
of a similar blunder. I have now great hope, in the 
event of Mr. Pye's decease, of warbling truth at court,' 
like Mr. Mallett, of indifferent memory. — Consider 100 
marks a year I besides the wine and the disgrace ; but 
then remorse would make me drown myself in my own 
butt before the year's end, or the finishing of my first 
dithyrambic. So that, after all, I shall not meditate our 
laureate's death by pen or poison. 

" Will you present my best respects to Lady Holland, 
and believe me hers and yours very sincerely." 



LETTER CXXVL 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

" St. James's-street, July 6th, 1812, 

" SIR, 

I have just been honoured with your letter. — I feel 
sorry that you should have thought it worth while to 
notice the ' evil works of my non-age,' as the thing is 
suppressed voluntarily, and your explanation is too kind 
not to give me pain. The Satire was written when I 
was very young and very angry, and fully bent on dis- 
playing my wTath and my wit, and now I am haunted 
by the ghosts of my wholesale assertions. I cannot 
sufficiently thank you for your praise ; and now, waiving 
myselfj let me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He 
ordered me to be presented to him at a ball ; and ailer 
some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to 
my own attempts, he talked to me of you and your im- 
mortalities : he preferred you to every bard past and 
present, and asked which of your works pleased me 
most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I 
thought the ' Lay.^ He said his own opinion was nearly 
similar. In speaking of the others, I told him that I 
thought you more particuhirly the poet of Princes, as 
they never appeared more fascinating than in * Marniion' 
and the 'Lady of the Lake.' He was pleased to coin- 
cide, and to dwell on the description of your Jameses as 
no less royal than poetical. He spoke altcrnatoly of 
Homer and yourself, and seemed well acquainted with 
both ; so that (with the exception of the Turks and your 
humble servant) you were in very good company. I 
defy Murray to have exaggerated his royal highness's 
opinion of your powers, nor can I pretend to enumerate 
all he said on the subject ; but it may give you pleasure 
to hear tlxat it was cotivcyod in language which would 
only suffer by my attempting to transcribe it, and with a 
tone and taste which gave me a very high idea of his 
abilities and accomplishments, which 1 had hitherto con- 
sidered as confined to manners, certainly superior to 
those of any living s:ctillanan. 

" This interview was accidental. I never went to tlie 
loveo ; for having seen the courts of Mus.sulinan and 
Catholic sovereigns, my curiosity was suflicienlly allayed, 
and my politics being as perverse as my rhymes, I had, 
in fact, ' no business thero.' To bo Uius praised by your 
Sovereign must bo gratifying to you : and if that gratiS- 



44 



LETTERS, 1812. 



cation is not alloyed by the communication being made 
through me, the bearer of it \vill consider himself very 
fortunately and sincerely 

" Your obUged and obedient servant, 

" BVRON. 

* P. S. Excuse this scrawl, scratched in a great hurry 
and just after a journey." 



LETTER CXXVII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Cheltenham, September 10, 1812. 

"my dear lord, 

« The lines* which I sketched off on your hint are still, 
or rather ivere, in an unfinished state, for I have just com- 
mitted them to a flame more decisive than that of Drury. 
Under all the circumstances, I should hardly wish a con- 
test with Philo-drama—Philo-Drury— Asbestos, H * *, 
and all the anonymes and synonymes of the Committee 
candidates. Seriously, I think you have a chance of some- 
thing much better; for prologuizing is not my forte, and, 
at all events, cither my pride or my modesty won't let me 
incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried in next 
month's Magazine, under 'Essays on the Murder of Mr. 
Perceval,' and 'Cures for the Bite of a Mad Dog,' as 
poor Goldsmith complained of the fate of far superior 
performances. 

" I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know the 
successful candidate ; and, among so many, I have no 
doubt some will be excellent, particularly in an age when 
writing verse is the easiest of all attainments. 

"I cannot answer your intelligence with the 'like 
comfort,' unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you may 
wish to hear of Mr. * *, whose acting is, I fear, utterly 
inadequate to the London engagement into which the 
managers of Covent Garden have lately entered. His 
figure is fat, his features flat, his voice unmanageable, his 
action ungraceful, and, as Diggory says, ' I defy him to 
fTtort that d — d muffin face of his into madness.' I was 
very sorry to see him in the character of the 'Elephant 
on the slack rope ;' for, when I last saw him, I was m 
raptures with his performance. But then I was sixteen, 
— an age to which all London then condescended to 
subside. After all, much better judges have admired. 
and may again ; but I venture to ' prognosticate a pro- 
phecy' (see the Courier) that he will not succeed. 

'' So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on ' the brow of 
the mighty Hclvellyn' — I hope not for ever. My best 
respects to Lady H. — ^licr departure, with that of my 
other friends, was a sad event for me, now reduced to a 
state of the most cynical solitude. 'By the waters of 
Cheltenham I sat down and drank; when I remembered 
thee, oil, Gcorgiana Cottage! As for our harps, we 
hanged them upon the willows that grew thereby. Then 
ihcy said, Sing us a song of Drury-lane,' &c. — but I am 
dumb and dreary as the Israelites. The waters have 
disordered me to my heart's content, — ^you were right, as 
you always are. 

" Believe me ever your obliged 

' and affectionate servant, 

« BVRON." 



LETTER CXXVIII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 



"September 22, 1812. 
"mv dear lord, 
" ^n a day or two I will send you something which you 
will still have the liberty to reject if you dislike it. I 
should like to have had more time, but will do my best, 



A4'lr»n Rt the p)»Dlnjof Drury L«p» Th*»ir». 



—but too happy if I can oblige you, though 1 may offend 
100 scribblers and the discerning pubUc. 

" Ever yours. 
" Keep my name a secret ; or I shall be beset by all 
the rejected, and perhaps damned by a party." 

LETTER CXXIX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

« Cheltenham, September 23, 1812. 

"Ecco! — I have marked some passages with dovhle 
readings — choose between them — cut — add — reject— or 
destroy — do with them as you will — I leave it to you and 
the Committee — you cannot say so called a 'non com' 
mittendo.^ What will they do (and I do) with the hun- 
dred and one rejected Troubadours ? ' With trumpets, 
yea, and with shawms,' will you be assailed in the most 
diabolical doggerel. I wish my name not to transpire till 
the day is decided. I shall not be in town, so it won't 
much matter ; but let us have a good deliverer. I think 
EUiston should be the man, or Pope ; not Raymond, I 
implore you by the love of Rhythmus ! 

" The passages marked thus = =, above and below, 
are for you to choose between epithets, and such like 
poetical furniture. Pray write me a line, and believe 
me ever, &c. 

" My best remembrances to Lady H. Will you be 
good enough to decide between the various readings 
marked, and erase the other ; or our deliverer may be as 
puzzled as a commentator, and belike repeat both. If 
these versicles won't do I will hammer out some more 
endecasyllables. 

" P. S. Tell Lady H. I have had sad work to keep out 
the Phoenix — I mean the Fire-Office of that name. It 
has ensured the theatre, and why not the Address ?" 



LETTER CXXX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 24. 
" I send a recast of the first four lines of the concluding 
paragraph. 

" This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The drama's homage by her Herald paid, 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises, &c. &c. 

And do forgive all this trouble. See what it is to have 
to do even with the genteelest of us. Ever, &c." 



LETTER CXXXL 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Cheltenham, Sept. 25, 1812. 
"Still 'more matter for a May morning.' Having 
patched the middle and end of the Address, I send one 
more couplet for a part of the beginning, which, if not too 
turgid, you will have the goodness to add. After thai 
flagrant image of the Thames, (I hope no unlucky wag 
will say I have set it on fire, though Dryden, in his 
'Annus Mirabilis,' and Churchill, in his 'Times,' did it 
before me,) I mean to insert this : 

" As flashing far the new '^Tolcano shone 
meteora 
And swept the sliies with lightnings not their own, 
While thousands throng'd around the burning dome, &c. &c. 

I think ' thousands' less flat than ' crowds collected'— but 
don't let me plunge into the bathos, or rise into Nat. 
Lee's Bedlam metaphors. By-the-by, the best view of 
the said fire (which I myself saw from a housetop in 
Covent-garden) was at Westminster Bridge, from the 
reflection on the Thames. 



LETTERS, 1812. 



45 



" Perhaps the present couplet had better come in after 
' trembled for their homes,' the two lines after ; — as other- 
wise the image certainly sinks, and it will run just as 
weU. 

" The lines themselves, perhaps, may be better thus — 
('choose,' or 'refuse' — but please yourself^ and don't 
mind 'Sir Fretful') — 

sadly 
" As flash'd the voUimed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies with lightnings awful as their own. 

The last runs smoothest, and, I think, best ; but you know 
better than best. ' liUrid' is also a less indistinct epithet 
than 'livid wave,' and, if you think so, a dash of the pen 
will do. 

" I expected one line this morning ; in the mean time, 
I shall remodel and condense, and if I do not hear from 
you, shall send another copy. 

" I am ever, &c." 



the epilogue to the ' Distressed Mother.' and, I think, one 
of Goldsmith's, and a prologue of old Colman's to Beau- 
mont and Fletcher's Philaster, are the best things of the 
kind we have. 

" P. S. I am diluted to the throat witli medicine for the 
stone ; and Boisragon wants me to try a warm climate 
for the winter — but I won't." 



You will 
emendations, 
thus: 



LETTER CXXXIl. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"September 26, 1812. 
think there is no end to my villanous 
The fifth and sixth lines I think to alter 



" Ye who beheld — oh sight admired and mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd ; 

because 'night' is repeated the next line but one ; and, 
as it now stands, the conclusion of the paragraph, ' wor- 
thy him (Shakspeare) and yow,' appears to apply the 
'you' to those only who were out of bed and in Covent- 
garden market on the night of conflagration, instead of 
the audience or the discerning public at large, all of whom 
are intended to be comprised in that comprehensive and, 
I hope, comprehensible pronoun. 

" By-the-by, one of my corrections in the fair co}>y 
sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty 
fathom — 

" When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write. 

Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and 
ought not to be first ; therefore I will let the old couplet 
stand, with its half rhymes ' sought' and ' wrote.'* Second 
thoughts in every thing are best, but, in rhyme, third and 
fourth don't come amiss. I am very anxious on this 
business, and I do hope that the very trouble I occasion 
you will plead its own excuse, and that it will tend to 
show my endeavour to nialce the most of the time allot- 
ted. I wish I had known it months ago, for in that case 
I had not left one line standing on another. I always 
scrawl in this way, and smooth as much as I can, but 
never sufficiently ; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line 
stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have 
not the cunning. When 1 began 'Childc Harold,' 1 had 
never tried S(»enser's measure, and now I cannot scribble 
in any other. 

" After all, my dear lord, if you can get a decent Ad- 
dress elsewhere, don't hcsilate to put this aside. Why 
did you not trust your own Muse ? I am very sure she 
would have been triumphant, and saved the Committee 
their trouble — ' 't is a joyful one' to me, but I fear I shall 
not satisfy even myself. After the account you sent me, 
't is no compliment to say, you would have beaten your 
candidates ; but I mean that, in that case, tliero would 
have been no occasion for their being beaten at all. 

" There are but two decent prologues in our tongiio — 
Pope's to Cato — Johnson's to l)rury-lane. These, with 



• " Such arc the names that here your nlimdlH sou(?lit, 
When Oarrick acted, and when Brinsley wrote." 
At precent the couplet itandt thus : 

" Dear are the daye that made our anneU bright, 
Ere Oarrlek fled, or Brineley ceaeed to write." 



LETTER CXXXIIL 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 27, 1812. 
" I have just received your very kind letter, and hope 
you have met with a second copy corrected and ad- 
dressed to Holland House, with some omissions and this 
new couplet, 

" As glared each rising flash,* and ghastly shone 
The skies with lightnings awful as their own. 

As to remarks, I can only say I will alter and acquiesce in 
any thing. With regard to the part which Whitbread 
wishes to omit, I believe the Address will go off quicker 
without it, though like the agility of the Hottentot, at the 
expense of its vigour. I leave to your choice entirely the 
different specimens of stucco-work ; and a brick of your 
own will also much improve my Babylonish turret I should 
like Elliston to have it, with your leave. 'Adorn' and 
'mourn' are lawful rhymes in Pope's death of the unfor- 
tunate Lady — Gray has ' forlorn' and ' mourn' — and ' torn' 
and ' mourn' are in Smollet's famous Tears of Scotland. 
" As there will probably be an outcry among the re- 
jected, I hope the Committee will testify (if it be need- 
ful) that I sent in nothing to the congress whatever, with 
or without a name, as your lordship well Imows. All I 
have to do with it is with and through you ; and though 
I, of course, wish to satisfy the audience, I do assure 
you my first object is to comply with your request, and 
in so doing to show the sense I have of the many obli- 
gations you have conferred upon me. 

"Yours ever, «B." 



LETTER CXXXIV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"September 27, 1812. 
" I believe this is the third scrawl since yesterday — all 
about epithets. I think the epithet ' intellectual' won't 
convey the meaning I intend ; and though I hate com- 
pounds, for the present I will try (col' permcsso) the 
word ^genius-gifted patriarciis of our line'f instead. 
Johnson has ' many-coloured life,' a compound — but they 
are always best avoided. However, it is the only one in 
ninety lines-, but will be happy to give way to a better. 
I am ashamed to intrude any more remembrances on 
Lady H. or letters upon you ; but you are, fortunately 
for me, gifted with patience already too often tried by 
"Your,&c. &c." 



LETTER CXXXV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 28, 1812. 
" Will tliis do better ? the molaplior is more complete. 

lava of the 
" Till slowly ebb'd the spent vnlcimic wave. 
And blackening ashes mnrk'd the Mute's grave. 

If not, we will say 'burning' wave, and instead of 'burn 

ing clime,' in the line some couplets back, linve 'glowing. 

"Is Whitbread dotcrminr.l to ca.strato all my caiHtlr^ 



• At present, " As glared llie volumed lilaic." 
t Thi«, as finolly altered, U 

" Immortal nam»», rmblnfoned on our line." 



46 



LETTERS, 1812. 



lines ?* I don't see why t' other house should be spared ; 
besides, it is the public, who ought to know better ; and 
you recollect Johnson's was against similar buflboneries 
of Rich's — but, certes, I am not Johnson. 

" Instead of ' effects,' say ' labours' — ' degenerate' will 
do, will it ? Mr. Betty is no longer a babe, therefore 
the line cannot be personal. 

"Will this do? 

the burning 
" Till ebb'd the lava of that molten wave,! 

with ' glowing dome,' in case you prefer ' burning' added 
to this ' wave' metaphorical. The word ' fiery pillar' 
was suggested by the 'pillar of fire' in the book of Ex- 
odus, which went before the Israelites through the Red 
Sea. I once thought of saying ' like Israel's pillar,' and 
making it a simile, but I did not know, — the great temp- 
tation was leaving the epithet ' fiery' for the supplement- 
ary wave. 1 want to work up that passage, as it is the 
only new ground us prologuizers can go upon — 

" This is the place where, if a poet 
Shined in description, he might show it. 

If I part with the possibility of a future conflagration, 
we lessen the compUment to Shakspeare. However, 
we will e'en mend it thus : 

" Yes, it shall be — the magic of that name, 
That scorns the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame, 
On the same spot, &c. &c. 

There — ^the deuce is in it, if that is not an improvement 
to Whitbread's content. Recollect, it is the ' name,' and 
not the ' magic,' that has a noble contempt for those same 
weapons. If it were the ' magic' my metaphor would 
be somewhat of the maddest — so the * name' is the ante- 
cedent. But, my dear lord, your patience is not quite 
so immortal — therefore, with many and sincere thanks, 
I am 

" Yours ever most affectionately. 
"P. S. I foresee there will be charges of partiaUty in 
the papers ; but you know I sent in no Address ; and 
glad both you and I must be that I did not, for, in that 
case, their plea had been plausible. I doubt the Pit will 
be testy ; but conscious innocence (a novel and pleasing 
sensation) makes me bold." 



LETTER CXXXVI. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



"Sept. 28. 
" I have altered the middle couplet, so as I hope partly 
to do away with W.'s objection. I do think, in the present 
state of the stage, it has been unpardonable to pass over 
the horses and Miss Mudic, &c. As Betty is no longer 
a boy, how can this be applied to him? He is now to be 
judged as a man. If he acts still lil:e a boy, the public 
will but be more ashamed of their blunder. I have, you 



• The lines he here alludes to, finally were omitted by the Commit- 
tee ; they were these : 

" Nay, lower itiU, the Drama yet deplores 
Thai lale the deign'd to trawl upon all-fours. 
When Richard roars in Bostcort/i for a horse, 
If you convnmid, the steed must come in course. 
tf you decree, the Stage nntst cor,dcscend 
To tooth the sickly lusle we dare not niond. 
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, 
And gratify you more l>y showing less. 
Oh, since your liiil slitm|ia die Urnmn's laws, 
Forbear to mock us with mi8|ilnced ap])lau8e ; 
That pul>lic praise be ne'er again disgraced, 

liruien to mnn recall 
From babes und brutes redeem a nation's taste. 
Then pride shall doubly nerve the actors' powers, 
When Reason's voice is echoed back by ours." 
Th« last couplet but one was again uitorid in a subsequent copy thus :— 
" TTie past reproach let present scenes refute, 
Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." 
t The form of this couplet, as printed, is as follows ;— 
" Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall." 



see, now taken it for granted that these things are re- 
formed. I confess, I wish that part of the Address to 
stand ; but if W. is inexorable, e'en let it go. I have 
also new cast the lines, and soflened the hint of future 
combustion,* and sent them off this morning. Will you 
have the goodness to add, or insert, the approved altera- 
tions as they arrive ? They ' come lilce shadows, so 
depart ;' occupy me, and, I fear, disturb you. 

" Do not let Mr. W. put his Address into EUiston's 
hands till you have settled on these alterations. E. will 
think it too long : — much depends on the speaking. I 
fear it will not bear much curtaiUng, without chasms in 
the sense. 

" It is certainly too long in the reading ; but if Elliston 
exerts himselfj such a favourite with the public will not 
be thought tedious. / should think it so, if he were not 
to speak it. 

" Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. On looking again, I doubt my idea of having 
obviated W.'s objection. To the other House, allusion 
is a ' non sequitur' — but I wish to plead for this part, 
because the thing really is not to be passed over. 
Many after-pieces at the Lyceum by the same company 
have already attacked this ' Augean Stable^ — and John- 
son, in his prologue against ' Lunn,' (the harlequin-ma- 
nager. Rich,) — ' Hunt,' — 'Mahomet,' &c. is surely a fair 
precedent." 



liETTER CXXXVU. 

TO LOBD HOLLAND. 

« Sept. 29, 1812. 

" Shakspeare certainly ceased to reign in one of his 
kingdoms, as George III. did in America, and George 
IV. may in Ireland.f Now, we have nothing to do out 
of our own realms, and when the monarchy was gone, 
his majesty had but a barren sceptre. I have cut away^ 
you will see, and altered, but make it what you please ; 
only I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on 
those accursed quadrupeds — ' a long shot, Sir Lucius, if 
you love me.' I have altered ' wave,' &c. and the ' fire,' 
and so forth, for the timid. 

" Let me hear from you when convenient, and believe 
me, &c. 

"P. S. Do let «Aa^ stand, and cut out elsewhere. I 
shall choke, if we must overlook their d — d menagerie." 



LETTER CXXXVIIL 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Sept. 30, 1812. 

"I send you the most I can make of it; for I am not 
so well as I was, and find I 'pall in resolution.' 

"I wish much to see you, and will be at Tetbury by 
twelve on Saturday ; and from thence I go on to Lord 
Jersey's. It is impossible not to allude to the degraded 
state of the Stage, but I have lightened it, and endea- 
voured to obviate your other objections. There is a new 
couplet for Sheridan, allusive to his Monody. All the 
alterations I have marked thus |, — as you will see by 
comparison with the other copy. I have cudgelled my 
brains with the greatest willingness, and only wish I had 
more time to have done better. 

" You will find a sort of clap-trap laudatory couplet 
inserted for the quiet of the Committee, and I have 
added, towards the end, the couplet you were pleased 
to like. The whole Address is seventy-three lines, still 



* It Imd been, originally, 

" Though other piles may sink in future fiame. 
On the same spot," &c. &c. 

t Some objection, it appears from this, had been made to lh« paiitee. 
' and Shakspeare ceased to reign." pn-t^. 



LETTERS, 1812. 



47 



perhaps too long , and, if shortened, you will save time, 
but, I fear, a little of what I meant for sense also. 

" With myriads of thanlis, I am ever, &c. 

"My sixteenth edition of respects to Lady H. How 
she must laugh at all this ! 

"I wish Murray, my publisher, to print off some 
copies as soon as your lordship returns to town — it will 
ensure correctness -in the papers afterward." 



LETTER CXXXIX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Far be from him thai liour which asks in vain 

Tears such as flow for Garrick in liis strain ; 

or, 
Far be that Lour that vainly asks in turn 

crown'd his 
Such verse for him as wept o'er Garrick's urn. 

"Sept. 30, 1812. 

" Will you choose between these added to the lines 
on Sheridan?* I think they will wind up the panegyric, 
and agree with the train of thought preceding them. 

"Now, one word as to the Committee — how could 
they resolve on a rough copy of an Address never sent 
in, unless you had been good enough to retain in memory, 
or on paper, the thing they have been good enough to 
adopt ? By-the-by, the circumstances of the case should 
make the Committee less ' avidus gloriae,' for all praise 
of them would look plaguy suspicious. If necessary to 
be stated at all, the simple facts bear them out. They 
surely had a right to act as they pleased. My sole ob- 
ject is one which, I trust, my whole conduct has shown ; 
viz. that I did nothing insidious — sent in no Address 
whatever — but, when applied to, did my best for them and 
myself; but above all, that there was no undue partial- 
ity, which will be what the rejected will endeavour to 
make out. Fortunately — most fortunately — I sent in no 
lines on the occasion. For I am sure that had they, in 
that case, been preferred, it would have been asserted 
that / was known, and owed the preference to private 
friendship. This is what we shall probably have to en- 
counter, but, if once spoken and approved, we sha'n't be 
much embarrassed by their brilliant conjectures, and, as 
to criticism, an old author, like an old bull, grows cooler 
(or ought) at every baiting. 

" The only thing would be to avoid a party on the 
night of delivery — afterward, the more the better, and 
the whole transaction inevitably tends to a good deal of 
discussion. Murray tells me there are myriads of iron- 
ical Addresses ready — some, in imitation of what is called 
my style. If they are as good as the Probationary Odes, 
or Hawkins's Pipe of Tobacco, it will not be bad fun for 
the imitated. 

«Ever,&c.'' 



LETTER CXL. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Octobers, 1812. 

"A copy of this still altered is sent by (he post, but this 
will arrive first. It must be 'humbler' — ' yd asjyiring^ 
does away the modesty, and, after all, truth is truth. 
Besides, there is a puff direct altered, to please your 
plaguy renters. 

" I shall bo at Tetbury by twelve or one — but send 
this for you to ponder over. There are several little 
things marked thus / altered for your perusal. I have 
dismounted the cavalry, and, I hope, arranged to your 
general satisfaction. 

« Ever, &c. 

"At Tetbury by noon. I hope, after it is sent, there 
will bo no more elisions. It is not now so lonjr — 73 



lines — two less than allotted. I will alter all Committee 
objections, but I hope you won't permit Elliaton to have 
any voice whatever. — except in speaking it." 



• These added Unci, as itwy be iccu by refcreiicu to ilu priulcJ Aii 
drtit, vera not retained. 



LETTER CXLL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" High-street, Cheltenham, Sept. 5, 1812. 

" Pray have the goodness to send those despatches, 
and a No. of the Edinburgh Review with the rest. 1 
hope you have written to Mr. Thompson, thanked him 
in my name for his present, and told him that I shall be 
truly happy to comply with his request. How do you 
go on ? and when is the graven image, ' with bays and 
wicked rhyme upon 'f,' to grace, or disgrace, some of our 
tardy editions ? 

" Send me ' Rokeby.'' Who the devil is he ? — no mat- 
ter, he has good connexions, and will be well introduced. 
I thank you for your inquiries: I am so so, but my 
thermometer is sadly below the poetical point. What 
will you give me or miiie for a poem of six Cantos, {when 
complete — no rhyme, no recompense,) as like the last two 
as I can make them ? I have some ideas that one day 
may be imbodied, and till winter I shall have much 
leisure. 

"P. S. My last question is in the true style of Grub- 
street ; but, like Jeremy Diddler, I only ' ask for inform- 
ation.' Send me Adair on Diet and Regimen, just re- 
published by Ridgway." 



LETTER CXLIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Cheltenham, Sept. 14, 1812. 

"The parcels contained some letters and verses, all 
(but one) anonymous and complimentary, and very 
anxious for my conversion from certain infidelities into 
which my good-natured correspondents conceive me to 
have fallen. The books were presents of a convertible 
kind. Also, ' Christian knowledge' and the ' Bioscope,' 
a religious Dial of Life explained ; and to the author of 
the former, (Cadell publislier,) I beg you will forward my 
best thanks for his letter, his present, and, above all, his 
good intentions. The ' Bioscope' contained a MS. 
copy of very excellent verses, from whom I know not, 
but evidently the composition of some one in the habit of 
writing, and of writing well. I do not know if he be the 
author of the ' Bioscope' which accompanied them ; but 
whoever he is, if you can discover him, thank him from 
me most heartily. The other letters were from ladies, 
who are welcome to convert me when they please ; and 
if I can discover them, and they be young, as they say 
they are, I could convince them perhaps of my devotion. 
I had also a letter from Mr. Walpole on matters of this 
world, which I have answered. 

" So you are Lucicn's publisher ? I am promised an 
interview with him, and think I shall ask you for a letter 
of introduction, as 'the gods have made him j)oetical.' 
From whom could it come with a better grace limn from 
his publisher and mine? Is it not somewhat treasonable 
in you to have to do with a relative of tlio 'direful foe,' 
as the Morning Post calls liLs brother ? 

" But my book on ' Diet and Rogimon,' where is it ? 1 
thirst for Scott's Rokeby ; lot me have your first-begotten 
copy. The Aiitijacobhi Review is all very well, and 
not a bit worso than the Quarterly, and at least less 
harmless. By the by, have you secured my books ? I 
want all the Reviews, at least the criti(]Uos, quarterly, 
monthly, &.c. Portuguese and F.nglisli, oxtrai'led, and 
bound up in one voIumu- for luy (»/</ uac; and pray, sort 
my Romaic books, and get the volumes lent to Mr. 
Hobhouse — ho has had them now a long time, if any 
thing occurs, you will favour nu« with a lino, and ill wia- 
tor wo shall bo nearer neighbours. 



48 



LETTERS, 1812. 



" P. S. I was applied to, to write the Address for 
Drury-lane, but the moment I heard of the contest, I 
gave up the idea of contending against all Grub-street, 
and threw a few thoughts on the subject into the fire. 
I did this out of respect to you, being sure you would 
have turned off any of your authors who had entered 
the lists with such scurvy competitors. To triumph 
would have been no glory ; and to have been defeated 
— 'sdeath !— I would have choked myself; hke Otway, 
with a quartern loaf; so, remember I had, and have, 
nothing to do with it, upon my honour P 



LETTER CXLIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BAJSTKES 

"Cheltenham, Sept. 28, 1812. 

" MY DEAR BANKES, 

" When you point out to one how people can be inti- 
mate at the distance of some seventy leagues, I will 
plead guilty to your charge, and accept your farewell, 
but not wittingly, till you give me some better reason than 
my silence, which merely proceeded from a notion 
founded on your own declaration of old, that you hated 
writing and receiving letters. Besides, how was I to 
find out a man of many residences 1 If I had addressed 
you, Tiow, it had been to your borough, where I must 
have conjectured you were among your constituents. 
So now, in despite of Mr. N. and Lady W. you shall 
be as ' much better' as the Hexham post-office will allow 
me to make you. 1 do assure you I am much indebted 
to you for thinking of me at all, and can't spare you 
even from among the superabundance of friends with 
whom you suppose me surrounded. 

"You heard that Newstead* is sold — the sum 
£140,000 ; sixty to remain in mortgage on the estate for 
three years, paying interest, of course. Rochdale is 
also likely to do well — so my worldly matters are mend- 
ing. I have been here some time drinking the waters, 
simply because there are waters to drink, and they are 
very medicinal, and sufficiently disgusting. In a few 
days I set out for Lord Jersey's, but return here, where 
I am quite alone, go out very little, and enjoy in its full- 
est extent the ' dolce far niente.' What you are about, 
I cannot guess, even from your date ; not dancing to 
the sound of the gitourney in the Halls of the Lowthers? 
one of whom is here, ill, poor thing, with a phthisic. I 
heard that you passed through here (at the sordid inn 
where I first alighted) the very day before I arrived in 
these parts. We had a very pleasant set here ; at first 
the Jerseys, Melbournes, Cowpers, and Hollands, but 
all gone ; and the only persons 1 laiow are the Raw- 
dons and Oxfords, with some later acquaintances of less 
brilliant descent. 

•' But I do not trouble them much ; and as for your 
rooms and your assemblies, ' they are not dreamed of in 
our philosophy ! '.' Did you read of a sad accident in 
the Wye t' other day ? a dozen drowned, and Mr. Ros- 
soe, a corpulent gentleman, preserved by a boat-hook 
or an eel-spear, begged, when he heard his wife was 
saved — no — lost — to be thrown in again ! ! — as if he 
could not have thrown himself in, had he wished it ; but 
tliis passes for a trait of sensibility. What strange 
beings men arc, in and out of the Wye ! 

" I have to ask you a thousand pardons for not fulfill- 
ing some orders before I left town ; but if you knew all 
the cursed entanglements I had to wade tlirough, it 
would be unnecessary to beg your forgiveness. When 
will Parliament (the new one) meet? — in sixty days, 
on account of Ireland, I presume; the Irish election 
will demand a longer period for completion than the 
constitutional allotment. Yours, of course is safe, and 
all your side of the question. Salamanca is the minis- 



Tbc sale was afterwards cancelled. 



terial watchword, and aU wUl go well with you. I hope 
you will speak more frequently, I am sure at least you 
ougU, and it wiU be expected. 1 see Portman means 
to stand again. Good night. 

" Ever yours most affectionately, 

« Nwaipwv."* 

LETTER CXLIV. 

TO MR. IHXIRRAT. 

"Cheltenham, Sept. 27, 1812. 

"I sent in no Address whatever to the Committee; 
but out of nearly one hundred, (this is confidential,) 
none have been deemed worth acceptance ; and in con- 
sequence of their subsequent appUcation to me, I have 
written a prologue, which has been received, and will 
be spoken. The MS. is now in the hands of Lord Hol- 
land. 

" I write this merely to say, that (however it is re- 
ceived by the audience) you will publish it in the next 
edition of Childe Harold ; and I only beg you at present 
to keep my name secret till you hear farther from me, 
and as soon as possible I wish you to have a correct 
copy, to do with as you think proper. 

"P. S. I shovdd wish a few copies printed off heforet 
that the newspaper copies may be correct after the 
delivery.^' 

LETTER CXLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Cheltenham, Oct. 12, 1812. 

" I have a very strong objection to the engraving of 
the portrait, and request that it may, on no account, be 
prefixed ; but let aU the proofs be burned, and the plate 
broken. I will be at the expense which has been in- 
curred ; it is but fair that / should, since I cannot per- 
mit the pubUcation. I beg, as a particular favour, that 
you will lose no time in ha\'ing this done, for which I 
have reasons that I will state when I see you. For- 
give all the trouble I have occasioned you. 

" I have received no account of the reception of the 
Address, but see it is vituperated in the papers, which 
does not much embarrass an old autJxor. I leave it to 
your own judgment to add it, or not, to your next edi- 
tion when required. Pray comply strictly with my 
wishes as to the engraving, and believe me, &c. 

"P. S. Favour me with an answer, as I shall not be 
easy till I hear that tlie proofs, &c. are destroyed. I hear 
that the Satirist has reviewed Childe Harold, in what 
manner I need not ask ; but I wish to know if the old 
personahties are revived ? I have a better reason for 
asking this than any that merely concerns myself; but 
in publications of that kind, others, particularly female 
names, are sometimes introduced." 



LETTER CXLVL 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Cheltenham, Oct. 14, 1812. 
"my dear lord, 

" I perceive that the papers, yea, even Perry's, are 
somewhat ruffled at the injudicious preference of the 
Committee. My friend Perry has, indeed, ' et tu Brute'-d 
me rather scurvily, for which I will send him, for the 
M.C.j the next epigram I scribble, as a token of my 
full forgiveness. 

" Do the Committee mean to enter into no explanation 
of their proceedmgs ? You must see there is a leaning 
towards a charge of partiality. You will, at least, acquit 
me of any great anxiety to push myself before so many 



• A mode of signature lie frequently adopted. 

t The Morning Chronicle, of which Mr. Perry was the proprietor. 



LETTERS, 1812. 



49 



elder and better anonymous, to whom the twenty gximeas 
(which I take to be about two thousand pounds Bank 
currency) and the honour would have been equally wel- 
come. 'Honour,' I see, 'hath no skill in paragraph- 
writing.' 

" I wish to know how it went off at the second reading, 
and whether any one has had the grace to give it a 
glance of approbation. I have seen no paper but Per- 
ry's, and two Sunday ones. Perry is severe, and the 
others silent. I^ however, you and your Committee are 
not now dissatisfied with your own judgments, I shall 
not much embarrass myself about the brilliant remarks 
of the journals. My own opinion upon it is what it 
always was, perhaps pretty near that of the public. 

" Believe me, my dear lord, &c. &c. 

" P. S. My best respects to Lady H. whose smiles 
will be very consolatory, even at this distance." 



LETTER CXLVIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Cheltenham, Oct. 18, 1812. 

"Will you have the goodness to get this Parody of a 
peculiar kind* (for all the first lines are Busby's entire) 
inserted in several of the papers, (correctly, and copied 
correctly; my hand is difficult,) — particularly the Morn- 
ing Chronicle ? Tell Mr. Perry I forgive him all he has 
said, and may say against my address, but he will allow 
me to deal with the doctor — (audi alteram partem) and 
not betray me. I cannot think what has befallen Mr. 
Perry, for of yore we were very good friends ; — but no 
matter, only get this inserted. 

" I have a poem on Waltzing for you, of which I 
make you a present ; but it must be anonymous. It is 
in the old style of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 

"P. S. With the next edition of Childe Harold you 
may print the first fifty or a hundred opening lines of the 
•Curse of Minerva,' down to the couplet beginning 

" Mortal ('t WM thus she spake, &c. 

Of course, the moment the Satire begins, there you will 
stop, and the opening is the best part." 



LETTER CXLVIIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Oct. 19,1812. 
" Many thanks, but I must pay the damage, and will 
thank you to tell me the amount for the engraving. I 
think the ' Rejected Addresses' by far the best thing of 
the kind since the RoUiad, and wish you had published 
them. Tell the author ' I forgive him, were he twenty 
times over a satirist ;' and think his imitations not at all 
inferior to the famous ones of Hawkins Browne. He 
must be a man of very lively wit, and less scurrilous 
than wits often are : altogether, I very much admire the 
performance, and wish it all success. The Satirist has 
taken a new tone, as you will see: we have now, I 
think, finished with Childe Harold's critics. I have in 
hand a Satire on Waltzing,^ which you must publish 
anonymotisly ; it is not long, not quite two hundred 
hnes, but will make a very small boarded pamphlet. In 
a few days you shall have it. 



* AiDOiif; the Addresses gent in to the Driiry-lBne Committee was one 
by Or. Buiby, entillvd a Monologue, of wliich the I'arody was enclosed 
thi* letter. The fint four linen of the Doctor's Address are as follows : 
' When energizing objects men pursue. 
What are the prodigies lliey cnnnol do 7 
A magic Edidce you here survey, 
Shoi fioin the ruins of the other day !' 
Which verses »rc thus ridiculed la the Parody ;— 
" When encrgir.ing objects men pursue,' 
The Lord knows what is writ by Lord knowi who. 
' A modest Monologue you here survey,' 
Hlss'd from tht thsatre tb« • othtr day." 
t See Poems p. 414. 

7 



" p. S. The editor of the Satirist ought to be thanked 
for his revocation; it is done handsomely, after five 
years' warfare." 



LETTER CXLIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Oct. 23, 1812. 

« Thanks, as usual. You go on boldly ; but have a 
care of glutting the public, who have by this time had 
enough of Childe Harold. * Waltzing* shall be prepared. 
It is rather above two hundred lines, with an introduc- 
tory Letter to the Publisher. I think of pubhshing, with 
Childe Harold, the opening lines of the 'Curse of Mi- 
nerva,'* as far as the first speech of Pallas, — because 
some of the readers lilce that part better than any I have 
ever written, and as it contains nothing to affect the 
subject of the subsequent portion, it will find a place as 
a Descriptive Fragment. 

*^ The plate is broken? between ourselves, it was un- 
like the picture ; and besides, upon the whole, the fron- 
tispiece of an author's visage is but a paltry exhibition. 
At all events, this would have been no recommendation 
to the book. I am sure Sanders would not have survived 
the engraving. By-the-by, the picture may remain with 
you or him (which you please) till my return. The one 
of two remaining copies is at your service till I can give 
you a better; the other must be burned peremptorily. 
Again, do not forget that I have an account with you, 
and that this is included. I give you too much trouble to 
allow you to incur expense also. 

" You best know how far this ' Address riot' will affect 
the future sale of Childe Harold. I like the volume of 
Rejected Addresses' better and better. The other 
parody which Perry has received is mine also, (I be- 
lieve.) It is Dr. Busby's speech versified. You are 
removing to Albemarle-street, I find, and I rejoice that 
we shall be nearer neighbours. I am going to Lord 
Oxford's, but letters here will be forwarded. When at 
leisure, all communications from you will be willingly 
received by the humblest of your scribes. Did Mr. 
Ward write the review of Home Tooke's Life in the 
Quarterly ? it is excellent." 



LETTER CL. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Cheltenham, Nov. 22, 1812. 
On my return here from Lord Oxford's, I found your 
obliging note, and will thank you to retain the letters, 
and any other subsequent ones to the same address, till 
I arrive in town to claim them, which will probably be 
in a few days. I have in charge a curious and very 
long MS. poem, written by Lord Brooke, (x\\&fnend of 
Sir Philip Sidney,) which I wish to submit to the in- 
spection of Mr. Gifford, with the following queries: — 
first, whether it has ever been published, and, secondly, 
(if not,) whether it is worth publication? It is from 
Lord Oxford's library, and must have escaped or been 
overlooked among the MSS. of the Harleian Miscellany. 
The writing is Lord Brooke's, except a different hand 
towards the close. It is very long, and in the six-line 
stanza. It is not for me to hazard an opinion uj>on its 
merits; but I would take the liberty, if not too troiiblr- 
somo, to submit it to Mr. Gifford's judgment, which, 
from his excellent edition of Massinger, I should con- 
ceive to bo as decisive on the writings of that age as on 
tlioso of our own, 

"Now for a less agreeable and important topic. 
How came Mr. Mac- Somebody, without consulting you 



Posmsp. 441 



60 • 



LETTERS, 181S. 



or me, to prefix the Address to his volume* oV Dejected 
Addresses?' Is not this somewhat larcenous? I think the 
ceremony of leave might have been asked, though I have 
no objection to the thing itself; and leave the 'hundred and 
eleven' to tire themselves with ' base comparisons.' I 
ehould think the mgenuous public tolerably sick of the 
subject, and, except the Parodies, I have not interfered, 
nor shall ; indeed I did not know that Dr. Busby had 
published his Apologetical Letter and Postscript, or I 
should have recalled them. But I confess I looked 
upon his conduct in a different light before its appear- 
ance. 1 see some mountebank has talien Alderman 
Birch's name to vituperate Dr. Busby ; he had much 
better have pilfered his pastry, which I should imagine 
the more valuable ingredient — at least for a puff. — Pray 
secure me a copy of Woodfall's new Junius, and believe 
me, &c." 



LETTER CLL 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

"December 26 
"The multitude of your recommendations has already 
superseded my humble endeavours to be of use to you, 
and, indeed, most of my principal friends are returned. 
Leake from Joannina, Canning and Adair from the city 
of the faithful, and at Smyrna no letter is necessary, as 
the consuls are always willing to do every thing for per- 
sonages of respectability. I have sent you three, one to 
Gibraltar, which, though of no great necessity, will, per- 
haps, put you on a more intimate footing with a very 
pleasant family there. You will very soon find out that 
a msui of any consequence has very little occasion for 
any letters but to ministers and bankers, and of them 
you have already plenty, I will be sworn. 

" It is by no means improbable, that I shall go in the 
spring, and if you will fix any place of rendezvous about 
August, I will write or join you. — When in Albania, I 
wish you would inquire after Dervise Tahiri and Vas- 
ciUie, (or Basil,) and make my respects to the viziers, 
both there and in the Morea. If you mention my name 
to Suleyman of Thebes, I think it will not hurt you; if I 
had my dragoman, or wrote Turkish, I could have given 
you letters of real service; but to the English they are 
hardly requisite, and the Greeks themselves can be of 
little advantage. Liston you know already, and I do 
not, as he was not then minister. Mind you visit Ephe- 
sus and the Troad, and let me hear from you when you 
please. I beUeve G. Forresti is now at Yanina, but if 
not, whoever is there wll be too happy to assist you. 
Be particular about ^rmaurw ,• never allow yourself to be 
bullied, for you are better protected in Turkey than any 
■where ; trust not the Greeks ; and take some knicknack- 
tries for presents — watches, pistols, &c. &c. to the Beys 
and Pachas. Ifyou find one Demetrius, at Athens or 
elsewhere, I can recommend him as a good dragoman. 
I hope to join you, however; but you will find swamis of 
English now in the Levant. 

" Believe me, &c." 



LETTER CLIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. • 

« February 20, 1813. 
"In 'Horace in London,' I perceive some stanzas on 
Lord Elgin, in which (waiving the kind compliment to 
myself,) I heartily concur. I wish I had the pleasure 
of Mr. Smith's acquaintance, as I could communicate 
the curious anecdote you read in Mr. T.'s letter. If he 



• "The genuine Rejected Addressca, presented lo the Committee of 
Manageitient for Driiry-Iane Thealre , preceded by ihnt written by Lord 
Byron and adopted by the Committee :''— ^xiblifibed by B. M'Millan 



would like it, he can have the suhstunce for his second 
edition ; if not, I shall add it to our next, though I think 
we already have enough of Lord Elgin. 

" What I have read of this work seems admirably 
done. My praise, however, is not much worth the au- 
thor's having ; but you may thank him in my name for 
his. The idea is new — we have excellent imitations of 
the Satires, &c. by Pope ; but I remember but one imi- 
tative Ode in his works, and none any where else. I 
can hardly suppose that they have lost any fame by the 
fate of the farce ; but even should this be the case, the 
present pubhcation will again place them on their pin- 
nacle. "Yours, Stc." 



LETTER CLIIL 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"March 25, I8I3. 

" I enclose you a draft for the usurious interest due to 
Lord * *'s protig6 ; — I also could wish you would state 
thus much for me to his lordship. Though the transac- 
tion speaks plainly in itself for the borrower's folly and 
the lender's usury, it never was my intention to quash 
the demand, as I legally might, nor to withhold payment 
of principal, or, perhaps, even unlawful interest. You 
know what my situation has been, and what it is. I have 
parted with an estate, (which has been in my family for 
nearly three hundred years, and was never disgraced by 
being in possession of a lawyer, a churchman, or a woman, 
during that period,) to liquidate this and similar de- 
mands ; and the payment of the purchase is still with- 
held, and may be, perhaps, for years. If, therefore, I am 
under the necessity of making those persons wait for 
their money, (which, considering the terms, they can 
afford to suffer,) it is my misfortune. 

" When I arrived at majority in 1809, 1 offered my 
own security on legal interest, and it was refused. 
JVow, I will not accede to this. This man I may have 
seen, but I have no recollection of the names of any par- 
ties but the agents and the securities. The moment 1 
can, it is assuredly my intention to pay my debts. This 
person's case may be a hard one ; but, under all circum- 
stances, what is mine? I could not foresee that the 
purchaser of my estate was to demur in paying for it. 

" I am glad it happens to be in my power so far to 
accommodate my Israelite, and only wish I could do as 
much for the rest of the Twelve Tribes. 

" Ever yours, dear R. 
« Bn." 



LETTER CLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Westall has, I beUeve, agreed to illustrate your book,* 
and I fancy one of the engravings will be from the pretty 
Httle girl you saw the other day,t though without her 
name, and merely as a model for some sketch connected 
with the subject. I would also have the portrait (which 
you saw to-day) of the friend who is mentioned in the 
text at the close of Canto first, and in the notes, — which 
are subjects sufficient to authorize that addition." 

Early in the spring he brought out, anonymously, his 
poem on Waltzing, which, though full of very lively 
satire, fell so far short of what was now expected from 
him by the public, tliat the disavowal of it, which, as we 
see by the following letter, he thought right to put forth, 
found ready credence. 

* A new edition of Childe Harold. 

t Lady Charlotte Harley, to whom, under the name of lanthc, th« 
introductory lines to Childe Harold were afterward addreued. 



LETTERS, 1813. 



61 



LETTER CLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 21, 1813. 

•* I shall be in town by Sunday next, and will call and 
have some conversation on the subject of Westall's de- 
signs. I am to sit to him for a picture at the request of 
a friend of mine, and as Sanders's is not a good one, you 
will probably prefer the other. I wish you to have 
Sanders's taken down and sent to my lodgings imme- 
diately — before my arrival. I hear that a certain ma- 
licious pubhcation on Waltzing is attributed to me. 
This report, I suppose, you will take care to contradict, 
as the author, I am sure, will not like that I should wear 
his cap and bells. Mr. Hobhouse's quarto will be out 
immediately ; pray send to the author for an early copy, 
which I wish to take abroad with me. 

" P. S. I see the Examiner threatens some observa- 
tions upon you next week. What can you have done 
to share the wrath which has heretofore been principally 
expended upon the Prince? I presume all your 
Scribleri will be drawn up in battle array in defence of 
the modern Tonson — Mr. Bucke, for instance. 

" Send in my account to Bennet-street, as 1 wish to 
settle it before sailing." 



LETTER CLVL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Maidenhead, June 13, 1813. 
« * * + I have read the ' Strictures,'* which are 
just enough, and not grossly abusive, in very fair cou- 
plets. There is a note against Massinger near the end, 
and one cannot quarrel with one's company, at any rate. 
The author detects some incongruous figures in a pas- 
sage of English Bards, page 23, but which edition I do 
not know. In the sole copy in your possession — I mean 
\he fifth edition — you may make these alterations, that 1 
may profit (though a little too late) by his remarks ; — 
For ^hellish instinct,' substitute ^brutal instinct;' 'harpies' 
alter to ^felons ;' and for ' blood-hounds' write ' hell- 
hounds.'! These be * very bitter words, by my troth,' 
and the alterations not much sweeter ; but as I shall not 
publish the thing, they can do no harm, but are a satis- 
faction to me in the way of amendment. The passage 
is only twelve lines. 

" You do not answer me about H.'s book ; I want to 
write to him, and not to say any thing unpleasing. If 
you direct to Post-office, Portsmouth, till called for, I 
will send and receive your letter. You never told me 
of the forthcoming critique on Columbus, which is not 
loo fair ; and I do not think justice quite done to the 
' Pleasures,'! which surely entitle the author to a higher 
rank than that assigned him in the duarterly. But I 
must not cavil at the decisions of the invisible infaUibles; 
and the article is very well written. The general hor- 
ror o^'^ fragments' makes me tremulous for the 'Giaour;' 
but you would publish it — I presume, by this time, to your 
repentance. But as I consented, whatever be its fate, 
I won't now quarrel with you, even though I detect it in 
my pastry ; but I shall not open a pie without apprehen- 
sion for some weeks. 

" The books which may be marked G. O. I will carry 
out. Do you know Clarke's Naufragia? I am told 
that he asserts ihti first volunie of Robinson Crusoe was 
written by the first Lord Oxford, when in the Tower, 
and given by him to Defoe ; if true, it is a curious anec- 
dote. Have you got back Lord Brooke's MS.? and 
what does Heber say of it? Write to me at Portsmouth. 
" Ever yours, &c. 

" N." 



On Uic Satire, by Mr. Crowe. t Sec Engliali Uuidii. 

I PDcmi, by Mr. Roger*. 



LETTER CLVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jvme 18, 1813. 
"dear sir, 
" WiU you forward the enclosed answer to the kindest 
letter I ever received in my life, my sense of which I can 
neither express to Mr. Gifford himself nor to any one 
else. 

" Ever yours,j « N." 

LETTER CLVIII. 

TO W. GIFFORD, ESq. 

" June 18, 1813. 
"my dear sir, 

" I feel greatly at a loss how to write to you at all — 
still more to thank you as I ought. If you knew the 
veneration with which I have ever regarded you, long 
before I had the most distant prospect of becoming your 
acquaintance, literary or personal, my embarrassment 
would not surprise you. 

" Any suggestion of yours, even were it conveyed in 
the less tender shape of the text of the Baviad, or a 
Monk Mason note in Massinger, would have been 
obeyed ; I should have endeavoured to improve myself 
by your censure : judge then if I should be less willing 
to profit by your kindness. It is not for me to bandy 
compliments with my elders and my betters : I receive 
your approbation with gratitude, and will not return my 
brass for your gold, by expressing more fully those sen- 
timents of admiration, which, however sincere, would, I 
know, be unwelcome. 

" To your advice on religious topics, I shall equally 
attend. Perhaps the best way will be by avoiding them 
altogether. The already published objectionable pas- 
sages have been much commented upon, but certainly 
have been rather strongly interpreted. I am no bigot to 
infidelity, and did not expect that, because I doubted the 
immortality of man, I should be charged with denying 
the existence of a God. It was the comparative insig- 
nificance of ourselves and our world, when placed in 
comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an 
atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions 
to eternity might be overrated. 

" This, and being early disgusted with a Calvinistic 
Scotch school, when I was cudgelled to chur'^.h, for the 
first ten years of my life, afflicted me with this malady ; 
for, after all, it is, I believe, a disease of the mind as 
much as other kinds of hypochondria." 



LETTER CLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"June 22, 1813. 

****** 

" Yesterday I dined in company with ' * *, the Epi- 
cene,' whose politics arc sadly changed. She is for the 
Lord of Israel and the Lord of I^iverpool — a vile anti- 
thesis of a Methodist and a Tory — talks of nothing but 
devotion and the ministry, and, I presume, expects that 
God and the government will help her to a pension. 
****** 

"Murray, the ava^ of publishers, the Anac of station- 
ers, has a design upon you in the paper line. He wants 
you to become the staple and stipendiary editor of a 
periodical work. What say you? Will you bo bound, 
like 'Kit Smart, to write for ninety-nino years in the 
Universal Visiter?' Seriously, he talks of hniulrods a 
year, and — though I hate prating of llio beggarly ele- 
ments — his proposal may bo to your honour and profit, 
and, I am very sure, will be to our pleasure. 

•' I don't know what to say about ' fricndKhip.' I never 



62 



LETTERS, 1813. 



was in friendship but once, in my nineteenth year, and 
then it gave me as much trouble as love. I am afraid, 
as Whitbread's sire said to the king, when he wanted to 
knight him, that I am ' too old :' but, nevertheless, no 
one wishes you more friends, fame, and felicity, than 

« Yours, &c.' 



LETTER CLX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

« 4, Benedictine-Street, St. James's, July 8, 1813. 

•' I presume by your silence that I have blundered 
into something noxious in my reply to your letter ; for 
the which I beg leave to send, beforehand, a sweeping 
apology, which you may apply to any, or all, parts of 
that unfortunate epistle. If I err in my conjecture, I 
expect the like from you, in putting our correspondence 
so long in quarantine. God he knows what I have said ; 
but he also knows, (if he is not as indifferent to mortals 
as the nonchalant deities of Lucretius,) that you are the 
last person I want to offend. So, if I have, — why the 
devil don't you say it at once, and expectorate your 
spleen? 

" Rogers is out of town wdth Madame de Stael, who 
hath published an Essay against Suicide, wliich, I pre- 
sume, will make somebody shoot himself; as a sermon 
by Blinkensop, in proof of Christianity, sent a hitherto 
most orthodox acquaintance of mine out of a chapel of 
ease a perfect atheist. Have you found or founded a 
residence yet ? and have you begun or finished a Poem ? 
If you won't tell me what / have done, pray say what 
you have done, or lefl undone, yourself. I am still in 
equipment for voyaging, and anxious to hear from, or of, 
you before I go, which anxiety you should remove more 
readily, as you think I shan't cogitate about you after- 
ward. I shall give the lie to that calumny by fifly 
foreign letters, particularly from any place where the 
plague is rife, — without a drop of vmegar or a whiff of 
■ulphur to save you from infection. Pray write : I am 
sorry to say that * * + *. 

•* The Oxfords have sailed almost a fortnight, and my 
sister is in town, which is a great comfort — for, never 
having been much together, we are naturally more at- 
tached to each other. I presume the illuminations have 
conflagrated to Derby (or wherever you are) by this 
time. We are just recovering from tumult, and train 
oil, and transparent fripperies, and all the noise and 
nonsense of victory. Drury-Iane had a large M. IV. 
which some thought was Marshal Wellington : others that 
it might be translated into Manager Whitbread ; while 
the ladies of the vicinity and the saloon conceived the 
last letter to be complimentary to themselves. I leave 
this to the commentators to illuminate. If you do n't 
answer this, I shan't say what you deserve, but I think 
/ deserve a reply. Do you conceive there is no Post- 
Bag but the Twopenny? Sunburn me, if you are not 
too bad." 



LETTER CLXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 13, 1813. 

♦ ♦♦*♦ + 

" Your letter set me at ease ; for I really thought (as 
I hear of your susceptibility) that I had said — I know 
not what — but something I should have been very sorry 
for, had it, or I, offended you ; though I do n't see how 
a man with a beautiful wife, his own children, quiet, 
fame, competency, and friends, ( I will vouch for a thou- 
sand, which is more than I will for a unit in my own 
behalfj) can be offended with any thing. 

" Do you know, Moore, I am amazingly inclined — 
remember I say but inclined — to be seriously enamoured 
with Lady A. F.— but this ♦ * has ruined all my pros- 



LETTER CLXIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"July 25,1813. 

" I am not well versed enough in the ways of single 
women to make much matrimonial progress. * * 

" I have been dining like the dragon of Wantley for 
this last week. My head aches with the vintage of 
various cellars, and my brains are muddled as their 
dregs. I met your friends, the D * *s : she sung one 
of your best songs so well, that, but for the appearance 
of affectation, I could have cried ; he reminds me of 
Hunt, but handsomer, and more musical in soul, per- 
haps. I wish to God he may conquer his horrible 
anomalous complaint. The upper part of her face is 
beautiful, and she seems much attached to her husband. 
He is right, nevertheless, in leaving this nauseous town. 
The first winter would infallibly destroy her complexion, 
and the second, very probably, every thing else. 

"I must tell you a story. M * * (of indifferent me- 
mory ) was dining out the other day, and complaining of 
the Prince's coldness to his old wassailers. D' * * (a 
learned Jew) bored him with questions — why this ? and 
why that ? ' Why did the Prince act thus ?' ' Why, 
sir, on account of Lord * *, who ought to be ashamed 
of himself?' ' And why ought Lord * * to be ashamed 
of himself?' 'Because the Prince, sir, * + * * 
* * * *.' 'And why, sir, did the Prince cut yoM.?* 
' Because, G — d d — mme, sir, I stuck to my principles.' 
' And why did you stick to your principles ?' 

" Is not this last question the best that ever was put, 
when you consider to whom 1 It nearly killed M * *. 
Perhaps you may think it stupid, but, as Goldsmith said 
about the peas, it was a very good joke when I heard it 
— as I did from an ear-witness — and is only spoiled in 
my narration. 

" The season has closed with a Dandy Ball ; — but I 
have dinners with the Harrowbys, Rogers, and Frere 
and Mackintosh, where I shall drink your health in 
a silent bumper, and regret your absence till 'too 
much canaries' wash away my memory, or render it 
superfluous by a vision of you at the opposite side 
of the table. Canning has disbanded his party by 
a speech from his * * * ♦ — the true throne 



pects. However, you know her ; is she clever, or sen- 
sible, or good-tempered ? either would do— I scratch out 
the will. I don't ask as to her beauty, that I see ; but 
my circumstances are mending, and were not my other 
prospects blackening, I would take a wife, and that 
should be the woman, had I a chance. 1 do not yet 
know her much, but better than I did. 

" I want to get away, but find difficulty in compassing 
a passage in a ship of war. They had better let me go; 
if I cannot, patriotism is the word—' nay, an' they 'II 
mouth, I '11 rant as well as they.' Now, what are you 
doing ? writing, we all hope, for our ovm sakes. Re- 
member you must edite my posthumous works, with a 
Life of the Author, for which I will send you Confes- 
sions, dated 'Lazaretto,' Smyrna, Malta, or Palermo — 
one can die any where. 

" There is to be a thing on Tuesday ycleped a na- 
tional fete. The Regent and * * * are to be there, 
and every body else, who has shillings enough for what 
was once a guinea. Vauxhail is the scene — there are 
six tickets issued for the modest women, and it is sup- _ 
posed there will be three to spare. The passports for ■ 
the lax are beyond my arithmetic. | 

"P. S. The Stael last night attacked me most 
furiously— said that I had 'no right to make love— that 
I had used * * barbarously — that I had no feeling, and 
was totally msensible to la belle passion, and had been 
all my life.' I am very glad to hear it, but did not 
know it before. Let me hear from you anon." 



LETTERS, 1813. 



53 



of a Tory. Conceive his turning them off in a formal 
harangue, and bidding them think for themselves. '1 
have led my ragamuffins where they are well peppered, 
There are but three of the 150 left alive, and they are 
for the Tovm's-end (queiy, might not Falstaff mean the 
Bow-street officer ? I dare say Malone's posthumous 
edition will have it so) for life. 

" Since I wrote last, I have been into the country. I 
journeyed by night — no incident or accident, but an 
alarm on the part of my valet on the outside, who, in 
crossing Epping Forest, actually, I believe, flung down 
his purse before a mile-stone, with a glowworm in the 
second figure of number XIX — mistaking it for a foot- 
pad and dark lantern. I can only attribute his fears to 
a pair of new pistols, wherewith I had armed him ; and 
he thought it necessary to display his vigilance by call- 
ing out to me whenever we passed any thing — no matter 
whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles, 
with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you a 
fearfully long letter. This sheet must be blank, and is 
merely a wrapper, to preclude the tabellarians of the 
post from peeping. You once complained of my not 
writing ; — I will heap ' coals of fire upon your head' by 
not complaining of your not reading. Ever, ray dear 
Moore, your 'n, (isn 't that the Staffordshire termination ?) 

« Byron." 



LETTER CLXm. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"July 27, 1813. 
" When you next imitate the style of ' Tacitus,' pray 
add, 'de moribus Germanorum ;' — this last was a piece 
of barbarous silence, and could only be taken from the 
IVoods, and, as such, I attribute it entirely to your sylvan 
sequestration at Mayfield Cottage. You will find, on 
casting up accounts, that you are my debtor by several 
sheets and one epistle, I shall bring my action ; — if you 
do n't discharge, expect to hear from my attorney. I 
have forwarded your letter to Ruggiero; but do n't 
make a postman of me again, for fear I should be tempted 
to violate your sanctity of wax or wafer. 

" Believe me ever yours, indignantly, 
« Bn." 



LETTER CLXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 28, 1813. 
" Can't you be satisfied with the pangs of my jealousy 
of Rogers, without actually making me the pander of 
your epistolary intrigue? This is the second letter you 
have enclosed to my address, notwithstanding a miracu- 
lous long answer, and a subsequent short one or two of 
your own. If you do so again, I can't tell to what pitch 
my fury may soar. I shall send you verse or arsenic, 
as likely as any thing, — four thousand couplets on sheets 
beyond the privilege of franking ; that privilege, sir, of 
which you take an undue advantage over a too suscepti- 
ble senator, by forwarding your lucubrations to every 
one but himself I wont frank from you, or for you, or 
to you, may I be cursed if I do, unless you mend your 
manners. I disown you — I disclaim you — and by all 
the powers of Eulogy, I will write a panegyric upon you 
—or dedicate a quarto — if you don't make mo ample 
amends. 

" P. S. I am in training to dine with Sheridan and 
Rogers this evening. I have a Uttlc spile against R. 
and will shed his 'Clary wines pottlo-deep.' This is 
nearly my ultimate or penultimate letter ; for I am quite 
equipped, and only wait a passage. Perhaps 1 may 
wait a few weeks for Sligo ; but not if I can help it." 



LETTER CLXV. 



TO MR. CROKER. 



«Bt. Str. August 2, 1813. 



DEAR SIR, 



"I was honoured with your unexpected and very 
obliging letter when on the point of leaving London, 
which prevented me from acknowledging my obhgation 
as quickly as I felt it sincerely. I am endeavouring all 
in my power to be ready before Saturday — and even if 
I should not succeed, I can only blame my own tardi- 
ness, which will not the less enhance the benefit I have 
lost. I have only to add my hope of forgiveness for all 
my trespasses on your time and patience, and with my 
best wishes for your public and private welfare, I have 
the honour to be, most truly, 

" Your obliged and most obedient servant, 
« Bttron." 



The following notes to Mr. Murray, have reference 
to a fifth edition of the " Giaour" then m press. The 
poem first appeared in the May preceding, and contained 
originally but about four hundred Unes, and was gradu- 
ally increased through successive editions to its present 
number, nearly fourteen hundred. In a note which ac- 
companied the manuscript of the paragraph commencing 

" Fair clime, where every season smiles," 

he says, " I have not yet fixed the place of insertion for 
the following lines, but will when I see you." 
The whole portion from the line 



[lown to 



For there the rose o'er crag and vale. 



' And turn to groans his roundelay," 



was inserted during the revision of the proofs. 
The passage stood originally thus : — 

" Fair clime ! where ceaseless summer smiled 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight. 
And give to loneliness delight. 
There shine the bright abodes ye seek. 
Like dimples upon Ocean's cheek,— 
So smiling round the toaters lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave. 
Or if, at times, the transient breeze 
Break the smooth crystal of the seal, 
Or brush one blossom from the trees, 
How grateful is the gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the fragrance there." 



The several passages beginning- 



and 



He who hath bent him o'er the dead : 
The cygnet proudly walks the water : 



My memory now is but the tonr.b ; 



were added to the fourth edition, between which and 
the first, only six weeks intervened. 
The verses commencing — 

•' The browsing camels' bells are tinkling :' 

and the passage 

"Yes, love indeed is light from heaven," 

were inserted in tlio fiflh edition, and subsequently th« 

following — 

" Rhe was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, bucamo a |)arl of sight, 
And rose, wheiu'cr I tiirn'd mine eye, 
Tlic Morning-Binr of memory I" 

" If you send more proof-*, I shall never finish this in- 
fernal story — ' Ecce signum' — thirty-three Imes mor* 
enclosed ! to the utter discomfiture of the printer, and, 
1 fear, not to your advantage. " B. 



54 



LETTERS, 1813. 



" Half-past two in the morning, Aug. 10, 1813. 

"dear sir, 
" Pray suspend the ■proofs, for I am bitten again, and 
have quantities for other parts of the bravura. 

" Yours ever, " B. 
« P. S. You shall have them in the course of the 
day." 



LETTER CLXVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Aug. 26, 1813. 

■ I have looked over and corrected one proof] but not 
so carefully (God knows if you can read it through, but 
I can't) as to preclude your eye from discovering some 
omission of mine or commission of your printer. If you 
have patience, look it over. Do you know any body 
who can stop — I mean point — commas, and so forth ? 
for I am, I hear, a sad hand at your punctuation. I 
have, but with some difficulty, not added any more to 
this snake of a Poem, which has been lengthening its 
rattles every month. It is now fearfully long, being 
more than a canto and a half of Childe Harold, which 
contains but 882 lines per book, with all late additions 
inclusive. 

" The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not often he 
does, and when he don't, he tells me with great energy, 
and I fret and alter. I have thrown them in to soften 
the ferocity of our Infidel, and, for a dying man, have 
given him a good deal to say for himself. * + + * 

" I was q^iite sorry to hear you say you stayed in 
town on my account, and I hope sincerely you do not 
mean so superfluous a piece of politeness. 

" Our six critiques ! — they would have made half a 
duarterly by themselves ; but this is the age of criticism." 



The following refer apparently to a still later edition. 
LETTER CLXVn. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Stilton, Oct. 3, 1813. 
" I have just recollected an alteration you may make 
in the proof to be sent to Aston. — Among the lines on 
Hassan's Serai, not far from the beginning, is this — 

" Unmeet for Solitude to share. 

Now to share implies more than one, and Solitude is a 
single gentleman ; it must be thus — 

" For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
Which Solitude might well forbear ; 

and so on. — My address is Aston-Hall, Rotherham. 

" Will you adopt this correction ? and pray accept a 
Stilton cheese from me for your trouble, 

"Ever yours, "B." 

" If* the old line stands, let the other run thus — 

" Nor there will weary traveller halt, 
To bless the sacred bread and salt. 

"Note. — To partake of food — to break bread and 
taste salt with your host, ensures the safety of the 
guest; even though an enemy, his person from that 
moment becomes sacred. 

" There is another additional note sent yesterday — 
on the Priest in the Confessional. 

" P. S. I leave this to your discretion ; if any body 
thinks the old line a good one, or the cheese a bad one 
do n't accept either. But, in that case, the word share 
in repeated soon after in the hne — 

" To share the master's bread and salt ; 



and must be altered to— 

" To break the master's bread and salt. 

This is not so well, though— confound it !" 



LETTER CLXVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Oct. 12,1813. 

"You must look the Giaour again over carefully; 
there are a few lapses, particularly in the last page.— 
' I know 't was false ; she could not die ;' it was, and 
ought to be — 'I knew.^ Pray obssrve this and similar 
mistakes. 

"I have received and read the British Review. I 
really think the writer in most points very right. The 
only mortifying thing is the accusation of imitation. 
Crabbe's passage 1 never saw, and Scott I no further 
meant to follow than in his lyric measure, which is 
Gray's, Milton's, and any one's who likes it. The 
Giaour is certainly a bad character, but not dangerous ; 
and I think his fate and his feelings will meet with few 
proselytes. I shall be very glad to hear from or of you, 
when you please ; but do n't put yourself out of your 
way on my account." 



This is written on a separate slip of paper enclosed. 



LETTER CLXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

« Bennet-street, Aug. 22, 1813. 

****** 

" As our late — I might say, deceased— correspondence 
had too much of the town-life leaven in it, we will now 
' paulo majora,' prattle a little of literature in all its 
branches ; and first of the first — criticism. The Prince 
is at Brighton, and Jackson, the boxer, gone to Margate, 
having, I believe, decoyed Yarmouth to see a milling in 
that polite neighbourhood. Mad^. de Stael Holstein 
has lost one of her young barons, who has been car- 
bonadoed by a vile Teutonic adjutant, — kilt and killed 
in a coffee-house at Scrawsenhawsen. Corinne is, of 
course, what all mothers must be, — but will, I venture to 
prophesy, do what few mothers could — write an Essay 
upon it. She cannot exist without a grievance — and 
somebody to see, or read, how much grief becomes her. 
I have not seen her since the event ; but merely judge 
(not very charitably) from prior observation, 

" In a ' mail-coach copy' of the Edinburgh, I perceive 
the Giaour is 2d article. The numbers are still in the 
Leith smack — pray, which way is the wind ? The said 
article is so very mild and sentimental, that it must be 
written by Jeffrey in love; — you know he is gone to 
America to marry some fair one, of whom he has been 
for several quarters, ^perdument amoureux. Seriously — 
as Winifred Jenkins says of Lismahago^Mr. Jeffrey 
(or his deputy) ' has done the handsome thing by me,' 
and I say nothing.* But this 1 will say, — if you and I 
had knocked one another on the head in this quarrel, 
how he would have laughed, and what a mighty bad 
figure we should have cut in our posthumous works. 
By-the-by, I was called in the other day to meditate 
between two gentlemen bent upon carnage, and, — after 
a long struggle between the natural desire of destroying 
one's fellow-creatures, and the dislike of seeing men 
play the fool for nothing, — I got one to make an apology, 
and the other to take it, and lefl them to live happy 
ever after. One was a peer, the other a friend untitled, 
and both fond of high play ; — and one, I can swear for, 
though very mild, ' not fearful,' and so dead a shot, that, 
though the other is the thinnest of men, he would have 
split him like a cane. They both conducted themselve* 



Sm Don Juan, Canto X. stanza IS, 



LETTERS, 1813. 



56 



very well, and I put them out ot' pain as soon as 1 
could. 

****** 

"There is an American Life of G. F. Cooke, Scurra 
deceased, lately published. Such a book ! — I believe, 
since Drunken Barnaby's Journal, nothing like it has 
drenched the press.* All green-room and tap-room — 
drams and the drama — brandy, whisky-punch, and, laU 
terly^ toddy, overflow every page. Two .things are 
rather marvellous — first, that a man should live so long 
drunk, and, next, that he should have found a sober bio- 
grapher. There are some very laughable things in it, 
nevertheless : — but the pints he swallowed, and the parts 
he performed, are too regularly registered. 

"All this time you wonder I am not gone : so do I ; 
but the accounts of the plague are very perplexing — not 
80 much for the thing itself as the quarantine established 
in all ports, and from all places, even from England. It 
is true the forty or sixty days would, in all probability, 
be as foolishly spent on shore as in the ship ; but one 
likes to have one's choice, nevertheless. Town is 
awfully empty ; but not the worse for that. I am really 
puzzled with my perfect ignorance of what I mean to 
do ; — not stay, if I can help it, but where to go ? Sligo 
is for the North, — a pleasant place, Petersburgh, in Sep- 
tember, with one's ears and nose in a muff, or else 
tumbling into one's neckcloth or pocket handkerchief! 
If the winter treated Buonaparte with so little ceremony, 
what would it inflict upon your solitary traveller ? give 
me a sun., I care not how hot, and sherbet, I care not 
how cool, and my Heaven is as easily made as your Per- 
sian's.* The Giaour is now 1000 and odd lines. ' Lord 
Fanny spins a thousand such a day,' eh, Moore? — thou 
wilt needs be a wag, but I forgive it. 

"Yours ever, "Bn. 

"P. S. I perceive I have written a flippant and rather 
cold-hearted letter; let it go, however. I have said 
nothing, either, of the brilliant sex ; but the fact is, I am, 
at this moment, in a far more serious, and entirely new, 
scrape than any of the last twelvemonth, — and that is 
saying a good deal. + * * It is unlucky we can 
neither live with or without these women. 

" I am now thinking and regretting that just as I have 
left Newstead, you reside near it. Did you ever see it ? 
do — but do n't tell me that you like it. If I had known 
of such intellectual neighbourhood, I do n't think I should 
have quitted it. You could have come over so often, as 
a bachelor, — for it was a thorough bachelor's mansion — 
plenty of wine and such sordid sensualities — with books 
enough, room enough, and an air of antiquity about all 
(except the lasses) that would have suited you, when 
pensive, and served you to laugh at when in glee. I 
had built myself a bath and a vault — and now I shan't 
even be buried in it. It is odd that we can't even be 
certain of a grave, at least a particular one. I remem- 
ber, when about fifteen, reading your poems there, — 
which I can repeat almost now, — and asking all kinds 
of questions about the author, when I heard that he was 
not dead according to the preface ; wondering if I should 
ever see him — and though, at that time, without the 
smallest poetical propensity myself, very much taken, as 
you may imagine, with that volinno. Adieu — I commit 
you to the care of the gods — Hindoo, Scandinavian, and 
Hellenic ! 

"P. S. 2d. There is an excellent review of Grimm's 
Correspondence and Mad", do Stai'l in this N". of the 
Edinburgh Review. + * * * 

Jeffrey, himself, was my critic last year ; but this is, I 
believe, by another hand. I hope you are going on with 
your grand coup — pray do — or that damned Lueion 
Buonaparte will beat us all. I have seen much of his 



A PcrHi.tii'H Heivv'n is eniily riimlo — 

'T it but black e>-» and lemooado."— Mou' i 



poem in MS. and he really surpasses every thing be- 
neath Tasso. Hodgson is translating him against ano- 
ther bard. You and (I believe, Rogers) Scott, GifTord, 
and myself, are to be referred to as judges between the 
twain, — that is, if you accept the oflice. Conceive our 
different opinions ! I think we, most of us (I am talking 
very impudently, you will think — v^, indeed ! have a 
way of our own, — at least, you and Scott certainly 
have." 



LETTER CLXX. 



TO MB. MOORE. 



"Aug. 28, 1813. 
"Ay, my dear Moore, 'there was a time' — I have 
heard of your tricks when ' you was campaigning at the 
king of Bohemy.' I am much mistaken if, some fine 
London spring, about the year 1815, that time does not 
come again. After all we must end in marriage ; and 
I can conceive nothing more delightful than such a state 
in the country, reading the county newspaper, &c. and 
kissing one's wife's maid. Seriously, I would incorpo- 
rate with any woman of decent demeanour to-morrow — - 
that is, I would a month ago, but, at present, * + 
* * * *^ 

"Why do n't you 'parody that Ode?'*— Do you 
think I should be tetchy ? or have you done it, and won't 
tell me ? — You are quite right about Giamschid, and I 
have reduced it to a dissyllable within this half^hour.")" 
I am glad to hear you talk of Richardson, because it 
tells me what you won't — that you are going to beat 
Lucien. At least, tell me how far you have proceeded. 
Do you think me less interested about your works, or 
less sincere than our friend Ruggiero ? I am not — and 
never was. In that thing of mine, the 'English Bards,' 
at the time when I was angry with all the world, I never 
' disparaged your parts,' although I did not know you 
personally ; — and have always regretted that you do n't 
give us an entire work, and not sprinkle yourself in de- 
tached pieces — beautiful, I allow, and quite cdone in our 
language, but still giving us a right to expect a ShaJi 
Name/i (is tiiat the name ?) as well as Gazels. Stick 
to the East; the oracle, Stael, told me it was the only 
poetical policy. The North, South, and West, have all 
been exhausted ; but from the East, we have nothinc 
but Southey's unsaleables, — and these he has contrived 
to spoil, by adopting only their most outrageous fictions. 
His personages do n't interest us, and yours will. You 
will have no competitor ; and if you had, you ought to bo 
glad of it. The little I have done in that way is merely 
a ' voice in the wilderness' for you ; and, if it has had 
any success, that also will prove that the public are 
orientalizing, and pave the path for you. 

"I have been thinking of a story, grafted on the 
amours of a Peri and a mortal — something like, only 
more philanthropical, than Cazotte's Diable Amoureux.J 
It would require a good deal of poesy ; and tenderness 
is not my forte. For that, and other reasons, I have 
given up the idea, and merely suggest it to you, because, 
in intervals of your greater work, I think it a subject 
you might make much of. If you want any more books, 



• TheOilc of Horace, 

" NatU in uauin liciilinj," 4c. 

«ome pnsangci of which Mr. Mix)te told liim might bt pnnxlied, in alio* 
■ion to BOinu of his lutt- udventiiiui : 

" Uunntn Inlwrai in Charybdi I 
IJigiic |iiirr nielioit! flunun&l" 
t In his nr»l edition of ilie (iinour he hni» used thi» wont ai a Irlivlle- 
Mv,—" llriKht (IS the Rem i.rGlnmmhld,"— but on Mr. Moore'i rt'insik- 
U\H to liirn, iipou ilic imihorily of Hichiirdion'i Peitinn Dictionnrv, thai 
liiii wim iiuorrrcl, he Hlleri«il it to " Bright tm the nil)y ot Glnmjcliid." 
On ieclng thin, however, Mr. M. wrote tu him '• thnt, a* the comi>arltoo 
of hii lu'iiiine'i eye to a ' ruby' might uniuckilv cull up the ld»a of It* 
bcinK bloodiihot, he had bettor chnnja th» Una to ' Drifht at iht Jtw»l of 
liiuinichid ;' "—which he occordinjtiy did In the folio winf edition. 



\ (iett Heuvi'u and Knrth, (vm* 8SU. 



66 



thefe is 'Castellan's Moeurs des Ottomans,' the best 
compendium of the kind 1 ever met with, in six small 
tomes. I am really taking a liberty by talking in this 
slyle to my ' elders and my betters ;' — pardon it, and 
do n't Rochefoiicault my motives." 



LETTER CLXXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"August — September, I mean — 1, 1813. 

" I send you, begging your acceptance. Castellan, and 
three vols, on Turkish Literature, not yet looked into. 
The last I will thank you to read, extract what you 
want, and return in a week, as they are lent to me by 
that brightest of northern constellations. Mackintosh, — 
among many other kind things into which India has 
warmed him, for I am sure your home Scotsman is of a 
less genial description. 

" Your Peri, my dear M., is sacred and inviolable ; I 
have no idea of touching the hem of her petticoat. 
Your affectation of a dislike to encounter me is so flat- 
tering, that I begin to think myself a very fine fellow. 
But you are laughing at me — 'stap my vitals, Tarn! 
thou art a very impudent person ;' and, if you are not 
laughing at me, you deserve to be laughed at. Serious- 
ly, what on earth can you, or have you, to dread from 
any poetical flesh breathing? It really puts me out of 
humour to hear you talk thus. 
* * + + * * + 

" The 'Giaour' I have added to a good deal; but still 
in foolish fragments. It contains about 1200 lines, or 
rather more — now printing. You will allow me to send 
you a copy. You delight me much by telling me that I 
am in your good graces, and more particularly as to 
temper ; for, unluckily, I have the reputation of a very 
bad one. But they say the devil is amusing when pleased, 
and I must have been more venomous than the old ser- 
pent, to have hissed or stung in your company. It may 
be, and would appear to a third person, an incredible 
thing, but I know you will believe me when I say that I 
am as anxious for your success as one human being can 
be for another's, — as much as if I had never scribbled a 
line. Surely the field of fame is wide enough for all ; 
and if it were not, I would not willingly rob my neighbour 
of a rood of it. Now you have a pretty property of 
come thousand acres there, and when you have passed 
your present Enclosure Bill, your income will be doubled 
(there 's a metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert 
and low,) while my wild common is too remote to in- 
commode you, and quite incapable of such fertility. I 
Bend you (which return per post, as the printer would 
say) a curious letter from a friend of mine,* which will 
let you into the origin of ' the Giaour.' Write soon. 
" Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, &c. 



LETTERS, 1813. 



• The following letter of Lord Sligo. 

" Albany, Monday, Aug. 31, 1813. 
" My dear Byron, 

" You have requested me to tell you all tlial I heard al Athens about 
the affair of thai girl who was so near being put an end to while you were 
there ; you have asked me lo mention every circumstance, in the remotest 
degree relating lo it, which I heard. In compliance with your wishes, 1 
wnle to you all I heard, and I cannot imagine it lo be very far from the 
fact, as ihe circumstance happened only a day or two before 1 arrived at 
Alheus, and consequently was a matter of common conversation at the 
time. 

" The new governor, unaccustomed to have the same intercourse with 
the (;hri»lians ns his predecessor, had of course the barbarous Turkish 
Ideas with regard to wouirn. In consequence and in compliance with 
(he strict letter of the Mahommeddn law, he ordired this girl to bi- sewed 
up in a sack, and thrown into the sea, — as is, indeed, quite customary at 
Constantinople. As you were returning from bathiiig in the PIrwus, you 
met the procession going down lo execute the sentence of the Waywode 
on this unfortunate girl. Reimrl conliiiuri lo say, that on fimline out 
what the object of their Journey was, aiid who was Ihe miserable sufferer, 
you immediately Intrrfered ; and on some delay in obeying your orders, 
Tou were obliged lo inform the leader nf the escort, that force should make 
nim comply ;— that, on farther hesitation, you drew a piat.il, and told 
him, that if he did not immediately obey your orders, ami come back with 
you to the Aga's house, you would shoot him dead. On this, the man 
tumeil about and went with you lo the governor's house ; here you suc- 
c«eded, pafl'y ^V personal ihrcau, and partly by bribery and entreaty, 



"P. S. This letter was written to me on account of a 
different stcrry circulated by some gentlewomen of our 
acquaintance, a litde too close to the text. The part 
erased contained merely some Turkish names, and cir- 
cumstantial evidence of the girl's detection, not very im- 
portant or decorous." 



LETTER CLXXn. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



A 



« Sept. 5, 1813. 

"You need not tie yourself down to a day with Tode 
rini, but send him at your leisure, having anatomized him 
into such annotations as you want ; I do not believe that 
he has ever undergone that process before, which is the 
best reason for not sparing him now. 

" Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recovered 
of the (Quarterly. What fellows these reviewers are ! 
' these bugs do fear us all.' They made you fight, and 
me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, and will end by mak- 
ing Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been reading 
Memory again, the other day, and Hope together, and 
retain all my preference of the former. His elegance is 
really wonderful — there is no such thing as a vulgar hne 
in his book. + + * + 

" What say you to Buonaparte ? Remember, I back 
him against the field, barring Catalepsy and the Ele- 
ments. Nay, I almost wish him success against all 
countries but this, — were it only to choke the Morning 
Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellious 
bastard of Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogers 
wants me to go with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and 
to besiege you on our way. This last is a great temp- 
tation, but I fear it will not be in my power, unless you 
would go on with one of us somewhere — no matter 
where. It is too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon 
some scheme, high life or low, — the last would be much 
the best for amusement. I am so sick of the other, that 
I quite sigh for a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a smuggler's 
sloop. 

"You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates 
were a little more accommodating to our parallel lines, 
which prolong ad infinitum without coming a jot the 
nearer. I almost wish I were married too— which is 
saying much. All my friends, seniors and juniors, are 
in for it, and ask me to be godfather, — the only species 
of parentage which, I beheve, will ever come to my share 
in a lawful way ; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing 
of Lucina, we can never be certain, — though the parish 
may. I suppose I shall hear from you to-morrow. If 
not, this goes as it is ; but I leave room for a P. S., in 
case any thin^ requires an answer. Ever, &c. 

" No letter — nHmporte. Rogers thinks the (Quarterly 
will be at me this time : if so, it shall be a war of exter- 
mination — no quarter. From the youngest devil down 
to the oldest woman of that Review, all shall perish by 
one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature shall be torn 
asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller ; nay, if 
one were to include readers also all the better." 



LETTER CLXXIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sept. 8, 1813. 
' I am sorry to see Tod, again so soon, for fear your 



10 procure her pardon on condition of her leaving Athens. I was told 
that you then conveyed her in safety to the convent, and despatched her 
off al night to Thebes, where she found a safe asylum. Such is the story 
I heard, as nearly as I can recollect it at present. Should you wish to 
ask me any further questions about it, I shall be very ready and willing 
to answer them. 

" I remain, my dear Byron, 

" yours, very sincerely, 

" Sr.,IGO. 
" I am afraid you will hardly be able lo read this scrawl j but I am so 
hurried with thegjreparalions for my journey, that you muBtexcuM it."^ 






LETTERS, 1813. 



57 



scrupulous conscience should have prevented you from fully 
availing yourself of his spoils. By this coach I send you a 
copy of that awful pamphlet, 'the Giaour,' which has never 
procured me half so high a compliment as your modest alarm. 
You will (if inclined in an evening) perceive that I have 
added much m quantity, — a circumstance which may truly 
diminish your modesty upon the subject. 

" You stand certainly in great need of a ' lift' with Mack- 
intosh. My dear Moore, you strangely underrate yourself 
I should conceive it an affectation in any other ; but I think 
I know you well enough to believe that you don't know your 
own value. However, 't is a fault that generally mends ; 
and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard him speak 
of you as highly as your wife could wish ; and enough to 
give all your friends the jaundice. 

" Yesterday I had a letter from Ali Pacha ! brought by 
Doctor Holland, who is just returned from Albania. It is 
in Latin, and begins ' Excellentissime, nee rum Carissime,' 
and ends about a gun he wants made for him ; — it is signed 
* Ali Vizir.' What do you think he has been about ? H. 
tells me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, 
forty-two years ago, his mother and sisters were treated as 
Miss Cunigunde was by the Bulgarian cavalry. He takes 
the town, selects all the survivors of this exploit— children, 
grandchildren, &c. to the tune of six hundred, and has them 
shot before his face. Recollect, he spared the rest of the 
city, and confined himself to the Tarquin pedigree, — which 
IS more than I would. So much for ' dearest friend.' " 



LETTER CLXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sept. 9, 1813. 
"I write to you from Murraj^s, and I may say, from 
Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in favour of any 
other publisher,, would be happy to treat with you, at a fit- 
ting time, for your work. I can safely recommend him, as 
fair, liberal, and attentive, and certamly, in point of reputa- 
tion, he stands among the first of 'the trade.' I am sure he 
would do you justice. I have written to you so much lately 
that you will be glad to see so little now. Ever, &c. &c." 



LETTER CLXXV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

«Sept.27,1813. 

"THOMAS MOORE, 

* (Thou wilt never be called 'true Thomas,' like he of 
ErcUdoune,) why don't you write to me ? — as you won't, I 
must. I was near you at Aston the other day, and hope I 
soon shall be again. If so, you must and shall meet nie, 
and go to Matlock and elsewhere, and take what, in flash 
dialect, is poetically termed ' a lark,' with Rogers and me for 
accomplices. Yesterday, at Holland-house, I was intro- 
duced to Southey — the best-looking bard I have seen for 
some time. To have that poet's head and shoulders, I 
would almost have written his Sapphics. He Is certainly a 
prepossessing person to look on, and a man of talent, and all 
that, and — tliere is his eulogy. 

" * * read me part of a letter from you. By the foot of 
Pharaoh, I believe there was abuse, for he stopped short, so 
he did, after a fine saying about our correspondence, and 
looked— I wish I could revenge myself by attacking you, or 
by telling you tliat I have had to defend you — an agreeable 
way wliich one's friends have of recommending themselves, 
by saying — " Ay, ay, / gave it Mr. Such-a-one for what he 
said about your being a plagiary, and a rake, and so on.* 
But do you know that you are one of tlie very few whom 1 
never have tlic satisfaction of hearing abused, but the 
reverse ; — and do you suppose I will forgive tlmt ? 

" I have been in the country, and ran away from the 

Doncastcr races. It is odd, — T was a visitor in tJio same 

house which came to uiy sire as a residence with L:uly 

Carmarthen (with whom he adulterated before hiij majority 

8 



— by-the-by, remember, she was not my mamma) — and 
they thrust me into an old room, with a nauseous picture 
over tlie chimney, which I should suppose my papa regarded 
with due respect, and wliich, inheriting the family taste, I 
looked upon with great satisfaction. I stayed a week with 
the family, and behaved very well — though the lady of the 
house is young, and religious, and pretty, and the master is 
my particular friend. I felt no wish for any thing but a 
poodle dog, which they kindly gave me. Now, for a man 
of my courses, not even to have coveted is a sign of great 
amendment. Pray pardon cdl this nonsense, and don't 
' snub me when I 'm in spirits.' 

" Ever yours, 

«Bn. 
" Here 's an impromptu for you by a ' person of quality,' 
written last week, on being reproached for low spirits. 
" When from the heart where sorrow sits,* Sec. 



LETTER CLXXVL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



« Oct. 2, 1813. 

You have not answered some six letters of mine. This, 
therefore, is my penultimate. I will write to you once more ; 
but after that — I swear by all the saints — I am silent and 
supercilious. I have met Curran at HoUand-housef — he 
beats every body ; — his imagination is beyond human, and 
his humour (it is difficult to define what is wii) perfect. 
Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, w hen he 
mimics ; — I never met his equal. Now, were I a woman, 
and eke a virgin, that is the man I shoiild make my Sca- 
mander. He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met 
him but once ; and you, who have known liim long, may 
probably deduct from my panegyric. I almost fear to meet 
him again, lest the impression should be lowered. He talked 
a great deal about you — a theme never tiresome to me, nor 
any body else tliat I know. What a variety of expression 
he conjures into that naturally not very fine countenance of 
his ! He absolutely changes it entiiely. I have done — 
for I can't describe him, and you know him. On Simday I 
return to * *, where I sliall not be far from you. Perhaps 
I shall hear from you in the mean time. Good night. 

"Saturday morn. — Your letter has cancelled all my 
anxieties. I did not suspect you in earnest. Modest again ! 
Because I don't do a very shabby thing, it seems, I ' don't 
fear your competition.' If it were reduced to an alternative 
of preference, I should dread you, as much as Satan does 
Michael. But is there not room enough in our respective 
regions? Goon — it will soon be my turn to forgive. To- 
day I dine with Mackintosh and Mrs. Stale — as .Tohn Bull 
may be pleased to denominate Corinne — whom I saw last 
night, at Covent-garden, yawning over tlie humour of FaJstafU 

" The reputation of ' gloom,' if one's friends are not in- 
ch iderl in the repulants, is of great service ; as it saves one 
from a legion of impertincnts, in the shape of commonplace 
acquaintance. But thou knowest I can be a right merry 
and conceited fellow, and rarely ' larmoyant.' Murray shall 
reinstate your line forthwitli.J I believe the blunder in tlie 
motto was mine ; and yet I have, in general, a memory for 
you, and am sure it was rightly printed at first. 

"I do 'blush' very often, if I may believe Ladies II. and 
M. — but luckily, at present, no one sees me. Adieu." 



LETTER CLXXVII. 

TO MR. MOOUE. 

"Nov. 30, 1813. 
" Since I last wrote to you, much has occurred, good, bad, 



* See Poems, p. 189. 

1 See Memorriuliiin«, p. 266. 

t 'I'he mollo lo tln> Oinoiir.whirh ia lukrn fixim oiip of llir lri«h Mcliv 
illes, lind bpiu quoUd l)V him iiicorreitiv in tho fiist i-ilition» o({hr Votm. 
Ilu tniuh altfrwnrd a •Imilar miatkkf iii the line* fiviii Uiirut (ucflAcd (u 
i tho Dride of Abyiloa. 



68 



LETTERS, 1813. 



and indifferent, — not to make me forget you, but to prevent 
me from reminding you of one who, nevertiieless, has often 
thought of you, and to whom your thoughts, in many a 
measure, have frequently been a consolation. We were 
once very near neighbours tliis autumn ; and a good and 
bad neighbourhood it lias proved to me. Suffice it to say, 
that your French quotation was confoundedly to the pur- 
pose,— though very unexpectedly pertinent, as you may ima- 
gine by what 1 smd before, and my silence since. * * + 
However, ' Richard 's himself again,' and, except all night and 
some part of the morning, I don't think very much about 
the matter. 

" All convulsions end with me in rhyme ; and to solace 
my midnights,.! have scribbled another Turkish story* — 
not a Fragment — which you will receive soon after this. It 
does not trench upon your kingdom in tlie least, and, if it did, 
you would soon reduce me to my proper boundaries. You 
will think, and jusdy, that I run some risk of losing the little 
I have gained in fame, by this further experiment on public 
patience ; but I have really ceased to care on that head. I 
have written tliis, and published it, for the sake of the em- 
ploymenL, — to wi-ing ray thoughts from reality, and take 
refuge in 'imaginings,' however ' horrible ;' and, as to success ! 
those who succeed will console me for a failure — excepting 
yourself and one or two more, whom luckily I love too well 
to wish one leaf of their laurels a tint yellower. This is the 
work of a week, and will be the reading of an hour to you, 
or even less, — and so let it go * * * 

"P. S. "Ward and I tdk of going to Holland. I want 
to see how a Dutch canal looks, after the Bosphorus. Pray 
respond." 



• The Bride of Abydos. To ihis poem he made additions, in the course 
of printing, amounting altogether to near two hundred lines ; and the 
opening lines, " Know ye the land," &c. — supposed to have been suggest- 
ed to him by a song of Goethe's, — were among the number of these new 
insertions, as were also those verses, " Who hath not proved how feebly 
words essay," &c. Having, at first, written the line in stanza 6, 

" Mind on her lip and music in her face,' ' 
he afterward altered it to — 

" The mind of music breathing in her face.'' 
But, this not satisfying him, the next step of correction brought the line 
to what it is at present— 

" The mind, the music breathing from her face." 
The whole passage which follows — 

" Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark,' ' 
was sent in sua-essive scraps to the printer, correction following correc- 
tion. 
The line, " And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray," was originally 



the following note being annexed: — " Mr. Murray, — Choose which of 
the two epithets, ' fancied,' or ' airy,' may be the best; or, if neither will 
do, tell me, and I will dream another." In the long passage just referred 
to, the six lines beginning " Blest as the Muezzin's strain," &c. having 
been despatched to the printer too late for insertion, were, by his desire, 
added in an errata page ; the first couplet, in its original form, being as 
follows: — 

" Soft as the Mecca-Muezzin's strains invite 
Him who hath journey'd far to join the rite." 
In a few hours after, anoUier scrap was sent off, containing the lines 
thus— 

*' Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's dome, 
Which welcomes Faith to view her Prophet's tomb," 

with the following note to Mr. Murray: — 

"December 3d, 1813. 
" Lookout in the Encyclopedia, article Mecca, whether it is there or 
at Medina the Prophet is entombed. If at Medina, the first lines of my 
alteration roust run — 

" Blest as the call which from Medina's dome 
Invites Devotion to her Prophet's tomb, &c." 
If at Mecca, the lines may stand as before. Page 45, canto 2d, Bride of 
Abydos. "Yours, 

"B. 
" You will find this out either by article Mecca, Medina, or Moham- 
mtd. I have no book of reference by me." 
Immcdiutely after succeeded another note: — 

" Did you look out ? Is it Medina or Mecca that contains the Holy 
Sepulchre? Don't make me blaspheme by your negligence. I have no 
book of reference, or I would save you the trouble. I blush as a good 
Mussulman, to have confused the point. " Yours, 

"B." 
Notwithstanding all these various changes, the couplet in question 
stands, at present, thus: — 

" Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To jnjgrims pure and prostrate at his call." 



LETTER CLXXVm. 



TO LEIGH HUNT. 



"4, Bennet-street, Dec. 2, 1813. 

* MY DEAR SIR, 

"Few things could be more welcome than your note; 
and on Saturday morning I will avail myselfof your per- 
mission to thank you for it in person. My time has not 
been passed, since we met, either profitably or agreeably. 
A very short period after my last visit, an incident occurred, 
with which, I fear, you are not unacquainted, as report, in 
many mouths and more than one paper, was busy with the 
topic. That, naturally, gave me much uneasiness. Then 
I nearly incurred a lawsuit on the sale of an estate ; but 
that is now arranged : next — but why should I go on with a 
series of selfish and silly details ? I merely wish to assure 
you that it was not the frivolous forgetfulness of a mind oc- 
cupied by what is called pleasure, (not in the true sense of 
Epicurus,) that kept me away ; but a perception of my, 
then, unfitness to share the society of those whom I value 
and wish not to displease. I hate being larmoyant, and 
making a serious face among those who are cheerful. 

" It is my wish that our acquaintance, or, if you please to 
accept it, friendship, may be permanent. I have been lucky 
enough to preserve some friends from a very early period, 
and I hope, as I do not (at least now) select them lightiy, I 
shall not lose them capriciously. I have a thorough esteem 
for that independence of spirit which you have maintained 
with sterling talent, and at the expense of some suffering. 
You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you were com- 
posing, when Moore and I partook of your hospitality in the 
summer. 1 hope a time will come when he and I may be 
able to repay you in kind for the latter — for the rhyme, at 
least in quantity, you are in arrear to both. 

" Believe me very truly and affectionately yours, 

"Byron." 



LETTER CLXXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Dec. 8, 1813. 

" Your letter, like all (he best, and even kindest, things in 
this world, is both painful and pleasing. But, first, to what 
sits nearest. Do you know I was actually about to dedicate 
to you, — not in a formal inscription, as to one's elders, — but 
through a short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself 
your intimate, and held forth the prospect of your Poem ; 
when, lo, the recollection of your strict injunctions of secrecy 
as to the said Poem, more than once repeated by word and 
letter, flashed upon me, and marred my intents. I could M 
have no motive for repressing my own desire of alluding to ■ 
you, (and not a day passes that I do not think and talk of 
you.) but an idea tliat you might, yourself, dislike it. You 
cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waiving personal friend- _ 
ship for the present, which, by-the-by, is not less sincere and ■ 
deep-rooted. I have you by rote and by heart ; of which V 
' ecce signum !' When I was at * *, on my first visit, I 
have a habit, in passing my time a good deal alone, of— I 
won't call it singing, for that I never attempt except to my- 
self—but of uttering, to what I think tunes, your ' Oh breathe 
not,' '^Tien the last glimpse,' and 'When he who adores 
thee,' with others of the same minstrel; — they are my ma- 
tins and vespers. I assuredly did not intend them to be 
overheard, but, one morning, in comes, not La Donna, but II 
Marito, with a very grave face, saying, ' Byron, I must re- 
quest you won't sing any more, at least of tJtose songs.' I 
stared, and said, 'Certainly, but why?'— 'To tell you the 
truth,' quoth he, ' they make my wife cry, and so melancholy, 
that I wish her to hear no more of them.' 

" Now, my dear Moore, the effect must have been from 
your words, and certainly not my music. I merely mention 
this foolish story, to show you how much I am indebted 
to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise and 
praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases— at 



LETTERS, 1813. 



59 



least, in composition. Though I think no one equal to you 
in that department, or in satire, — and surely no one was ever 
so popular in botli, — I certainly am of opinion that you have 
not yet done all you can do, though more than enough for 
any one else. I want, and the world expects, a longer work 
from you ; and I see in you what I never saw in poet before, 
a strange diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot 
account for, and which must be unaccountable, when a Cos- 
sac like me can appal a cuirassier. Your story I did not, 
could not, know, — I thought only of a Peri. I wish you had 
confided in me, not for your sake, but mine, and to prevent 
the world from losing a much better poem tiian my own, but 
which, I yet hope, this clashing wiQ not even now deprive 
them of. Mine is the work of a week, written, why I have 
partly told you, and partly 1 cannot tell you by letter — some 
day I will. 

***** 

"Go on — I shall really be very unhappy if I at all inter- 
fere with you. The success of mine is yet problematical ; 
though the public will probably purchase a certain quantity, 
on the presumption of their own propensity for ' the Giaour' 
and such ' horrid mysteries.' The only advantage I have is 
being on the spot ; and that merely amounts to saving me 
the trouble of turning over books, which I had better read 
again. Ifyour chamber was furnished in the same way, you 
have no need to go there to describe — I mean only as to ac- 
curacy — because I drew it from recollection. 

***** 

" This last thing of mine may have the same fate, and I 
assure you I have great doubts about it. But, even if not, 
its little day will be over before you are ready and willing. 
Come out — ' screw your courage to the sticlung-place.' Ex- 
cept the Post Bag (and surely you cannot complain of a 
want of success there,) you have not been regularly out for 
some years. No man stands higher, — whatever you may 
think on a rainy day, in your provincial retreat. ' Aucun 
honmie, dans aucune langue, n'a ete, peut-etre, plus com- 
pl^tement le poete du cceur et le poete des femmes. Les 
critiques lui reprochent de n'avoir represente le monde ni tel 
qu'il est, ni tel qu'il doit 6tre ; mais les femmes ripondeni qu'il 
I'a represents tel qu'elles le ddsirent.'' — I should have thought 
Sismondi had written this for you instead of Metastasio. 

" Write to me, and tell me of yourself. Do you remember 
what Rousseau said to some one — ' Have we quarrelled? 
you have talked to me often, and never once mentioned your- 
self 

" P. S. The last sentence is an indirect apology for my 
own egotism, — but I believe in letters it is allowed. I wish 
it was mutuxil. I have met with an odd reflection in Grimm ; 
it shall not — at least, the bad part, — be applied to you or me, 
though one of us has certainly an indifferent name — but this 
it is: ' Many people have the reputation of being wicked, with 
whom we shou'd be too happy to pass our lives.' I need not 
add it is a woman's saying — a Mademoiselle de Som- 
mery's." 

***** 



LETTER CLXXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Dec. 4, 1813. 
" I have rcdde through your Persian Tales,* and have 
taken tlie liberty of making some remarks on the blank pages. 
There are many beautiful passages, and an interesting story ; 
and I cannot give you a stronger proof that such is my opi- 
nion than by the dale of the Imur — turn o''clor,k^ till \vhich it 
has kept mc awake without n yaum. The conclusion is not 
quite correct in costume : there is no Mussulman suicide on 
record, — at least for looe. But this matters not. The talc 
must have been written by some one who has been on the 
spot, and I wish him, and he deserves, success. Will you 
apologize to the author for the liberties I have taken with his 



Ilderim, &c. by Mr. Knight. 



MS.? Had I been less awake to, and interested in, hia 
theme, I had been less obtrusive ; but you know / always 
take this in good part, and I hope he will. It is difficult to 
say what wUl succeed, and still more to pronounce what will 
not. I am at this moment in that uncertainty (on our oum 
score,) and it is no small proof of the author's powers to be 
able to charm and /ix a inind^s attention on similar subjects 
and climates in such a predicament. That he may have 
the same effect upon all his readers is very sincerely the 
wish, and hardly the dovbt^ of yours truly, " B." 



LETTER CLXXXI. 



TO MR. GIFFORD. 



"Nov. 12, 1813. 

"my dear sir, 

I hope you will consider when I venture on any re- 
quest, that it is the reverse of a certain Dedication, and 

addressed not to ' The Editor of the Quarterly Re- 
view,' but to Mr. Gifford. You will understand this, 
and on that point I need trouble you no farther. 

" You have been good enough to look at a thing of 
mine in MS.* — a Turkish story, and I should feel grati- 
fied if you would do it the same favour in its probationary 
state of printing. It was written, I cannot say for 
amusement, nor 'obliged by hunger and request^ of 
friends,' but m a state of mind, from circumstances which 
occasionally occur to ' us youth,' that rendered it neces- 
sary for me to apply my mind to something, any thing 
but reality ; and under this not very briUiant inspiration 
it was composed. Being done, and having at least 
diverted me from myself, I thought you would not 
perhaps be offended if Mr. Murray forwarded it to you. 
He has done so, and to apologize for his doing so a 
second time is the object of my present letter. 

" I beg you will not send me any answer. 1 assure 
you very sincerely I know your time to be occupied, and 
it is enough, more than enough, if you read ; you are 
not to be bored with the fatigue of answers. 

" A word to Mr. Murray will be sufficient, and send it 
either to the flames, or 

' A hundred hawkers' load, 
On wmga of winds to fly or fall abroad.' 

It deserves no better than the first, as the work of a week, 
and scribbled ' stans pede in uno' (by-the-by, the only 
foot I have to stand on ;) and I promise never to trouble 
you again under forty Cantos, and a voyage between 
each. " Believe me ever 

" Your obliged and affectionate servant, 
" Byron." 



LETTER CLXXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 12,1813. 
"Two friends of mine (Mr. Rogers and Mr. Sharpe) 
have advised me not to risk at present any single pub- 
lication separately, for various reasons. As they have 
not seen the one in question, they can have no bias for 
or against the merits (if it has any) or the faults of the 
present subject of our conversation. You say all the 
last of the 'Giaour' are gone — at least out of your hands. 
Now, if you think of publishing any new edition with 
the last additions which have not yet been before tiio 
reader (1 mean distinct from the two-volume publica- 
tion,) we can adil the ' Bride of Abydos,' which will thus 
steal quietly into the world: if liked, wo can then tJirow 
off some copies for the purchasers of former 'Giaours ;' 
and, if not, I can omit it in any future publication. 
What think you? I really am no judge of those things, 
and with all my natural partiality for one's own produc- 



TheBrictaofAbydo*. 



.^' 



60 



LETTERS, 1813. 



tions, I would rather follow any one's judgment than my 
own. 

" P. S. Pray let me have the proofs I sent cdl to-night. 
I have some alterations that I wish to make spoedily. I 
hope the proof \'( ill be on separate pa^es, and not all 
huddled together on a mile-long ballad-singing sheet, as 
those of the (5 ia lur sometimes are ; for then I can't read 
them distinctly." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Nov. 13, 1813. 
" Will you forward the letter to Mr. GifFord with the 
proof? There is an alteration I may make in Zuleika's 
speech, in second Canto (the only one of ?iers in that 
Canto.) It is now thus : — 

" And curse, if I could curse, the day, 

It must be — 

" And mourn — I dare not curse — the day 
That saw my solitary birth, &c. &c. 

" Ever yours, " B. 

"In the last MS. lines sent, instead of 'living heart,' 
convert to ' quivering heart.' It is in the line 9th of the 
MS. passage. 

" Ever yours again, " B ." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Alteration of a line in Canto second. 
Instead of— 

" And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray, 
" And tints to-morrow -wlih prophetic ray. 
" The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ; 
gilds 
" And tints the hope of morning with its ray ; 
" And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray. 

« I wish you would ask Mr. GifFord which of them is 
best, or rather not worst. « Ever &c. 

" You can send the request contained in this at the 
same time with the revise, after I have seen the said re- 
vise.^' 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 13, 1813. 

"Certamly. Do you suppose that no one but the 
Galileans are acquainted with Adam, and Eve, and 
Cain,* and JVoah ? Surely, I might have had Solomon, 
and Abraham, and David, and even Moses. When you 
know that Zuleika is the Persian poetical name for 
Potiphar's wife, on whom and Joseph there is a long 
poem, in the Persian, this will not surprise you. If you 
want authority, look at Jones, D'Herbelot, Vathek, or 
the notes to the Arabian Nights ; and, if you think it 
necessary, model this into a note.j 

" Alter, in the inscription, ' the most affectionate re- 
spect,' to ' with every sentiment of regard and respect.' " 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY, 

"Nov. 14, 1813. 
"I send you a note for the ignorant,l but I really 
wonder at finding you among them. I don't care one 
lump of sugar for my poetry ; but for my costume and my 
correctness on those points (of which I think the funeral 
was a proof,) I will combat lustily. 

"Yours, &c." 

"Nov. 14, 1813. 
Lot the revise which I sent just now (and not the 
proof m Mr. Gifford's possession) be returned to the 
printer, as there are several additional corrections, and 
two new lines in it. « Yours &c." 



LETTER CLXXXIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 15, 1813. 

" Mr. Hodgson has looked over and stopped, or rather 
pointed, this revise, which must be the one to print from. 
He has also made some suggestions, with most of which 
I have complied, as he has always, for these ten years, 
been a very sincere, and by no means (at times) flatter- 
ing, intimate of mine. He likes it (you wiU think^after- 
ingly, in this instance) better than the Giaour, but 
doubts (and so do 1) its being so popular, but, contrary 
to some others, advises a separate pubhcation. On this 
we can easily decide. I confess I like the double form 
better. Hodgson says, it is better versified than any of 
the others; which is odd, if true, as it has cost me less 
time (though more hours at a time) than any attempt I 
ever made. 

"P. S. Do attend to the punctuation: I can't, for I 
don't know a comma — at least, where to place one. 

" That tory of a printer has omitted two lines of the 
opening, . and perhaps more, which were in the MS. 
Will you, pray, give him a hint of accuracy ? I have re- 
inserted the two, but they were in the manuscript^ I can 
swear." 



^r\?°""'J""^l ^"^ '"*•? «'^I"-'"«»<:'1 by Mr. Murray as to the propriety 
of hi. putting the name ol Cain into the raoulh of a Mussulman. ^ 

t See note 30, to the Bride of Ahydos. *u«uuumi. , 

t See note 28, to the Bride of Abydoi. 



LETTER CLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 17, 1813. 

" That you and I may distinctly understand each other 
on a subject, which, like ' the dreadful reckoning when 
men smile no more,' makes conversation not very plea- 
sant, I think it as well to write a few lines on the topic. 
Before I left town for Yorkshire, you said that you were 
ready and willing to give five hundred guineas for the 
copyright of 'The Giaour;' and my answer was, from 
which I do not mean to recede, that we would discuss 
the point at Christmas. The new story may or may 
not succeed ; the probability, under present circum- 
stances, seems to be, that it may at least pay its ex- 
penses ; but even that remains to be proved, and till it is 
proved one way or another, we will say nothing about it. 
Thus then be it : I will postpone all arrangement about 
it, and the Giaour also, till Easter, 1814 ; and you shaU 
then, according to your own notions of fairness, make 
your own offer for the two. At the same time, I do not 
rate the last in my own estimation at half the Giaour ; 
and according to your own notions of its worth and its 
success within the time mentioned, be the addition or 
deduction to or from whatever sum may be your pro- 
posal for the first, which has already had its success. 

" The pictures of Phillips I consider as mine, all three; 
and the one (not the Arnaout) of the two best is much 
a.t your sei-vice, if you will accept it as a present. 

" P. S. The expense of engraving from the miniature 
send me in my account, as it was destroyed by my de- 
sire ; and have the goodness to bum that detestable 
print from it immediately. 

" To make you some amends for eternally pestering 
you with alterations, I send you Cobbett, to confirm 
your orthodoxy. 

"One more alteration of a into the in the MS.; it 
must be — ' The heart whose softness,^ &c. 

"Remember— and in the inscription 'to the Right 
Honourable Lord Holland,' without the previous names. 
Henry, &c." ' 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 20, 1813. 
More work for the Row. 1 am doing my best to 
beat the 'Giaour'—wo difficult task for any one but the 
author." 



LETTERS, 1813. 



61 



NOTE TO MR, MURRAY. 

« Nov. 22, 1813. 

" 1 have no time to cross-investigate, but I believe and hope 
all is right. I care less than you will believe about its suc- 
cess, but I can't survive a single misprint: it chokes me to see 
words misused by the printers. Pray look over, in case of 
some eyesore escaping me. 

"P. S. Send the earliest copies to Mr. Frere, Mr. Can- 
ning, Mr. Heber, Mr. GifFord, Lord Holland, Lord Mel- 
bourne (Whitehall,) Lady Caroline Lamb (Brocket,) Mr. 
Hodgson (Cambridge,) Mr. Merivale, Mr. Ward, from the 
author." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 23, 1813. 
"You wanted some reflections, and I send you per Selim 
(see his speech in Canto 2d, page 46,) eighteen lines in de- 
cent couplets, of a pensive, if not an ethical tendency. One 
more revise — positively the last, if decently done — at any rate 
the penultimate. Mr. Cannings approbation (if he did ap- 
prove) I need not say makes me proud. As to printing, 
print as you will and how you vvdll — by itselfj if you like; but 
let me have a few copies in sheets. 

"Nov. 24, 1813. 
" You must pardon me once more, as it is all for your 
good : it must be thus — 

" He makes a solitude, and calls it peace. 

^Make^ is closer to the passage of Tacitus, from which the 
line is taken, and is, besides, a stronger word than ^leaves.'' 

•' Mark where his carnage and his conquests cease, 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace." 



LETTER CLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 27, 1813. 

"If you look over this carefully by the last proof with my 
corrections it is probably right ; this you can do as well or 
better ; — I have not now time. The copies I mentioned to 
be sent to different friends last night, I should wish to be 
made up with the new Giaours, if it also is ready. If not, 
send the Giaour afterward. 

" The Morning Post says / am the author of Nourjahad ! ! 
This comes of lending the drawings for their dresses ; but it 
IS not worth a fortnal contradiction. Besides, the criticisms 
on the supposition will, some of them, be quite amusing and 
furious. The Orienlalism — which I liear is very splendid — 
of the mclodrame (whosever it is, and I am sure I don't 
know) is as good as an advertisement for your Eastern 
Stories, by filling tlieir heads with glitter. 

" P. S. You wiU of course say the truth, that I am not the 
melodramatist — if any one charges me in your presence with 
the performance." 



LETTER CLXXXVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 28, 1813. 
' " Send another copy (if not too much of a request) to Lady 
Holland of the Journal,* in my name, when you receive 
this; it is for £arl Grey — and I will relin(iuLsh my own. 
Also, to Mr. Sharpe, and Lady Holland, and Lady Caroline 
Lamb, copies of ' The Bride,' as soon as convenient. 

"P. S. Mr. Ward and myself still continue our purpose ; 
but I shall not trouble you on any arrangement on the score 
of the Giaour and the Bride till our return — or, at any rato, 
before May, 1814 — that is, six montlw from hence ; ami be- 
fore tliat time you will be able to ascertain how far your 
offer may bo a losing one ; if so, you can deduct propor- 
tionably ; and if not, I shall not at any rato allow you to go 



• Pbnroio'i JournaJ, a book published by Mr. Murray at tlu» time. 



higher than your present proposal, which is very handsome, 
and more than fair.* 

" I have had— but this must be entre nous, — a very kind 
note, on the subject of < the Bride,' from Sir James Mack- 
intosh, end an invitation to go there this evening, which it b 
now too late to accept." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 29, 1813. 
* Sunday — Monday morning — 3 o'clock — in 
my doublet and hose, swearing. 

" I send you in time an errata page, containing an omis- 
sion of mine which must be thus added, as it is too late for 
insertion in the text. The passage is an imitation altogether 
from Medea in Ovid, and is incomplete without these two 
lines. Pray let this be done, and directly ; it is necessary, 
will add one page to your book (making,) and can do no 
harm, and is yet in time for the public. Answer me, thou 
oracle, in the affirmative. You can send the loose pages to 
those who have copies already, if they like ; but certainly to 
all the critical copyholders. 

"P. S. I have got out of my bed (in which, however, I 
could not sleep, whether I had amended this or not,) and so 
good morning. I am trying whether De L'Allemagne will 
act as an opiate, but I doubt it." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Nov. 29, 1813. 

" ' You have looked at it ." to much purpose, to allow so 
stupid a blunder to stand ; it is not 'courage,^ hut* carnage f 
and if you don't want me to cut my own throat, see it altered. 

" I am very sorry to hear of the fall of Dresden." 



LETTER CLXXXVn. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Nov. 29, 1813, Monday. 

" You will act as you please upon that point ; but whether 
I go or stay, I shall not say another word on the subject till 
May — nor then, unless quite convenient to yourself. I have 
many things I wish to leave to your care, principally papers. 
The vases need not be now sent, as Mr. Ward is gone to 
Scotland. You are right about the errata page ; place it at 
the beginning. Mr. Perry is a little premature in his com- 
pliments ; these may do harm by exciting expectation, and I 
think we ought to be above it — though I see the next para- 
graph is on the JoumaL,\ which makes me suspect you as 
the author of both. 

" Would it not have been as well to have said * in Two 
Cantos' in die advertisement? they will else think o( frag- 
ments, a species of composition very well for once, like one 
ruin in a mew ; but one would not build a town of them. The 
Bride, such as it is, is my first entire composition of any 
length (except the Satire, and be d — d to it,) for the Giaour 
is but a string of passages, and Childo Harold is, and I 
rather think always will be, unconcluded. I return Mr. Hay's 
note, with thanks to him and you. 

" There have been some epigrams on Mr. Wai"d : one I 
see to-day. The first I did not see, but heard yesterday. 
The second seems very bad. I only hope tliat Mr. Ward 
does not believe that I had any connexion with either. I 
like and value him too well to allow my politics to contract 
into spleen, or to admire any thing intondfd to annoy him or 
his. You need not take tlie trouble to answer this, as I shall 
SCO you in tJio course of the afternoon. 

" P. S. I have said this much about the epigrams, because 
I lived so much in tlio opposite camp, and, from my post aa 
an engineer, might bo suspected as Uio flinger of theso liand- 
grenadocs ; but with a worthy foe, I am all for open war, and 
not this bush-fighting, and have not had, nor will have, any 
thing to do with it. I do not know the aullior." 



• Mr. Murruy hiul otrcrcd bim a thouioud guinias for th« two IVmou. 
t Penrose's Journal. 



62 



LETTERS, 1813. 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY, 

"Nov. 30, 1813. 
« Print this a.t ihe end of all thai is of the ' Bride of Abycbsl 
as an errata page. * Bn. 

« Omitted, canto 2d, page 47, after line 449, 

" So that those arms cling closer rouud my neck, 

Read,— 

" Then if my lip once murmur, it must be 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee I" 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Tuesday evening, Nov. 30, 1813. 
■ For the sake of correctness, particularly in an errata 
{»ge, the alteration of the couplet I have just sent (half an 
hour ago) must take place, in spite of delay or cancel ; let 
me see the proof early to-morrow. I found out murmur to 
be a neuter ueri, and have been obliged to alter the line so 
as to make it a substantive, thus — 

" The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
No sigh for safely, but a prayer for thee I 

Don't send the copies to the country till this is all right." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Dec. 2, 1813. 

" When you can, let the couplet enclosed be inserted either 
in the page, or in the errata page. I trust it is in lime for 
some of the copies. This alteration is in the same part — 
the page but one before the last correction sent. 

"P. S. I am afraid, from all I hear, that people are rather 
inordinate in their expectations, which is very unlucky, but 
cannot now be helped. This comes of Mr. Perry and one's 
^vise friends ; but do not you \\ind your hopes of success to 
the same pitch, for fear of accidents, and I can assure you 
that my philosophy will stand the test very fairly ; and I have 
done every thing to ensure you, at all events, from positive 
loss, which will be some satisfaction to both." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Dec. 3, 1813. 

" I send you a scratch or two^ the which heal. The Chris- 
tian Observer is very savage, but certainly well written — and 
quite uncomfortable at thie naughtiness of book and author. 
I rather suspect you won't much like the present to be more 
moral, if it is to share also the usual fate of your virtuous 
volumes. 

"Let me see a proof of the ^ before incorporation." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Monday evening, Dec. 6, 1813. 

* It is all very well, except that the lines are not numbered 
properly, and a diabolical mistake, page 67, which mxist be 
corrected with tlie pai^ if no other way remains ; it is the 
oniLssion of ' not before ' dutagrceabk,^ in the note on the amber 
rosary. This is really horrible, and nearly as bad as the 
stumble of mine at the threshold — I mean the misnomer of 
Bride. Pray do not let a copy go without the ' not ;' it is 
nonsense and worse than nonsense as it now stands. I wish 
the printer was saddled with a vampire. 

"P. S. It is still lialh instead of have in page 20; never 
was any one so misused as I am by your devils of printers. 

• P. S. I hope and irust tlie ' not'' was inserted in the first 
edition. We must have something — any thing — to set it 
right. It is enough to answer for one's own bulls, without 
other people's." 



LETTER CLXX XVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Dec. 27, 1813. 
■Lord Holland is laid up with the gout, and would feel 
Tcry much obliged if you could obtain, and send as soon as 
possible, Madame D'Arblay's (or even Miss Edgeworth's) 



new work. I know they are not out; but it is perhaps pos- 
sible for your Majesty to command what we cannot with 
much suing purchase, as yet. I need not say that when you 
are able or willing to confer the same favour on me, I shall 
be obliged. I would abnost fall sick myself to get at Ma- 
dame D'Arblay's writings. 

"P. S. You were talking to-day of the American edition 
of a certain unquenchable memorial of my younger days. 
As it can't be helped now, I own I have some curiosity to 
see a copy of Transatlantic typography. This you will per- 
haps obtain, and one for yourself: but I must beg that you 
will not import more, because, seriously, I do wish to have 
that thing forgotten as much as it has been forgiven. 

" If you send to the Globe editor, say that I want neither 
excuse nor contradiction, but merely a discontinuance of a 
most ill-grounded charge. I never was consistent in any 
thing but my politics ; and as my redemption depends on that 
solitary virtue, it is murder to carry away my last aucho>- " 



LETTER CLXXXIX. 

TO MR. ASHE.* 

«4, Bennet-street, St. James's, Dec. 14, 1813. 
''sir, 

"I leave town for a few days to-morrow; on my return, 
I will answer your letter more at length. Whatever may 
be your situation, I cannot but commend your resolution to 
abjure and abandon the publication and composition of works 
such as those to which you have alluded. Depend upon it, 
they amuse /eu), disgrace both r coder and writer, and benefit 
none. It will be my wish to assist you, as far as my limited 
means will admit, to break such a bondage. In your an- 
swer, inform me what sum you think would enable you to 
extricate yourself from the hands of your employers, and to 
regain at least temporary independence, and I shall be gloxl 
to contribute my mite towards it. At present I must con- 
clude. Your name is not unknown to me, and I regret, for 
your owTi sake, that you have ever lent it to the works you 
mention. In saying this, I merely repeat your mvn wards 
in your letter to me, and have no wish whatever to say a 
single syllable that may appear to insult your misfortunes. 
If I have, excuse me ; it is unintentional. 

" Yours, &c. " Byron." 

[In answer to this letter, Ashe mentionedas the sum ne- 
cessary to extricate him from his difficulties, 150i. — and, some 
short delay having occurred in the reply to this demand, hcj 
in renewing his suit, complained, it appears, of neglect.] 



LETTER CXG. 



TO MR. ASHE. 



'Jan. 5, 1814. 



'sir. 



"When you accuse a stranger of neglect, you forget that 
it is possible business or absence from London may have 
interfered to delay his answer, as has actually occurred in 
the present instance. But to the point. I am willing to do 
what I can to extricate you from your situation. Your first 
scheme I was considering ; but your own impatience ap- 
pears to have rendered it abortive, if not irretrievable. I 
will deposite in Mr. Murray's hands (with his consent) the 
sum you mentioned, to be advanced for the time at ten 
pounds per month. 

"P. S. I write in the greatest hurry, which may make 
my letter a little abrupt ; but, as I said before, I have no wish 
to distress your feelings." 



• Author of a publication relating to the ftueen, called " The Book:" 
also of" Travels through America," and other notorious libels. He bad 
written to Lord Byron, alleging poverty as his excuse for the vile uses to 
which he had prostituted his peu, aud soliciting the means of obtaining 
some honest empuyroeut. 



LETTERS, 1814. 



63 



LETTER CXCL 

TO MR. GALT. 

"Dec. 11, 1813. 

"my DEAR GALT, 

" There was no offence — there could be none.* I thought 
it by no means impossible that we might have hit on some- 
thing similar, particularly as you are a dramatist, and was 
aaxious to assure you of the truth, viz. that I had not wit- 
tingly seized upon plot, sentiment, or incident ; and I am very 
glad that I have not in any respect trenched upon your 
subjects. Something still more singular is, that the^rs^ part, 
where you have found a coincidence in some events within 
your observations on life, was drawn from observation of 
mine also ; and I meant to have gone on with the story, but 
on second thoughts, I thought myself two centuries at least 
too late for the subject i which, though admitting of very 
powerful feeling and description, yet is not adapted for this 
age, at least this country, though the finest works of the 
Greeks, one of Schiller's and Alfieri's, in modern times, 
besides several of our old (and best) dramatists, have been 
grounded on incidents of a similar cast. I therefore altered 
it as you perceive, and, in so doing, have weakened the 
whole by interrupting the train of thought; and, in composi- 
tion, I do not diink second thoughts are the best, though second 
expressions may improve the first ideas. 

" I do not know how other men feel towards those they have 
met abroad, but to me there seems a kind of tie estabhshed 
between all who have met together in a foreign country, as 
if we had met in a state of pre-existence, and were talking 
over a life that has ceased ; but I always look forward to 
renewing my travels, and though you, I think, are now sta- 
tionary, if I can at all forward your pursuits there as well as 
here, I shall be truly glad in the opportunity. 

" Ever yours very sincerely, " B. 

" P. S. I believe I leave town for a day or two, on Mon- 
day, but after that I am always at home, and happy to see 
you till half past two." 



LETTER CXCII. 

TO MR. LEIGH HUNT. 

"Dec. 22, 1813. 

■ MY DEAR SIR, 

" I am, indeed, ' in your debt' — and what is still worse, am 
obliged to follow royal example, [he has just apprized his 
creditors that they must wait till the meeting,] and entreat 
your indulgence for, I hope, a very short time. The nearest 
relation, and almost the only friend I possess, has been in 
London for a week, and leaves it to-morrow, with me, for 
her own residence. I return immediately ; but we meet so 
seldom, and are so miniUed when we meet at all, that I give up 
all engagements, till now, without reluctance. On my return, 
I must see you to console myself for my past disappoint- 
ments. I should feel highly honoured in Mr. B 's 

permission to make his accjuaintance, and there you arc in 
my debt, for it is a promise of last summer which I still hope 
to see performed. Yesterday I had a letter from Moore ; 
you have probably heard from him lately ; but if not, you 
will be glad to learn that he is Uie same in heart, head, and 
healtii." 



LETTER CXCm. 



TO MR. MERIVALE. 



"Jan. 1814. 

•my dear MERIVALE, 

" I have redde Roncesvaux with very great pleasure, and 
(if 1 were so disposed) see very little room for criticism. 
There is a choice of two lines in one of the last Cantos, — I 



* " It woiilil apfienr tlmt lie Imd wrilleu to mo loinrthiiiR wliicb led tnc 
'o Imngine he wan otfendeU at my nbiervfttioiii, and thai I nud, iu coiiia- 
<juciKC, dc))rccaled lil« wrath.''— Oa/<. 



think 'Live and protect' better, because 'Oh who?' implies 
a doubt of Roland's power or inclination. I would aJlow 
the — but that point you yourself must determine on — I mean 
the doubt as to where to place a part of the Poem, whether 
between the actions or no. Only if you wish to have all the 
success you deserve, never listen to friends, and — as I am 
not the least troublesome of the number — least of all to me. 
"I hope you will be out soon. March, sir, March, is the 
month for the trade, and they must be considered. You 
have written a very noble Poem, and nothing but the detest- 
able taste of the day can do you harm, — but I think you will 
beat it. Your measure is uncommonly well chosen and 
wielded." 

****** 



LETTER CXCIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"SundayjJan.ajlSH. 

" Excuse this dirty paper — it is the penultimate half-sheet 
of a quire. Thanks for your book and the Ln. Chron. which 
I return. The Corsair is copied, and now at Lord Hol- 
land's ; but I wish Mr. Gilford to have it to-night. 

" Mr. Dallas is very perverse ; so that I have offended both 
him and you, when I really meant to do good, at least to one, 
and certainly not to annoy either.* But I shall manage 
him, I hope. I am pretty confident of the Tale itself; but 
one cannot be sure. If I get it from Lord Holland, it shall 
be sent. Yours, &c." 



LETTER CXCV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Jan. 6, 1814. 

"I have got a devil of a long story in the press, entitled 
' The Corsair,' in the regular heroic measure. It is a pirate's 
isle, peopled with my own creatures, and you may easily 
suppose they do a world of mischief through the three cantos. 
Now for your Dedication — if you will accept it. This is 
positively my last experiment on public literary opinion, till 
I turn my thirtieth year, — if so be I flourish until thatdovm- 
hill period. I have a confidence for you — a perplexing one 
to me, and, just at present in a state of abeyance in itself. 

******* 

However, we shall see. In the mean time, you may amuse 
yourself with my suspense, and put all the justices of the 
peace in requisition, in case I come into your county with 
' hack but bent.' 

" Seriously, whether I am to hear from her or him, it is a 
pause, which I shall fill up w ith as few thoughts of my own 
as I can borrow from other people. Any thing is better tlian 
stagnation ; and now, in the interregnum of my autumn and 
a strange summer adventure, which I don't like to think 
ofj (I don't moan * *'s, however, which is laughable only,) 
tlie aniilhetical state of my lucubrations makes me aUve,. 
and Macbeth can 'sleep no more :' — he was lucky in getting 
rid of the drowsy sensation of waking again. 

" Pray write to me. I must send you a copy of the letter 
of Dedication. When do you come out? I am sure we- 
don't clash this time, for I am all at sea, and in action, — and 
a wife, and a mistress, &c. &c. 

" Thomas, thou art a happy fellow ; but if you wish us to 
be so, you must come up to town, as you did last year ; and 
we shall have a world to say, and to see, and to hear. Let 
me hear from you. 

" P. S. Of course you will keep my secret, and don't oven 
talk in your sleept)f it. Happen what may, your Dedication 
is enstneil, being already written; and I shall copv it luit 
fair to-night, in case business or amusoment — Amaut aitema 
Cani(rna;y * 



* He Imd mndr a iiii-Ufnt ul' »l«' diiiyiiglit of llu- Cortolr lo Mr. Ddllai, 
which occakiu4ied loinc einbarruiimeiil b«lw«ci> him and Mr. Murrmy. 



64 



L E T T E R S 7 1814. 



NOTE TO MR. MITRKAT. 

"Jan. 7, 1814. 
"You don't like the Dedication— very well; there is an- 
other: but you will send the other to Mr. Moore, that he 
may know I had written it. I send also mottos for the 
cantos. 1 think you will allow that an elephant may be more 
Bagacious, but carmot be more docile. 

' "Yours, «B.x. 
« The Tiame is again altered to Medora.''* 

LETTER CXCVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 8, 1814. 

"As it would not be fair to press you into a Dedication, 
without previous notice, I send you tvoo, and I will tell you 
why ttoo. The first, Mr. Murray, who sometimes takes 
upon him the critic (and I bear it from astonishment) 
says, may do you harm — God forbid I this alone makes me 
listen to him. The fact is, he is a damned Tory, and has, 
I dare swear, something of self, which I cannot divine, at 
the bottom of liis objection, as it is the allusion to Ireland to 
which he objects. But he be d — d, though a good fellow 
enough, (your sinner would not be worth a d — n.) 

" Take your choice ; no one, save he and Mr. Dallas, has 
seen either, and D. is quite on my side, and for the first.f 
If I can but testify to you and the world how truly I admire 
and esteem you, I shall be quite satisfied. As to prose, I 
don't know Addison's from Johnson's ; but I will try to mend 
my cacology. Pray perpend, pronounce, and don't be of- 
fended with either. 

" My last epistle would probably put you b a fidget. But 
the Devil, who ought to be civil on such occasions, proved 
60, and took my letter to the right place. 

****** 

" Is it not odd ? the very fate I said she had escaped from 

* *, she has now undergone from the worthy * *. Like 
Mr. Fitzgerald, shall I not lay claim to the character of 

* Vates ?' as he did in tlie Morning Herald for prophesying 
the fall of Buonaparte, who, by-the-by, I don't think is yet 
fallen. I wish he would rally and rout your legitimate 
sovereigns, having a mortal hate to all royal entails. But 
I am scrawling a treatise. Good night. Ever, &c.'' 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 11, 1814. 

"Correct this proof by Mr. Gifford's (and from the 
MSS.) particularly as to the pointing. I have added a 
section for Gulnare, to fill up the parting, and dismiss her 
more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gitford or you dislike, 'tis 
but a sponge^ and another midnight better employed than 
in yawning over Miss * * ; who, by-the-by, may soon 
return the compliment. 

" Wednesday or Thursday. 

"P. S. I have redde * *. It is full of praises of Lord 
Ellenboroiigh ! ! ! (from which I infer near and dear rela- 
tions at tlie bar,) and ♦ * + ♦ 

" I do not love Madame de Stael, but depend upon it, she 
beats all your natives hollow as an authoress, in my opinion ; 
and I woiild not say this if I could help it. 



• II hart been at first Gcncvra. 

t The Am was the one preferred. The other was as follows: — 

"Jan. 7. 1814. 
" My dear Moore, 
" I had written to yon n long letter of dedication, which I suppress, be- 
cause, though it CJjnlaiiied something reiutine to you which every one hart 
been glad to henr, yet (here w.is too much about politics, and poesy, and 
all things whatsoever, ending with ihat topic on which most men are fluent, 
and none very amusing— one's »»//. It might have been rewritten— but 
to wliat puriwjv .' My praise could add nothing to your well-earned :ind 
flrmiy eslablished fame; and with my most hearty admlralinn of your 
talenU, and delight in your couviM-»:ition, you ^c nl'ruady arquainted. In 
■vailing myself of your friendly penni»ii..'u irt"incribe this Poem to you, 
I can oidy wish Ihe oflering were as worthy your acceptance as your r«- 
|ard is dear lo 

" Yours, most alTrctionatcly and faithfully. 

"ByhON." 



" P. S. Pray report my best acknowledgments to Mr. 
GifTord in any words that may best express how truly his 
kindness obliges me. I won't bore him with Up thanks or 
notesP 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 13,1814. 

" I have but a moment to write, but all is as it should be. 
I have said really far short of my opinion, but if you think 
enough, I am content. Will you return the proof by the 
post, as I leave town on Sunday, and have no other cor- 
rected copy. I put ' servant,' as being less familiar before 
the public ; because I don't like presuming upon our friend- 
ship to infrmge upon forms. As to the otlier xmrd, you may 
be sure it is one I cannot hear or repeat too often. 

"I wTite in £ui agony of haste and confusion. — ^Perdonate." 



LETTER CXCVn. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 15, 1814. 

" Before any proof goes to Mr. Gifford, it may be as well 
to revise this, where there are words omitted, faults com- 
mitted, and tlie de\Tl knows what. As to the Dedication, I 
cut out the parenthesis of Mr.*- but not another word shall 
move unless for a belter. Mr. Moore has seen, and de- 
cidedly preferred, the part your Tory bile sickens at. If 
every syllable were a ratdesnake, or every letter a pesti- 
lence, they should not be expunged. Let those who cannot 
swallow, chew the expressions on Ireland; or should even 
Mr. Croker array himself in all his terrors against them, I 
care for none of you, except Giiford ; and he won't abuse me 
except I deserve it — which ivill at least reconcile me to his 
j ustice . As to the poems in Hobhouse's volume,f the trans- 
lation from the Romaic is well enough ; but the best of the 
other volume (of mine, 1 mean) have been already printed. 
But do as you please — only, as I shall be absent when you 
come out, do, pray, let Mr. Dallas and you have a care of 
the press. "Yours, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

["1814, Jan. 16.] 

"I do believe that the Devil never created or perverted 
such a fiend as the fool of a printer. I am obliged to enclose 
you, luckily for me, this second proo^ corrected, because there 
is an ingenuity in his blunders peculiar to liimself. Let the 
press be guided by the present sheet. "Yours, &c. 

" Bum the other. 

"Correct this also by the other in some things which I may 
have forgotten. There is one mistake he made, which, if it 
had stood, I would most certainly have broken his neck." 



LETTER CXCATH. 



TO IvIR. MURRAY. 



"Newstead Abbey, Jan. 22, 1814. 

" You will be glad to hear of my safe arrival here. The 
time of my return will depend upon the weather, which is so 
impracticable tliat this letter has to advance through more 
snows tiian ever opposed the emperor's retreat. The roads 
are impassable, and return impossible for the present; which 
I do not regret, as I am much at my ease, and six-and^txventy 
complete this day — a very pretty age, if it would always last. 
Our coals are excellent, our fire-places large, my cellar full, 
and my head empty ; and I haye not yet recovered my joy 
at leaving London. If any unexpected turn occurred with 
my purchasers, I believe I should hardly quit the place at all ; 
but shut my door, and let my beard grow. 

"I forgot to mention (and I hope it is unnecessary) that 



* He had. at first, after the words " Scott alone," inserted, in 
thesis,—'' He will excuse the Mr.—' we do not say Mr Cssar.' 



LETTERS, 1814. 



65 



the lines beginning — Remember him,* &c, must not appear 
with tlie Corsair. You may slip them in with the smaller 
pieces newly annexed to Cfulde Harold; but on no account 
permit them to be appended to the Corsair. Have the 
goodness to recollect this particularly. 

" The books I have brought with me are a great consola- 
tion for the confinement, and I bought more as we came 
along. In short, I never consult the thermometer, and shall 
not put up prayers for a thaw, unless I thought it would 
sweep away the rascally invaders of France. Was ever 
such a thing as Blucher's proclamation? 

" Just before I left town, Kemble paid me the compliment 
of desiring me to write a tragedy; I wish I could, but I find 
my scribbling mood subsiding — not before it was time ; but 
it is lucky to check it at all. If I lengthen my letter you will 
think it is coming on again ; so, good bye. 

" Yours alway, " B. 

"P. S. If you hear any news of battle or retreat on the 
part of the Allies, (as they call them,) pray send it. He 
has my best wishes to manure the fields of France with an 
invading army. I hate invaders of all countries, and have 
no patience \vith the cowardly cry of exultation over him, 
at whose name you all turned whiter than the snow to 
which you are indebted for your triumphs. 

"I open my letter to thank you for yours just received. 
The 'Lines to a Lady Weeping' must go with the Corsair. 
I care nothing for consequence on this point. My politics 
are to me bke a young mistress to an old man — the worse 
they grow, the fonder I become of them. As Mr. Gifford 
lilces the ' Portuguese Translation,'! pray insert it as an ad- 
dition to the Corsair. i 

"In all points of difference between Mr. Gifford and Mr. 
Dallas, let the first keep his place ; and in all points of dif- 
ference between Mr. Giflford and Mr. Anybody-else, I shall 
abide by the fonner ; if I am wrong, I can't help it. But I 
would rather not be right with any other person. So there 
is an end of that matter. After all the trouble he has taken 
about me and mine, I should be very ungrateful to feel or 
act otherwise. Besides, in point of judgment, he is not to 
be lowered by a comparison. In politics, he may be right 
too ; but that with me is 3l feeling, and I can't tonfy my na- 
ture." 



LETTER CXCIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Newstead Abbey, Feb. 4, 1814. 

" I need not say that your obliging letter was very wel- 
come, and not the less so for being unexpected. 

" It doubtless gratifies me much that onr Jinale has pleased, 
and that the curtain drops gracefully .J You deserve it 
should, for your promptitude and good nature in arranging 
immediately with Mr. Dallas ; and I can assure you that I 
esteem your entering so warmly into the subject, and writing 
to me so soon upon it, as a personal obligation. We shall 
now part, I hope, satisfied with each other. I was and am 
quite in earnest in my prefatory promise not to intrude any 
more; and this not from any affectation, but a thorough con- 
viction that it is the best policy, and is at least respectful to 
my readers, as it shows that I would not willingly run tlie 
risk of forfeiting their favour in future. Besides, I have 
other views and objects, and think that I shall keep this reso- 
lution ; for, since I loft London, though shut up, S7io?/>-bound, 
Uuiw-hounA, and tempted with all kinds of paper, the dirtiest 
of ink, and the bluntest of pens, I have not even been haunted 



• See PocmB, p. 191. 

1 llii traiiHlolioii of llie prelly Portiietieie »oiig, " Tu mi cliamns." 
He wru tempted to Iry another version nt this iiiKenioiis tliuiiKht, whicb 
is, perhaps, still more happy, and has never, I believe, nppeiireil in priol. 
" You call me Rtill your /»/«— ah! chnnne the word- 
Life IK as Irunsient i\s tli' inconsiniit sieh ; 
S»v, rather, 1 'm your loul, more just tlmt niimc, 
For, like Ihc soul, my love cun never die." — Moore. 
t It will he recollected that he had announced the Corsnir as " the last 
production with which he should trespass on public patience for some 
Itars." 

9 



by a wish to put them to their combined uses, except in let- 
ters of business. My rhyming propensity is quite gone, and 
I feel much as I did at Patras on recovering from my fever 
— weak, but in health, and only afraid of a relapse. I do 
most fervently hope I never shall. 

"I see by the Morning Chronicle there hath been dis- 
cussion in die Courier; and 1 read in the IVIorriing Post a 
wratliful letter about Mr. Moore, in which some Protestant 
Reader has made a sad confusion about India and Ireland. 

" You are to do as you please about the smaller poems : 
but I think removing them now from the Corsair looks lilie 
fear; and if so, you must allow^me not to be pleased. I 
should also suppose that, after tlie ftiss of these newspaper 
esquires, they would materially assist the circulation of the 
Corsair ; an object I should imagine at present of more im- 
portance to yourself than Childe Harold's seventh appear- 
ance. Do as you like ; but don't allow the withdrawing that 
poem to draw any imputation o( dismay upon me.* 

"Pray make my respects to Mr. Ward, whose praise I 
value most highly, as you well know ; it is in the approbation 
of such men that fame becomes worth having. To Mr. 
Gifford 1 am always grateful, and surely not less so now 
than ever. And so good night to my authorship. 

"I have been sauntering and dozing here very quietly, 
and not unhappily. You will be happy to hear that I have 
completely estabhshed my title deeds as marketable, and 
that the jjurchaser has succumbed to the terms, and fulfils 
them, or Is to fulfil them forthwith. He is now here, and we 
go on very amicably together — one in each wivg of die 
Abbey. We set off on Sunday — I for to\ra, he for Che- 
shire. 

Mrs. Leigh is with me — much pleased with the place, 
and less so with me for parting with it, to which not even the 
price can reconcile her. Your parcel has not yet arrived — 
at least the Mags. &c. ; but I have received Childe Harold 
and the Corsair. I beUeve both are very correctly printed, 
which is a great satisfaction. 

" I thank you for wisliing me in town ; but I thmk one's 
success is most felt at a distance, and I enjoy my solitary 
self-importance in an agreeably sulky way of my own, upon 
the strength of your letter — for which I once more thank you, 
and am, very truly, &c. 

" P. S. Don't you think Buonaparte's next publication will 
be rather expensive to the Allies ? Perry's Paris letter of 
yesterday looks very reviving. What a Hydra and Briareus 
it is ! I wish they would pacify : Uiere is no end to this 
campaigning." 



LETTER CC. 



TO MR. MURRAY, 



"Newstead Abbey, Feb. 6, 1814. 

" I quite forgot, in my answer of yesterday, to mention that 
I have no means of ascertaining whether the Newark Pirate 
has been doing what you say.t If so, lie is a rascal, and a 
shabby rascal too; and if his offence is punishable by law or 
pugilism, he shall be fined or bufVoted. Do you try and dis- 
cover, and I will make some inquiry here. Porhajjs some 
other in town may have gone on pr'mting, and used tlie same 
deception. 

" The facsimile is omitted in Childe Harold, which is 
very av\ kward, as there is a note expressly on the subject. 
Pray replace it as usital. 

" On secontl and third thoughts, the withdrawing the small 
poems from thf Corsair (even to add to Childe Harold) 
looks like shrinking and shufHing, afier th(> fuss made ujKjn 
one of tlieiM by tlie Torit^s. IVay replace them in the 
Corsair's appendix. 1 am sorry Uiat Chikle IlaroUl retjuires 
some ami .such ahctinents to make him move off: but, 
if you remetnbtT, I told you his jK>pularity would not bo 
permanent. It is very lucky for the author tliat he had 

• He nlhidis to lines heglnninR " Wee)., datighter i-f a r.'vnl hue." 
Poems, p. 192. 
t Hvprlnllug the " Hours of Idleness." 



66 



LETTERS, 1814, 



made up his mind to a temporary reputation in time. The | pleasantly. You can have no conception of the uproar the 



truth is, I do not think that any of the present day (and 
least of all, one who has nc! consulted tlie flattering side of 
human nature) have much to hope from posterity ; and you 
may think it affectation very probably, but to me, my present 
and past success has appeared very singular, since it was 
in the teeth of so many prejudices. I almost tiiink people 
like to be contradicted. If Childe Harold flags, it will hardly 
be worth while to go on with the engravings : but do as you 
please ; I have done with the whole concern ; and die en- 
closed lines written years ago, and copied from my skullcap, 
are among the last with which you will be troubled. If you 
like, add them to Cliilde Harold, if only for tlie sake of 
another outcry. You received so long an answer yesterday, 
that I will not intrude on you further than to repeat myselfj 

" Yours, &c. 
"P. S. Of course, in reprinting (if you have occasion) 
you will take great care to be correct. The present editions 
seem very much so, except in the last note of Childe Harold, 
where the word responsible occurs twice, nearly together ; 
correct the second into answerable.^' 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAV. 

"Newark, Feb. 6, 1814. 
"I am tlius far on ray way to town. Master Ridge* I 
have seen, and he o\vns to having reprinted some sheets, to 
make up a few complete remaining copies ! I have now 
given him fair warning, and if he plays such tricks again, 1 
must either get an injunction, or call for an account of profits, 
(as I never have parted with the cqjyright,) or, in short, 
any thing vexatious to repay him in his own way. If the 
weather does not relapse, I hope to be in town in a day or 
two. "Yours, kc." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Feb. 7,1814. 
** + * + + 

* I see all the papers in a sad commotion with those eight 
lines ;t and the Morning Post, in particular, has found out 
that I am a sort of Richard HI.— deformed in mind and 
body. The last piece of information is not very new to a 
man who passed five years at a public school. 

"I am very sorry you cut out tliose lines for ChiMe 
Harold. Pray reinsert them in their old place in 'The 
Corsair.'" 



LETTER CCI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

"Feb. 28, 1814. 

■ There is a youngster — and a clever one, named Rey 
nolds, who has just published a poem called ' Safie,' published 
by Cawthome. He is in the most natural and fearful ap- 
prehension of the Reviewers — and as you and I both know 
by experience the effect of such things upon a young mind. 
I wish you would take his production into dissection and do 
it gently. I cannot, because it is inscribed to me ; but I 
a.ssure you this is not my motive for wisliing him to be ten- 
derly entreated, but because I know the misery, at his time 
of life, of untoward remarks upon first appearance. 

" Now for self. Pray thank your cousin— it is just as it 
should be, to my liking, and probably nwre tlian will suit any 
ono else's. I hope and trust that you are well and well 
doing. Peace be with you. Ever yours, my dear friend." 



LETTER ecu. 

TO MR, MOORE. 

"Feb. 10,1814. 
" I ai-nved m to\vn late yesterday evening, having been 
absent three weeks, which I passed in Nolls, quietly and 



eight lines on the little Royalty's weeping in 1812 (now re- 
published) have occasioned. The Regent, who had always 
thought them yours, chose — God knows why-^n discover- 
ing them to be mine, to be qffected ' in sorrow rather than 
anger.' The Morning Post, Sun, Herald, Courier, have all 
been in hysterics ever since. Murray is in a fright, and 
wanted to shuffle — and the abuse against me in all directions 
is vehement, unceasing, loud — some of it good, and all of it 
hearty. I feel a little compunctious as to the Regent's re- 
gret; — 'would he had been only angry! but 1 fear him not.' 
"Some of these same assailments you have probably seen. 
My person (which is excellent for 'tJie nonce') has been de- 
nounced in verses, the more like the subject, inasmuch as 
they halt exceedingly. Then, in another, I am an atlieist — 
a rebel — and, at last, the devil, {boiteux, I presume.) My 
demonism seems to be a female's conjecture : if so, periiaps 
I could convince her that I am but a mere mortal, — if a 
queen of the Amazons may be bebeved, who says apiarrov 
Xo^os oi<()£L. I quote from memory, so my Greek is pro- 
bably deficient ; but the passage is meant to mean * * 
* + * +^ 

" Seriously, I am in, what the learned call, a dilemma, and 
the 'sailgar, a scrape ; and my friends desire me not to be in 
a passion, and lil<e Sir Fretful, I assure them that I am 
'quite cabii,' — but I am nevertheless in a fury. 

"Suice 1 wrote thus far, a friend has come in, and we have 
been talking and buffooning, till I have quite lost the thread 
of my thoughts ; and, as I W(Mi't send them unstrung to you, 
good morning, and "Believe me ever, &c. 

" P. S. JNIurray, during my absence, omitted the Tears in 
several of the copies. I have made him replace thena, and 
am very wroth wdth his qualms ; — ' as the wine is poured 
out, let it be drunk to the dregs.' " 



NOTE TO MR. 



MtTRRAY. 

"Feb. 10,1814. 



The pnnter «l N»w»rlc. 



t "Ton Ltidy Weeping.' 



" I am much better, and indeed quite well this morn- 
ing. I have received ?ujo, but I presume there are more 
of the Ana, subsequently, and also something previous, 
to which the Morning Chronicle replied. You also 
mentioned a parody on the Skull. I wish to see them 
all, because there may be things that require notice 
either by pen or person. 

"Yours, &c. 

" You need not trouble yourself to answer this ; but 
send me the things when you get them." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Feb. 12,1814. 

"If you have copies of the 'Intercepted Letters,'* Lady 
Holland would be glad of a volume, and when you have 
served others, have the goodness to think of your hum- 
ble servant. 

" You have played the devil by that injudicious sup- 
pression, which you did totally without my consent. 
Some of the papers have exacUy said what might be 
expected. Now I do not, and will not be supposed to 
shrink, although myself and every thing belonging to me 
were to perish with my memory. 

"Yours, &c. "Bn. 

"P. S. Pray attend to what I stated yesterday on 
technical topics." 



LETTER CCm. 

TO MR HUNT. 

"Feb. 9, 1814. 

" MY DEAR SIR, 

"I have been snow-bound and thaw-swamped (two 
impound epithets for you) in the ' valley of the shadow 



By Mr. Moore. 



LETTERS, 



1814. 



67 



of Newstead Abbey for nearly a month, and have not 
been four hours returned to London. Nearly the first use 
I make of my benumbed fingers, is to thank you for your 
very handsome note in the volume* you have just put 
forth, only, 1 trust, to be followed by others on subjects 
more worthy your notice than the works of contempo- 
raries. Of myselfj you speak only too highly, and you 
must think me strangely spoiled, or perversely peevish, 
even to suspect that any remarks of yours, in the spirit of 
candid criticism, could possibly prove unpalatable. Had 
they been harsh, instead of being written as they are in the 
indelible ink and friendly admonition, had they been the 
harshest — as I knew and know that you are above any 
f)ersonaI bias, at least, against your fellow-bards, believe 
me they would not have caused a remonstrance, nor a mo- 
ment of rankling on my part. Your poem I read long 
ago in the 'Reflector,' and it is not much to say it is the 
best ' Session' we have, and with a more difficult subject, 
for we are neither so good nor so bad (taking the best and 
worst) as the wits of the olden time. 

" To your smaller pieces I have not yet had time to do 
justice by perusal, and I have a quantity of unanswered, 
and I hoi>e unanswerable letters to wade through before I 
sleep, but to-morrow will see me through your volume. 1 
am glad to see you have tracked Gray among the Italians. 
You will perhaps find a friend or two of yours there also, 
though not to the same extent ; but I have always thought 
the Italians the most poetical moderns ; our Milton and 
Spenser, and Sliakspeare, (the last through translations of 
their Tales,) are very Tuscan, and surely it is far superior 
to the French school. You are hardly fair enough to 
Rogers, Why tea ? you might surely have given him sup- 
per, if only a sandwich. Murray has, I' hope, sent you 
my last banthng, 'The Corsair.' I have been regaled at 
every inn on the road by lampoons and other merry con- 
ceits on myself in the ministerial gazettes, occasioned by 
the republication of two stanzas, inserted in 1812, ijji 
Perry's paper. The hysterics of the Morning Post are quite 
interesting ; and I hear (but have not seen) of something 
terrific in a last week's Courier : all which I take with the 
'calm indiflTerence' of Sir Fretful Plagiary. The Morning 
Post has one copy of devices upon my deformity, which 
certainly will admit of no ' historic doubts' like ' Dickon 
my master's,' another upon my atheism, which is not quite 
so clear, and another very downrightly says, ' I am the 
danl, {boileuxy they might have added,) and a rebel, and 
what not: possibly, my accuser of diabolism may be Rosa 
Matilda ; and if so, it would not be difficult to convince 
her that I am a mere man. I shall break in upon you in 
a day or two, distance haa hitherto detained me ; and I 
hope to find you well, and myself welcome. 

** Ever your obliged and sincere 

"Byron. 

"P. S. Since this letter was written, I have been at 
your text, which has much good humour in every sense of 
the word. Your notes are of a very high order indeed, 
particularly on Wordsworth." 



LETTER CCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Monday, Feb. 14,1814. 
"Before I left town yesterday, I wrote you a nole, which 
I presume you received. I have heard so many dilforent 
accounts of your proceedings, or rather of those of otliers 
towards you, m consequence of the publication of these 
cverlastmg lines, that I am anxious to hear Inmi your- 
self tlio real state of the case. Whatever responsil)ililv, 
obloquy, or effect is to arise from the publication, should 
surely not fall upon you in any degree ; and 1 can iiavo 
no objection to your stating, as distinctly and publicly as 
you please, yonr unwillingness to publish them, and my 



own obstinacy upon the subject. Take any course you 
please to vindicate yourself, but leave me to fight my 
own way, and, as I before said, do not compromise me by 
any thing which may look like shrinking on my part ^ as 
for your own, make the best of it. 

"Yours, «Bn." 



LETTER CCV. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"Feb. 16,1814. 

"my dear ROGERS, 

" 1 wrote to Lord HoOand briefly, but I hope distinctly, 
on the subject which has lately occupied much of my 
conversation with him and you.* As things now stand, 
upon that topic my determination must be unalterable. 

" I declare to you most sincerely that there is no hu- 
man being on whose regard and esteem I set a higher 
value than on Lord Holland's ; and, as far as concerns 
himself^ I would concede even to humiliation without 
any view to the future, and solely from my sense of his 
conduct as to the past. B'or the rest, I conceive that I 
have already done all in my power by the suppression. f 
If that is not enough, they must act as they please ; but 
I will not ' teach my tongue a most inherent baseness,' 
come what may. You will probably be at the Marquis 
Lansdowne's to-night. I am asked, but I am not sure 
that I shall be able to go. Hobhouse will be there. I 
think, if you knew him well, you would like him. 

" Believe me always yours very affectionately, 

«B/' 



LETTER CCVL 

TO MR, ROGERS. 

« Feb. 16, 1814. 

" If Lord Holland is satisfied, as far as regards him- 
self and Lady Hd. and as this letter expresses him to 
be, it is enough. 

" As for any impression the public may receive from 
the revival of the lines on Lord Carlisle, let them keep 
it, — the more favourable for him, and tlie worse for me 
— better for all. 

" All the sayings and doings in the world shall not 
make me utter another word of conciliation to any thing 
that breathes. I shall bear what I can, and what 1 
cannot, I shall resist. The worst they could do would 
be to exclude me from society. I have never courted 
it, nor, I may add, in the general sense of the word, en- 
joyed it — and ' there is a world elsewhere !' 

"Any thing remarkably injurious, I have the same 
means of repaying as other men, with such interest as 
circumstances may annex to it. 

" Nothing but the necessity of adhering to regimen 
prevents me from dining with you to-morrow. 

" I am yours niost truly, 

" Bn.» 



LETTER CCVIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



Th«FcMtofthePooti. 



"Feb. 16, 1814. 
"You may be assured that the only prickles that slinf 
from the Royal hedgehog are those which possess a 
torpedo property, and may benumb some of my friends, 
/am quite sikiit^ and ' luu^h'd in grim repose.' The 
frequency of iho assaults has woakoned their eHecIs, — if 
ever thoy had any ;— and, if they had hnil much 1 should 
hardly have held my tongue, or withheld my fingers. It 
ia something quite now to attack a man for abaudonmg 



• Ri-lullve to n proposed reconelllcHoii bctwpen LonI Carlltlt iindhliu. 
lulf. 
t OriheSaUrt. 



68 



LETTERS, 1514. 



his resen Tnrnt5. I have heard hat previous praise and 
subsequent vitupt-raiion were rather ungrateful, but I did 
not know thf.t it was v.-ror^ to endeavour to do justice to 
those ^\ho did not wail till I had made some amends 
for former and boyisli prejudices, but received me into 
"their friendship, u lien I might still have been their 
' enemv. 

' You perceive justly that I must irdentimaUy have 
made my fortune, like Sir Francis Wronghead. It 
were better if there were more merit in my independence, 
but it really is something nowadays to be independent at 
all, and the Itss temptation to be otherwise, the more un- 
common the case, m these times of paradoxical servility 
[ believe that most of our hates and likings have been 
aitherto nearly the same; but from henceforth, they 
' must, of necessity, be one and indivisible,— and now for 
it ! I am for any weapon,— the pen, till one can find 
something sharper, will do for a beginning. 

" You can have no conception of the ludicrous solem- 
nity with which these two stanzas have been treated. 
The Mornino Post gave notice of an intended motion in 
the House of my brethren on the subject, and God knows 
what proceedings besides ;— and all this, as Bedridden in 
the ' Nights' says, ' for making a cream tart without pep- 
per.' Tliis last piece of intelligence is, I presume, too 
laughable to be true ; and the destruction of the Custom- 
house appears to have, in some degree, interfered with 
mine ;— added to which, the last battle of Buonaparte 
has usurped the column hitherto devoted to my bulletin. 

" I send you from this day's Morning Post the best 
which have hitherto appeared on this 'impudent dog- 
gerel,' as the Courier calls it. There was another about 
my diet, when a boy — not at all bad — some time ago 5 
but the rest are but indifferent. 

"I shall think about your oratorical hint;* — but I 
have never set much upon ' that cast,' and am grown as 
tired as Solomon of every thing, and of myself more than 
any thing. This is being what the learned call philo- 
sophical, and the vulgar, lack-a-daisical. I am, however, 
always glad of a blessing ;| pray repeat yours soon, — at 
least, your letter, and I shaU think the benediction in- 
cluded. 

« Ever, Sec." 



that now, as always, you will think that I wish to take no 
unfair advantage of the accidental opportunity which cir- 
cumstances permitted me of being of use to you. 

" Ever, &C.'' 



LETTER CCVIII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



"Feb. 17, 1814. 

"The Courier of this evening accuses me of having 
'received and pocketed' large sums for my works. I 
have never yet received, nor wish to receive, a farthing 
for any. Mr. Murray offered a thousand for the Giaour 
and Bride of Abydos, which I said was too much, and 
that if he could afford it at the end of six months, I would 
then direct how it might be disposed of; but neither 
then, nor at any other period, have I ever availed myself 
of the profits on my own account. For the republication 
of tht! Satire, I refused four hundred guineas ; and for the 
previous editions I never asked nor received a sous, nor 
for any writing whatever. I do not wish you to do any 
thmg disagreeable to yourself ; there never was nor shall 
be any conditions nor stipulations with regard to any ac- 
commodation that I could afford you ; and, on your part, 
I can see nothing derogatory in receiving the copyrioht. 
It was only assistance afforded to a worthy man, by one 
not quite so worthy. 

"Mr. Murray is going to contradict this ;J but your 
name will not be mentioned : for your own part, you are 
a free agent, and are to do as you please. I only hope 

• Mr. Moore had nnflcavoiired to persuade liim to take a. part in par 
liamcntary aff«ir», and to exercise his talent for oratory more frequentlv 

1 In conchiding his letter, Mr. Moore having said " God bless you \'' 
■ddetl-" that is, jf you have no objection." 

X The s'Aiemenl of the Courier, kt. 



In consequence of this letter, Mr. Dallas addressed an 
explanation to one of the newspapers, of which the fol- 
lowing is a part : — 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING POST. 
" SIR, 

" I have seen the paragraph in an evening paper, in 
which Lord Byron is accused of ' receiving and pocketing* 
large sums for his works, I believe no one who knows 
him has the slightest suspicion of this kind ; but the as- 
sertion being public, I think it a justice I owe to Lord 
Byron to contradict it publicly. + + + 

" I take upon me to affirm that Lord Byron never re- 
ceived a shilling for any of his works. To my certain 
knowledge, the profits of the Satire were left entirely to 
the publisher of it. The gift of the copyright of Chalde 
Harold's Pilgrimage, I have already publicly acknow- 
ledged in the dedication of the new edition of my novels: 
and I now add my acknowledgment for that of the Cor- 
sair, not only for the profitable part of it, but for the deli- 
cate and delightful manner of bestowing it while yet un- 
published. With respect to his two other poems, the 
Giaour and the Bride of Abydos, Mr. Murray, the pub- 
lisher of them, can truly attest that no part of the sale of 
them has ever touched his hands, or been disposed of for 
his use." 



LETTER CCIX. 

TO ^ + ^ 'i^^ 

"sir, « Feb. 20, 1814. 

"My absence from London till withm these last few 
9a.ys, and business since, have hitherto prevented my ac- 
knowledgment of the volume I have lately received, and 
the inscription which it contains, for both of which I beg 
leave to return you my thanks, and best v/ishes for the 
success of the book and its author. The poem itself as 
the workof a young man, is creditable to your talents, and 
promises better for future efforts than any which I can now 
recollect. Whether you intend to pursue your poetical 
career, I do not know, and can have no right to inquire — 
but, in whatever channel your abilities are directed, I think 
it will be your own fault if they do not eventually lead to 
distinction. Happiness must of course depend upon con- 
duct — and even fame itself would be but a poor compen- 
sation for self-reproach. You will excuse me for talking 
to a man perhaps not many years my junior, with these 
grave airs of seniority ; but though I cannot claim much 
advantage in that respect, it was my lot to be thrown very 
early upon the world — to mix a good deal in it in more cli- 
mates than one — and to purchase experience which would 
probably have been of greater service to any one than 
myself But my business with you is in your capacity 
of author, and to that I will confine myself 

The first thing a young writer must expect, and yet 
can least of all suffer, is criticism. I did not bear it — a 
few years, and many changes have since passed over my 
head, and my reflections on that subject are attended with 
regret. I find, on dispassionate comparison, my own re- 
venge more than the provocation warranted. It is true, I 
was very young — that might be an excuse to those I at- 
tacked — but to me it is none : the best reply to all objec- 
tions is to write better — and if your enemies will not then 
do you justice, the world will. On the other hand, you 
should not be discouraged — to be opposed, is not to be 
vanquished, though a timid mind is apt to mistake every 
scratch for a mortal wound. There is a saying of Dr. 
Johnson's, which it is as well to remember, that ' no man 
was ever written down except by himself.' I sincerely 
hope that you will meet with as few obstacles as yourself 



LETTERS, 1814. 



69 



can desire — but if you should, you will find that they are 
to be stepped over ; to Idck them down is the first resolve 
of a young and fiery spirit— a pleasant thing enough at 
the time — but not so afterwards : on this point, I speak of 
a man's oxjun reflections — what others think or say, is a 
secondary consideration — at least, it has been so wilh me, 
but will not answer as a general maxim : he who would 
make his way in the world, must let the world believe that 
it was made for him, and accommodate himself to the 
minutest observance of its regulations. 1 beg once more 
to thank you for your pleasing present, 

" And have the honour to be 
" Your obliged and very obedient servant, 
« Byron." 



LETTER OCX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 26, 1814. 

" Dallas had, perhaps, have better kept silence ; — but 
that was his concern, and, as his facts are correct, and his 
motive not dishonourable to himself^ I wished him well 
through it. As for his interpretations of the lines, he and 
any one else may interpret them as they please. I have 
and shall adhere to uiy taciturnity, unless something very 
particular occurs to render this impossible. Do not you 
say a word. If any one is to speak, it is the person prin- 
cipally concerned. Tlie most amusing thing is, that every 
one (to me) attributes the abuse to the man they person- 
ally most dislike! — some say Croker, some C * * e, 
others Fitzgerald, &c. &c. &c. I do not know, and have 
no clue but conjecture. If discovered, and he turns out a 
hireling, he must be lefl to his wages ; if a cavalier, he 
must ' wink, and hold out his iron.' 

" I had some thoughts of putting the question to Croker, 
but Hobhouse, who, I am sure, would not dissuade me, if 
it were right^ advised me by all means not ; — ' that I had 
no right to take it upon suspicion,' &c. &c. Whether 
Hobhouse is correct, I am not aware, but he believes him- 
self so, and says there can be but one opinion on that sub- 
ject. This I am, at least, sure of, that he would never 
prevent me from doing what he deemed the duty of a 
preux chevalier. In such cases — at least, in this country 
— we must act according to usages. In considering this 
instance, I dismiss my own personal feelings. Any man 
will and must fight, when necessary, — even without a mo- 
tive. Here, I should take it up really without much re- 
sentment ; for unless a woman one likes is in the way, it 
is some years since 1 felt a long anger. But, undoubt- 
edly, could I, or may I, trace it to a man of station, I 
should and shall do what is proper. 

" * + was angerly, but tried to conceal it. You are not 
called upon to avow the ' Twopenny.' and would only 
gratify them by so doing. Do you not see the great ob- 
ject of all these fooleries is to set him, and you, and me, 
and all persons whatsoever, by the ears ? — more especially 
those who are on good terms — and nearly succeeded. 
Lord H. wished me to concede to Lord Carlisle — concede 
to the devil ! — to a man who used me ill ? I told him, in 
answer, that I would neither concede, nor recede on the 
subject, but be silent altogether ; unless any thing more 
could be said about Lady H. and himself who had been 
since my very good friends ;— and there it ended. This 
was no time for concessions to Lord C. 

" I have been interrupted, but shall write again soon. 
Believe me ever, my dear Mooro, &c." 



is the only answer to the things you mention ; nor should 
I regard that man as my friend who said a word more on 
the subject. I care little for attacks, but I will not submit 
to defences ; and I do hope and trust that you have never 
entertained a serious thought of engaging in so foolish a 
controversy. Dallas's letter was, to his credit, merely as 
to the facts which he had a right to state ; / neither have 
nor shall take the least public notice, nor permit any one 
else to do so. If I discover the writer, then I may act in 
a different manner ; but it will not be in writing. 

"An expression in your letter has induced me to write 
this to you, to entreat you not to interfere in any way in 
such a business, — it is now nearly over, and depend upon 
it they are much more chagrined by my silence than they 
could be by the best defence in the world. I do not know 
any thing that would vex me more than any further reply 
to these things. 

"Ever yours, in haste, "B." 



LETTER CCXI 

TO W ♦ * W * *, ESft.* 

"Feb. 28, 1814. 
"mv dear w 
I have but a few moments to write to you. Silence 



SUium'" '*"*"* *'"* *°'""'"''**^ lo 'l^fe"^ •I'm '» ^laliou to Iho "Two 



LETTER CCXIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 3, 1814. 
"my dear friend, 

" I have a great mind to tell you that I am ' uncomfort- 
able,' if only to make you come to town ; where no one 
ever more delighted in seeing you, nor is there any one 
to whom I would sooner turn for consolation in my most 
vapourish moments. The truth is, I have 'no lack of 
argument' to ponder upon of the most gloomy descriytion, 
but this arises from other causes. Some day or other, 
when we are veterans, 1 may tell you a tale of present and 
past times ; and it is not from want of confidence thai 1 do 
not know, — but — but — always a but to the end of the 
chapter. 

" There is nothing, however, upon the spot either to 
love or hate ; — but I certainly have subjects for both at 
no very great distance, and am besides embarrassed be- 
tween three whom I know, and one (whose name at least) 
I do not know. All this would be very well, if I had no 
heart ; but, unluckily, I have found that there is such a 
thing still about me, though in no very good repair, and, 
also, that it has a habit of attaching itself to one, whether 
I will or no. ' Divide et impera,' I begin to think, wdll 
only do for politics. 

"If I discover the 'toad,' as you call him, I shall 'tread,' — 
and put spikes in my shoes to do it more effectually. The 
effect of all these fine things, I do not inquire much nor 
perceive. I believe * * felt them more than either of us. 
People are civil enough, and I have had no dearth of invita- 
tions, — none of which, however, I have accepted. 1 went 
out very little last year, and mean to go about still less. I 
have no passion for circles, and have long regretted that I 
ever gave way to what is called a town hfe ; — which, of all 
the lives I ever saw (and they are nearly as many as Plu- 
tarch's) seems to me to leave the least for the past and 
future. 

How proceeds the Poem? Do not neglect it, and 1 have 
no fears. I need not say to you that your fame is dear to 
me, — I really might say dearer than my own ; for I have 
lately begun to tliink my tilings have been strangely over- 
rated; and, at any rate, whetlier or not, I have done with 
them for ever. I may say to you, what I vvoukl not say to 
every body, that tlie last two were written, tlie Bride in four, 
and the Corsair in ten days, — which 1 take to be a most 
humiliating confession, as it proves my own want of judg- 
ment in publishing, aiul the public's in reading things, whicli 
cannot have stamina for permauont attention. ' So much 
for Buckingham.' 

"I have no dread of vour being too luisty, and I havestiU 
less of your failing. But I think a year a very fair allotment 
of time to a r(Hnpt)siti(ni wiiirli is not to bo Kpio ; ami oven 
Horace's ' Nonum promatur' must have boon intontlod for 
the Milleniuuin, or some bngcr-Uvod gcjieralion ll»«uj ouw. 



70 



LETTERS, 1814. 



I wonder how much we should have had of him^ had he 
observed his own doctrines to the letter. Peace be with 
you ! Remember that I am always and most tr>ily yours, &c. 
"P. S. I never heard tlie 'report' you mention, nor, I 
dare say, many others. But, in course, you, as well as 
others, have 'damned good-natured friends,' who do their 
duty in the usual way. One thing will make you laugh 
♦ + * *;> 

LETTER CCXIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 12, 1814. 

"Guess darkly, and you will seldom err. At present, I 
shall say no more, and, perhaps — but no matter. I hope we 
shall some day meet, and whatever years may precede or 
succeed it, I shall mark it with the ' white stone' in my 
calendar. I am not sure tliat I shall not soon be in your 
neighbourhood again. If so, and I am alone, (as will pro- 
bably be the case,) I shall invade and carry you ofl^ and 
endeavour to atone for sorry fare by a sincere welcome. I 
don't know the person absent (barring 'the sect') I should 
be so glad to see again. 

" I have nothing of the sort you mention but the lines, (the 
Weepers,) if you like to have them in the Bag. I wish to 
give them all possible circulation. The Vault reflection is 
downright actionable, and to print it would be peril to the 
pubhsher; but I think the Tears have a natural right to be 
bagged, and the editor (whoever he may be) might supply 
a facetious note or not, as he pleased. 

"I cannot conceive how the Vault* has got about, — but 
so it is. It is too farouclie; but, truth to say, my satires 
are not very playful. I have the plan of an epistle in my 
head, at him and to him ; and, if they are not a little quieter, 
I shall imbody it. I should say little or nothbg of myself. 
As to mirth and ridicule, tliat is out of my way ; but 1 have 
a tolerable fund of sternness and contempt, and, with Juvenal 
before me, I shall perhaps read him a lecture he has not 
lately heard in the Court. From particular circumstances, 
which came to my knowledge almost by accident, I could 
' tell hun what lie is — I know him well.' 

" 1 meant, my dear M. to write to you a long letter, but I 
am hurried, and time cbps my inclination down to yours, &c. 

" P. S. Think again before you shelf your Poem. There 
is a youngster, (older than me, by-the-by, but a younger 
poet,) Mr. G. E[night,with a vol. of Eastern Tales, written 
since his return, for he has been in the countries. He sent 
to me last summer, and I advised him to write one in each 
measure^ without any intention, at that time, of doing the 
same tiling. Since that, from a habit of writing in a fever, 
I liave anticipated him in the variety of measures, but quite 
unintentionally. Of the stories, I know nothing, not having 
seen them ; but he has some lady in a sack, too, like the 
Giaour: — he told me at the time. 

" The best way to make the public 'forget' me is to remind 
them of yourself. You cannot suppose that / would ask 
you or advise you to publish, if I tliought you would fail. 1 
really have no literary envy, and I do not believe a friend's 
success ever sat nearer another tlian yours do to my best 
wishes. It is for elderly gentlemen to 'bear no brother near,' 
and cannot become our disease for more years than we may 
perhaps number. I \vish you to be out before Eastern sub- 
jects are again before the public." 



LETTER CCXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"March 12, 1814 
"I have not time to read the whole MS.f but what I 
have seen seems very well written, (both jirose and ver.te,) 

' The lines on ihe opening of the vault that contained llie remains of 
Henry VI II. anil C'hnric* I. 

t The maniucriut of a long grave latire, entitled " Anti-Byron," which 
had been«cnt to Mr. Murray, and by him forwarded to I^ord Byron, with 
a nquest— not meant, 1 helieve, serioinly— thai he would give his opinion 
■I 10 the propriety of publishing il.~MooTt. 



and, though I am and can be no judge, (at leaist a fcdr 

one on this subject,) containing nothing which you ought 
to hesitate publishing upon mi/ account. If the author 
is not jDr. Bushy himself, I think it a pity, on his own 
account', that he should dedicate it to his subscribers ; 
nor can I perceive what Dr. Busby has to do with the 
matter, except as a translator of Lucretius, for whose 
doctrines he is surely not responsible. I tell you openly, 
and really most sincerely, that, if published at all, there 
is no earthly reason why you should not; on the contrary, 
I should receive it as the greatest compliment you could 
pay to your good opinion of my candour, to print and 
circulate that, or any other work, attacking me in a manly 
manner, and without any malicious intention, from which, 
as far as I have seen, I must exonerate this writer. 

"He is wrong in one thing, — / am no atheist; but if he 
thinks I have published principles tending to such opi- 
nions, he has a perfect right to controvert them. Pray 
publish it ; I shall never forgive myself if I think that I 
have prevented you. 

" Make my compliments to the author, and tell him 1 
wish him success ; his verse is very deserving of it ; and 
I shall be the last person to suspect his motives. Yours, 
&c. 

"P. S. If t/oM do not publish it, some one else will. 
You cannot suppose me so narrow-minded as to shrink 
from discussion. 1 repeat once for all, that I think it a 
good Poem, (as far as 1 have redde ;) and that is the only 
point you should consider. How odd that eight lines 
should have given birth, I really think, to eight thousand, 
including all that has been said, and will be, on the 
subject!" 



LETTER CCXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"April 9, 1814. 

"All these news are very fine ; but nevertheless I want 
my books, if you can find, or cause them to be found for 
me, — if only to lend them to Napoleon in 'the island of 
Elba,' during his retirement. I also (if convenient, and 
you have no party with you) should be glad to speak with 
you for a few minutes this evening, as 1 have had a letter 
from Mr. Moore, and wish to ask you, as the best judge, 
of the best time for him to publish the work he has com- 
posed. I need not say, that I have his success much at 
heart ; not only because he is my friend, but something 
much better — a man of great talent, of which he is less 
sensible than I beheve any even of his enemies. If you 
can so far oblige me as to step down, do so ; and if vou 
are otherwise occupied, say nothing about it. I shall find 
you at home in the course of next week. 

"P. S. I see Sotheby's Tragedies advertised. The 
Death of Darnley is a famous subject— one of the best, I 
should think, for the drama. Pray let me have a copy, 
when ready. 

"Mrs. Leigh was very much pleased with her books, 
and desired me to thank you ; she means, I believe, to 
write to you her acknowledgments." 



LETTER CCXVL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"2,Albany, April 9, 1814. 

" Viscount Althorp is about to be married, and I have 
gotten his spacious bachelor apartments in Albany, to 
which you will, I hope, address a speedy answer to this 
mine epistle. 

" I am but just returned to town, from which you may 
infer that I have been out of it ; and I have been boxing, 
for exercise, with Jackson for this last month daily. I 
have also been drinking, — and, on one occasion, with three 
other friends at the Cocoa Tree, from six till four, yea. 



LETTERS, 1814. 



71 



unto five in the matin. We clareted and champaigned 
till two— then supped, and finished with a kind of regency 
punch composed of madeira, brandy, and green tea, no reid 
water bemg admitted therein. There was a night fo 
you ! — without once quitting the table, except to ambulate 
home, which I did alone, and in utter contempt of a hack 
ney-coach and my own wis, both of which were deemed 
necessary for our conveyance. And so, — I am very well, 
and they say it will hurt my constitution. 

"I have also, more or less, been breaking a few of the 
favourite commandments; but I mean to pull up and 
marry, — if any one will have me. In the mean time, the 
other day I nearly killed myself with a collar of brawn, 
which I swallowed for supper, and indigested for 1 don't 
know how long ; — but that is by-the-by. All this gor- 
mandize was in honour of Lent ; for I am forbidden meat 
aU the rest of the year, — but it is strictly enjoined me 
during your solemn fast. I have been, and am, in very 
tolerable love ; — but of that hereafter, as it may be. 

" My dear Moore, say what you will in your preface : 
and quiz any thing, or any body, — me, if you like it. Oons ! 
dost thou think me of the old, or rather elderly, school ? If 
one can't jest with one's friends, with whom can we be 
facetious ? You have nothing to fear from * *, whom I 
have not seen, being out of town when he called. He will 
be very correct, smooth, and all that, but I doubt whether 
there will be any ' grace beyond the reach of art ;' — and 
whether there is or not, how long will you be so d — d 
modest? As for .Jeffrey, it is a very handsome thing of 
him to speak well of an old antagonist, — and what a mean 
mind dared not do. Any one will revoke praise ; but — 
were it not partly my own case — 1 should say that very 
few have strength of mind to unsay their censure, or follow 
it up with praise of other things. 

"What think you of the review of /.em.? It beats the 
Bag and my hand-grenade hollow, as an invective, and 
hath thrown the Court into hysterics, as I hear from very 
good authority. Have you heard from * * * *. 
"No more rhyme for — or racher, /ro?n — me. I have 
taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth wiU mounte- 
bank it no longer. I have had my day, and there 's an end. 
The utmost I expect, or even wish, is to have it said in 
the Biographia Britannica, that I might perhaps have been 
a poet, had I gone on and amended. My great comfort 
is that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the 
world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and preju- 
dices. I have flattered no ruling powers ; I have never 
concealed a single thought that tempted me. They can't 
say I have truckled to the times, nor to popular topics, (as 
Johnson, or somebody, said of Cleveland,) and whatever I 
have gained has been at the expenditure of as much per- 
sonal favour as possible ; for I do beheve never was a bard 
more unpopular, quoad homo, than myself. And now I 
have done; — 'ludite nunc alios.' — Every body may be 
d — d, as they seem fond of it, and resolved to stickle lustily 
for endless brimstone. 

"Oh— by-thc-by, I had nearly forgot. There is a long 
Poem, an 'Anti-Byron,' coming out, to prove that I have 
formed a conspiracy to overthrow, by rhyme, all religion 
and government, and have already made great progress ! 
It is not very scurrilous, but serious and ethereal. I never 
felt myself important, till 1 saw and heard of my being si*;ii 
a little Voltaire as to induce such a production. Murray 
would not publish il, for which he was a ^oo\, and so 1 told 
him ; but some one else will, doubtless. ' Sometliing too 
much of this.' 

"Your French scheme is good, but let it be Italian; all 
Uie Angles will be at Paris. Let it be Rome, Milan, 
Naples, Florence, Turin, Venice, or Switzerland, and 
' egad !' (as Bayes sailh,) I will connuliiate and join you ; 
and we will write a new ' Inferno' in our Paradise. Pray, 
think of tliis— and I will really buy a wife and a ring, and 
say the ceremony, and settle near you in a summer-house 
upon the Arno, or the Po, or the Adriatic. 



"Ah ! my poor little paged. Napoleon, has wallced ofFhia 
pedestal. He has abdicated, they say. This would draw 
molten brass from the eyes of Zatanai. What ! ' kiss the 
ground before young Malcolm's feet, and then be baited by 
the rabble's curse !' I cannot bear such a crouching cata- 
strophe. I must stick to Sylla, for my modern favourites 
don't do, — their resignations are of a different kind. All 
health and prosperity, my dear Moore. Excuse this 
lengthy letter. Ever, &c. 

" P. S. The Quarterly quotes you frequently in an ar- 
ticle on America; and every body I know asks perpetually 
after you and yours. When will you answer them in 
person ?" 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

*« April 10, 1814. 

"I have written an Ode on the fall of Napoleon, which, 
if you like, I will copy out, and make you a present of. 
Mr. Merivale has seen part of it, and lilies it. You may 
show it to Mr. Gifford, and print it, or not, as you please — 
it is of no consequence. It contains nothing in Ms favour, 
and no allusion whatever to our own government or the 
Bourbons. Yours, &c. 

"P. S. It is in the measure of my stanzas at the end of 
Childe Harold, which were much liked, beginning, ' And 
thou art dead,' &c. There are ten stanzas of it — ninety 
lines in all." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 11, 1814, 

"I enclose you a lettered from Mrs. Leigh. 

" It will be best not to put my name to our Ode ; but you 
may say as openly as you like that it is mine, and I can 
inscribe it to Mr. Hobhouse from the author, which will 
mark it sufficiently. After the resolution of not publishing, 
though it is a thing of Uttle length and less consequence, it 
will be better altogether that it is anonymous ; but we will 
incorporate it in the first tome of ours that you find time or 
the wish to publish. " Yours alway, " B. 

"P. S. I hope you got a note of alterations, sent this 
matin ? 

"P. S. Oh my books! my books! will you never find 
my books ? 

" Alter ^potent spell' to ' quickening spell :' the first (as 
Polonius says) ' is a vile phrase,' and means nothing, be- 
sides being commonplace and RosonMatildaish" 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 12, 1814. 
" I send you a few notes and trifling alterations, and an 
additional motto from Gibbon, which you will find singu- 
larly appropriate. A 'Good-natured Friend' tells me tliere 
is a most scurrilous attack on us in the Antijacobin Re- 
view, which you have not sent. Send it, as I am in tliat 
state of languor which will derive benefit from getting into 
a passion. Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXVII. 

TO MR. MOOHE. 

"Albany, April 20, 1814. 
" I am very glad to hear that you are to be transient from 
Mayfield so very soon, and was taken in by the first part 
of your letter.! Indeed, for aught I know, you may bo 



• See PoeiDR, J). 178. . 

I I hail begun my letter in the following manner:—" lUTf you trcn tha 
' Ode to Nftpoleoii Uuoimparte?'— I •napect il lo be cither Kil»ReriiKI ■ 
or Hosa Maliltla'ii. 'I'hose rapiil anil niusterly jwitrnils olall the lyrnnU 
Ihut precedfil Nn|M)leon have a vigour in them wliioh woiiKI inclm.- me to 
«ay thai Rosa Mulililft iB the |)*rton— Inil then, on ihc ollur hiuul, th»l 
Itowerfnl Kiatp ol hiilory," &c.4c. After a liulc more of lhi» m.>cK 
|.nrullel, the letter wont on thn»:— " 1 »houUl like to know what y>" ihm« 
of the mutlori' Some frien.U of mine here uill in»i»t that it i» the worK 
of (he author of Chihle lla.-oUl,-hul then they ar* not .o wtll r.«dUi 
nugerBMnnd Uoh« iMatlhla «• I am, anil, beildiw. they •«"" «>' 'orwl 
that you nri.mliied, aluml a month or two agu, not lo Wlilc any mor* lor 
ycart. Nerioualy," &c. &c. 



72 



treating me, as Slipslop says, with ' ironing" even now. I 
shall say nothuig of the shock, which had nothing ofhumeur 
in it ; as 1 am apt to take even a critic, and still more a 
friend, at his word, and never to doubt that I have been 
writing cursed nonsense if they say so. There was a men- 
tal reservation in my pact with the public, in behalf of 
anonymes; and, even had there not, the provocation was 
such as to make it physically impossible to pass over this 
damnable epoch of triumphant tameness. 'Tis a cursed 
business; and, after all, I shall think higher of rhyme and 
reason, and very humbly of your heroic people, till — Elba 
becomes a volcano, and sends him out again. I can't think 
it all over yet. 

" My departure for the Continent depends, in some mea- 
sure, on the i/tcontinent. I have two country invitations 
at home, and don't know what to say or do. In the mean 
time, I have bought a macaw and a parrot, and have got 
up my books ; and I bo.\ and fence daily, and go out very 
lilUe. 

"At this present writing, Louis the Gouty is wheeling in 
triumph into Piccadilly, in all the pomp and rabblement of 
royalty. 1 had an offer of seats to see them pass ; but, as 
I have seen a sultan going to mosque, and been at /us 
reception of an ambassador, the most Christian King 'hath 
no attractions for me :' — though in some coming year of 
the Hegira, I should not dislike to see the place where he 
had reigned, shortly after the second revolution, and a 
happy sovereignty of two months, the last six weeks being 
civil war. 

" Pray write, and deem me ever, &c." 



LETTERS, 1814. 



LETTER CCXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 21, 1814. 

"Many thanks with the letters which I return. You 
know I am a jacobin, and could not wear white, nor see the 
installation of Louis die Gouty. 

" This is sad news, and very hard upon the sufferers at 
any, but more at sjich a time — I mean the Bayonne sortie. 

" You should urge Moore to come out. 

"P. S. I want Moreri to purchase for good and all. I 
have a Bayle, but want Moreri too. 

" P. S. Perry hath a piece of compliment to-day ; but I 
think the name might h-ave been as well omitted. No 
matter ; they can but throw the old story of inconsistency 
in my teeth— let them, — I mean as to not publishing. How- 
ever, Tuxw I will keep my word. Nothing but the occasion, 
which was physically irresistible, made me swerve ; and I 
thought an ancmyme within my pact with the public. It Ls 
the only thing I have or shall set about." 



LETTER CCXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 25, 1814. 

• Let Mr. GifTord have the letter and return it at his lei- 
sure. I would have offered it, had 1 thought that he liked 
things of the kind. 

" Do you want tlie last page immediately ? I have doubt 
the lines being worth printing ; at any rate, I must see them 
again and alter some passages, before they go forth in any 
shape into the ocean of circulation ; — a very conceited 
phrase, by-the-by : well then — channel of publication will do. 

" ' I am not i' the vein,' or I could knock oft" a stanza or 
three for tlie Ode, that might answer the purpose better. 
At ail events, I must see the lines again Jirst, as there be 
two I have altered in my mind's manuscript already. Has 
any one seen and judged of them ? that is the criterion by 
wliich I will abide — only give mo a f.iir report, and ' nothing 
extenuate,' as I will in that case do somotliing else. 

• Ever, &c. 

•* I want Mn-ai and an Atfieiusus" 



LETTER CCXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"April 26, 1814. 

" I have been thinking that it might be as well to publish 
no more of the Ode separately, but incorporate it with any 
of the other things, and include the smaller Poem too (in 
that case) — which I must previously correct, nevertheless. 
I can't, for the head of me, add a Une worth scribbling ; my 
' vein' is quite gone, and rny present occupations are of the 
gymnastic order — ^boxing and fencing — and my principal 
conversation is with my macaw and Bayle. I want my 
Moreri, and I want Athenseus. 

" P. S. I hope you sent back that poetical packet to the 
address which I forwarded to you on Sunday : if not, pray 
do ; or I shall have the author screaming after his Epic." 



LETTER CCXXL 



TO MR. MURRAY, 



"April 26, 1814. 

" I have no guess at your author, — but it is a noble Poem,* 
and worth a thousand Odes of any body's. I suppose I may 
keep this copy; — after reading it, I really regret having 
written my own. I say this very sincerely, albeit unused to 
think humbly of myself. 

" I don't lite the additional stanzas at aU, and they liad 
better be left out. The fact is, I can't do any thuig 1 am 
asked to do, however gladly I would ; and at the end of a 
week my interest in a composition goes off. This will 
account to you for my doing no better for your 'Stamp 
Duty' Postscript. 

"The S. R. is very civil — ^but what do they mean by 
Childe Harold resembling Marmion? and the next two, 
Giaour and Bride, not resembling Scott ? I certainly never 
intended to copy him ; ^ut^nf there be any copyism, It must 
be in the two Poems, where the same versification is 
adopted. However, they exempt tlie Corsair from all 
resemblance to any thing, — though I rather wonder at his 
escape. 

" If ever I did any diing original, it was in Childe Harold, 
which / prefer to the other things always, after the first 
week. Yesterday I re-read English Bards ; — bating the 
malice, it is the best. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXXIL 



TO MR. MT5RRAY. 



"2, Albany, April 29, 1814. 

" DEAR SIR, 

"I enclose a draft for the money; when paid, send the 
copyright. I release you from the thousand pounds agreed 
on for the Giaour and Bride, and there 's an end. 

" If any accident occurs to me, you may do then as you 
please; but, with tlie exception of two copies of each for 
yourself only, I expect and request that the advertisements^ 
be withdrawn, and the remaining copies of all destroyed ; 
and any expense so incurred, I will be glad to defray .f 

" For all this, it might be as well to assign some reason. 
I have none to give, except my own caprice, and I do not 
coasider the circumstance of consequence enough to require 
explanation. 

" In course, I need hardly assure you that they never 
shall be pubhshed with my consent, directly or indirecdy, by 
any other person whatsoever, — that I am perfecdy satisfied, 
and have every reason so to be with your conduct in all 
transactions between us as pubhsher and author. 

" It will give me great pleasure to preserve your acquaint- 



* " Buonaparte," by Mr. .Stralforrl Canning. 

t He had, at this time, formed a resolution of purchasing back the whol« 
of his past copyrights, uud suppressing everv page aud line he Lad ever 



H 



LETTERS, 1814. 



73 



ance, and to consider you as my friend. Believe me very 
truly, and for much attention, 

" Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

"Byron. 
"P. S. I do not think that I have overdrawn at Ham- 
mersley's ; but if that be the case, I can draw for the superllux 
on Hoares'. The draft is 51. short, but that I will make up. 
On payment — not before — return the copyright papers." 



LETTER CCXXin. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"May 1, 1814. 



' SEAR SIR, 



" If your present note is serious, and it really would be 
inconvenient, there is an end of the matter : tear my draft, 
and go on as usual : in that case, we will recur to our former 
basis. That I was perfecdy serious, in v/ishing to suppress 
all future publication, is true ; but certainly not to interfere 
with the convenience of others, and more particularly your 
own. Some day, I will tell you the reason of this apparently 
strange resolution. At present, it may be enough to say 
that I recall it at your suggestion: and as it appears to have 
annoyed you, I lose no time in saying so. 

"Yours, truly, «B." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 4, 1814. 

"Last night we supp'd at R fe's board, &c. 

****** 

" I wish people would not shirk their dinners — ought it not 
to have been a dinner? — and that d — d anchovy sandwich ! 

" That plaguy voice of yours made me sentimental, and 
almost fall in love with a girl who was recommending her- 
self during your song, by hating music. But the song is 
past, and my passion can wait, till the pucelle is more har- 
monious. 

" Do you go to Lady Jersey's to-night ? It is a large 
party, and you won't be bored into ' softening rocks,' and all 
that. Othello is to-morrow and Saturday too. Wliich day 
shall we go ? When shall I see you ? If you call, let it be 
after three and as near four as you please. Ever, &c. 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 4, 1814. 

" DEAR TOM, 

"Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an 
experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, 
and is, therefore, less lilcely to be worth your taking any in 
your proposed setting.* Now, if it be so, throw it into the 
fire without p/irase. 

"Ever yours, "Byron." 



" I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, &c." 
NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" Will you and Rogers come to my box at Covcnt, then ? 
I shall be there, and none else — or I won't be there, if you 
twcun would like to go without me. You will not get so 
good a [)lacc hustling among the publican hoxcrs^ witli 
damnable a|)prcnticcs (six feet higli) on a back row. Will 
you both oblige mc and come — or one — or neither — or, what 
you will? 

" P. S. An' you will, I will call for you at half past six, or 
any time of your own dial." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"I have gotten a box for Otliello to-night, and send tJio 
ticket for your friends tlie R — fe's. I seriously rcconuncnd 



See Poenu, p. 48(). 

10 



to you to recommend to them to go for half an hour, if only 
to see the tliird act — they will not easily have another op- 
portunity. We — at least, I — cannot be there, so there wall 
be no one in the way. Will you give or send it to them ? 
it will come with a better grace from you than me. 

"I am in no good plight, but will dine at * *'s with you, 
if I can. There is music and Covent-g. — ^WiU you go, at 
all events, to my box there afterward, to see a debut of a 
young 16,* in the 'Child of Nature?'" 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sunday matin. 

" Was not lago perfection ? particularly the last look, I 
was dose to him (in the orchestra,) and never saw an Eng- 
lish countenance half so expressive. I am acquainted with 
no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting ; and, 
as it is fitting there should be^ood plays, now and then, 
besides Shakspeare's, I wish you or Campbell would write 
one : the rest of ' us youth' have not heart enough. 

"You were cut up in the Champion — is it not so? this 
day, so am I — even to shocking the editor. The critic 
writes well ; and as, at present, poesy is not my passion 
predominant, and my snake of Aaron has swallowed up all 
the other serpents, I don't feel fractious. 1 send you the 
paper, which I mean to take in for the future. We go to 
M.'s together. Perhaps I shall see you before, but don't let 
me bore you, now, nor ever. 

" Ever, as now, truly and affectionately, Sec." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 6, 1814. 

" Do you go to Lady Cahir's this even ? If you do— and 
whenever we are bound to the same follies — let us embark 
in the same ' Shippe of Fooles.' I have been up till five, and 
up at nine ; and feel heavy with only v^inldng for the last 
three or four nights. 

" I lost my party and place at supper, trymg to keep out 
of the way of * * * *. I would have gone away altogether, 
but that would have appeared a worse affectation than 
t' other. You are of course engaged to dinner, or we may 
go quietly together to my box at Covent-garden, and after- 
ward to this assemblage. Why did you go away so soon? 

" Ever, &c. 

" P. S. Ought notR * * * fe's supper to have been a 
dinner? Jackson is here, and I must fatigue myself into 
spirits." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 18, 1814. ' 
"Thanks — and punctuality. IVIiat has passed at * * * * 
House? I suppose that / am to know, antl ' pars fui' of tho 
conference. I regiet that your * * * *s will detain you so 
late, but I sup[iose you will bo at Lady Jersey's. I am 
going earlier with Hobhouse. You recollect tluit to-morrow 
wc sup and sec Kcan. 
"P. S. 2\uo to-morrow is tlio hour of pugilism." 



LETTER CCXXIV. 

TO MH. MOORE. 

"Ma" 20 ISl-i 
"I must send you the Java government gazette of JiiK 3, 
1813, just sent to me by Murray. Only think of our (for it 
is you and I) setting [)aper warriors in array in the Iruiiaii 
seas. Does not lliis sound like fame — si^uielliiiig alimwt 
like postcritij 7 It is something to have scribblers s(ju>ihbliiig 
about us 5(X30 miles o{\] while we arc agrci>ing so well at 
home. 13ring it wiUi you in your pocket ; it will make you 
laugh, as it hath mc. 

" Ever yours, • B. 

"P.S. Oh, Uio anecdote ! * * * *." 



* 



74 



LETTERS, 1814. 



LETTER CCXXV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



«May31,1814. 

"As I shall probably not see you here to-day, I write to 
request that if not inconvenient to yourself, you ^vill stay 
in town till Sunday ; if not to gratify me, yet to please a 
great many others, who \vill be very sorry to lose you. As 
for myself, I can only repeat tliat I wish you would eidier 
remain a long time with us, or not come at all ; for these 
snatches of society make the subsequent separations bitterer 
than ever. 

'^I believe you think tliat I havo not been quite fair with 
that Alpha and Omega of beauty, &c . with whom you would 
wilUngly have united me. But if you consider what her 
sister said on the subject, you will less wonder that my pride 
should have taken the aJarm ; particularly as nothing but 
the every-day flirtation of every-day people ever occurred 
between your heroine and myself Had Lady * * appeared 
to wish it, or even not to oppose it, I would have gone on, 
and very possibly married (that is, if the other had been 
equally accordant) with the same indifference which has 
frozen over the 'Black Sea' of almost all my passions. It is 
tliat very indifference which makes me so uncertain and 
apparently capricious. It is not eagerness of new pursuits, 
but that notliing impresses me sufficiently to^ ; neither do 
I feel disgusted, but simply indifferent to almost all excite- 
ments. The proof of tliis is, that obstacles, the slightest 
even, stop me. This can hardly be timidity, for I have done 
some impudent things too, in my time ; and in almost all 
cases, opposition is a stimulus. In mine, it is not; if a straw 
were in my way, I could not stoop to pick it up. 

" I have sent this long tirade, because I would not have 
you suppose that I have been trijiing designedly with you 
or others. If you think so, in the name of St. Hubert (the 
patron of antlers and hunters) let me be married out of hand 
— I don't care to whom, so that it amuses any body else, 
and don't interfere with me much m the daytime. 

"Everj&c." 



LETTER CCXXVL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



«JuneI4,1814. 

" I andd be very sentimental now, but I won't. The truth 
is, tliat I have been all my life trying to harden my heart, 
and have not yet quite succeeded — though there are great 
hopes — and you do not know how it sunk with your depar- 
ture. What adds to my regret is having seen so little of 
you during your stay in this crowded desert where one 
ought to be able to bear thirst lilce a camel, — ^the springs are 
so few, and most of them so muddy. 

" The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of 
emperors, &c. They have dined, and supped, and shown 
their flat faces in all thoroughfares, and several saloons. 
Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the 
skirts; and their conversation is a catechism, for which and 
the answers I refer you to those who have heard it. 

" I think of leaving town for Newstead soon. If so, I shall 
not be remote from your recess, and (unless Mrs. M. detains 
you at home over the caudle-cup and a new cradle,) we will 

meet. You shall come to me, or I to you, as you like it ; 

but meet we will. An invitation from Aston has reached 
me, but I do not think I shall go. I have also heard of 
* * * — I should like to see her again, for I have not met 
her for years; and though 'the light that ne'er can shine 
agab' is set, I do not know that 'one dear smile like those 
of old' might not make me for a moment forget tlie 'dulness' 
of life's stream.' 

* I am going to R * *'s to-night— to one of those suppers 
which ^ougld to be dinners.' I have hardly seen her, and 
never /am, since you set out. I told you, you were the last 
link of that chain. As for * *, we have not syllabled one 



another's names since. The post will not permit me to 
continue my scrawl. More anon. 

" Ever, dear Moore, &c. 
"P. S. Keep the Journal, I care not what becomes of 
it, and if it has amused you, I am glad that I kej>t it. ' Lara' 
is finished, and I am copying him for my third vol. now 
collecting ; but no separate publication." 



JVOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"June H I8I4. 
" I return your packet of tliis morning. Have you heard 
that Bertrand has returned to Paris with the account of 
Napoleon's having lost his senses? It is a report; but, if 
true, I must, hlie Mr. Fitzgerald and Jeremiah, (of lament- 
able memory,) lay claim to prophecy ; that is to say, of saying 
that he ought to go out of his senses, in the penultimate 
stanza of a certain Ode, — the which, having been pronounced 
nonsense by several profound critics, has a still further pre- 
tension, by its unintelligibility, to inspiration. 

«Ever,&c» 



LETTER CCXXVIL 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



"June 19, 1814. 

" I am always obliged to trouble you with my awkward- 
nesses, and now I have a fresh one. Mr. W.* called on me 
several times, and I have missed the honour of making his 
acquaintance, which I regret, but which you, who know my 
desultory and uncertain habits, will not wonder at, and will, 
I am sure, attribute to any thing but a wish to offend a 
person who has shown me much kindness, and possesses 
character send talents entitled to general respect. My 
mornings are late, and passed in fencing and boxing, and a 
variety of most unpoetical exercises, very wholesome, &c.; 
but would be very disagreeable to my friends, whom I am 
obliged to exclude during their operation. I never go out 
till the evening, and I have not been fortimate enough to 
meet Mr. W. at Lord Lansdowne's or Lord Jersey's, where 
I had hoped to pay him my respects. 

" I would have written to him, but a few words from you 
will go further than all the apologetical sesquipedalities I 
could muster on the occasion. It is only to say diat, vvithout 
intending it, I contrive to behave very ill to every body, and 
am very sorry for it. 

"Ever, dear R. fee." 

The following undated notes to Mr. Rogers were written 
about this time. 

"Sunday. 

"Your non-attendance at Corinne's is very apropos, as I 
was on the eve of sending you an excuse. I do not feel 
well enough to go there tliis evening, and have been obliged 
to despatch an apology. 1 beUeve I need not add one for not 
accepting Mr. Sheridan's invitation on Wednesday, which 

I fancy both you and I understood m the same sense : 

with him the saying of Mirabeau, that 'iwwck are things^ is 
not to be taken Uterally. "Ever, &c. 

"I will call for you at a quarter before seven^ if that will 
suit you. I return you Sir Proteus,t and shall merely add 
in return, as Jolmson said ofj and to, somebody or other, 
'Are we alive after all this censure?' 

"Believe me. Sic." 

" Tuesday. 
" Sheridan was yesterday, at first, too sober to remember 
your invitation, but in the dregs of the third bottle he fished 
up his memory. The Stael out-talked Whitbread, was 
ironed by Sheridan, confounded Sir Humphrey, and utterly 
perplexed your slave. The rest (great names in the red 



• Mr. Wrangham. 

t A satirical pamphlet, in which all the witere of the day were attacked. 



LETTERS, 1814. 



book, nevertheless) were mere segments of the circle. 
Ma'mselle danced a Russ saraband with great vigour 
grace, and expression. " Ever, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAV. 

"June 21, 1814. 
" I suppose ' Lara' is gone to the devil, — which is no great 
matter, only let me know, that I may be saved the trouble 
of copying the rest, and put the first part into the fire. I 
really have no anxiety about it, and shall not be sorry to 
be saved the copying, which goes on very slowly, and may 
prove to you that you may speak <nit--ot I should be less 
sluggish. " Yours, &C.'' 



LETTER CCXXVIU. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



«June27,1814 
* You could not have made me a more acceptable pre- 
sent than Jacqueline, — she is all grace, and softness, and 
poetry ; there is so much of the last, that we do not feel the 
want of story, which is simple, yet enough, I wonder that 
you do not oftener unbend to more of the same kind. I 
have some sympathy with the softer affections, though very 
little in my way, and no one can depict them so truly and 
successfully as yourself. I have half a mmd to pay you in 
kind, or rather unkind, for I have just * supped full of horror" 
in two Cantos of darkness and dismay. 

"Do you go to Lord Essex's to-night ? if so, wdll you let 
me call for you at your own hour ? I dined with Holland- 
house yesterday at Lord Cowper's ; my lady very gracious, 
which she can be more than any one when she likes. I 
was not sorry to see them again, for I can't forget that they 
have been very kind to me. 

*' Ever yours most truly, " Bn. 

" P. S. Is there any chance or possibility of making it 
up with Lord Carlisle, as I feel disposed to do any thing 
reasonable or unreasonable to effect it ? I would before, 
but for the ' Courier,' and the possible misconstructions at 
Buch a time. Perpend, pronounce." 



LETTER CCXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 8, 1814. 

•I returned to town last night, and had some hopes of 
seeing you to-day, and would have called, — but I have been 
(though in exceedingdistempered good health) a little head 
achy with free living, as it is called, and am now at the 
freezing point of returning soberness. Of course, I should 
be sorry that our parallel lines did not deviate into inter- 
section before you return to the country, — after that same 
nonsuit whereof the papers have told us, — but, as you must 
be much occupied, I won't be affronted, should your time 
and business militate against our meeting. 

"Rogers and I have almost coalesced into a joint invasion 
of the public. Whether it will take place or not, I do not 
yet know, and I am afraid Jacqueline (whicli is very beau- 
tiful) will be in bad company.* But, in this case, tlie lady 
will not be the sufferer. 

"I am going to the sea, and then to Scotland ; and I have 
been doing nothing, — that is, no good, — and am very truly, 
&c." 



or kept you in humeur. Never mind — it is hardly worth 
while. 

" This day have I received information from my man of 
law of the non — and never likely to be — performance of 
purchase* by Mr.Claughton, of impecuniary memory. He 
don't know what to do, or when to pay ; and so all my hopes 
and worldly projects and prospects are gone to the devil. 
He (the purchaser, and the devil too, for aught I care) and 
I, and my legal advisers, are to meet to-morrow, — the said 
purchaser having first taken special care to inquire ' whe- 
ther I would meet him with temper?' — Certainly. The 
question is this — I shall either have the estate back, which 
is as good as ruin, or I shall go on with him dawdling, 
which is rather worse. 1 have brought my pigs to a Mus- 
sulman market. If I had but a wife now, and children, 
of whose paternity I entertained doubts, I should be hap- 
py, or rather fortunate, as Candide or Scarmentado. In 
the mean time, if you don't come and see me, I shall think 
that Sam's bank is broke too ; and that you, having assets 
there, are despairing of more than a piastre in the pound 
for your dividend. " Ever, &a." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

«July 11, 1814. 
"You shall have one of the pictures. I wish you to send 
the proof of 'Lara' to Mr. Moore, 33, Bury-street, to-night^ 
as he leaves town to-morrow, and wishes to see it before he 
goes ; and I am also willing to have the benefit of his re- 
marks. "Yours, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

^'July 18, 1814. 

" I think you will be satisfied even to repletion with our 
northern friends,f and I won't deprive you longer of what I 
think will give you pleasure: for my own part, my modesty 
or my vanity must be silent. 

"P. S. If you could spare it for an hour b the evening, I 
wish you to send it up to Mrs. Leigh, your neighbour, at the 
London Hotel, Albemarle-street." 



LETTER CCXXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

''July 23, 1814. 

"I am sorry to say that the print| is by no means ap- 
proved of by those who have seen it, who are pretty con- 
versant with (he original, as well as the picture from whence 
it is taken. I rather suspect that it is from the copy and not 
the exhibited portrait, and in this dilemma would recommend 
a suspension, if not an abandonment of the prrjixion to the 
volumes which you purpose inflicting upon the public. 

" Witli regard to Lara don't Ijc in any hurry. I have not 
yet made up my mind on the subject, nor know what to think 
or do till I hear from you ; and Mr. Moore appeared to me 
in a similar slate of indetermination. I do not know that it 
may not be better to resai^c it for the attire publication you 
proposed, and not adventure in hardy singlenoss, or even 
backed by the fairy Jacqueline. I have boon seized with 
all kinds of doubts, &c. &c. since I loft London. 

"Pray let me hear from you, and believe me, &c." 



KETTER CCXXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"I suppose, by your non-appearance, tliat the philosophy 
of my note, and Ujo previous silence of the writer, have put 



Lara and Jacqueline, the latlor by Mr. Rogon, both nppenrcd ill the 
M volume. 



LETTER CCXXXn. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

Muly 21, 1814. 
"The minority must, in tiiis ca.«iO, carry it, so pray lot it bo 
so, for I don't rare sixpence for any of the ojiiiiions you 
mention, on sucli a subject ; and Pliillips must bo a dunce to 



* Piirchnae of Ncwsteml Abbey. See I.cttrr Ml. . „ . 

t Ho hpri> relere to nil nrlicio in Ihe iiiimluT of (lip Wiiibiirgh Rertei 
lull Uieii pulilinhcil, (No. 45,) on Iho Conwlr and Bride of Abydo». 
I Au ciigittving by Agar from PhUllpi'i jwrlraii of him. 



76 



LETTERS, ISM. 



agree with them. For my ovm part, I have no objection at 
all ; but Mrs. Leigh and my cousin must be better judges 
of tfie likeness than others ; and they hate it ; and so I won't 
have it at all. 

«Mr. Hobhoiise is right as for his conclusion ; but I deny 
the premises. The name only is Spanish ;* the country is 
not Spain, but die Morea. 

« Waverley is the best and most interesting novel I have 
redde since— I don't know when. I like it as much as I 
hate * *, and * *, and * *, and all the fcminme trash of the 
last four months. Besides, it is all easy to me, I have been 
ill Scotland so much, (tliough tlien young enough too,) and 
feel at home with the people, Lowland and Gael. 

« A note will correct what Mr. Hobhouse thinks an error, 
(about the feudal system in Spain ;) it is not Spain. If he 
puts a few words of prose any where, it will set all right. 

"I have been ordered to tovm to vote. I shall disobey. 
There is no good in so much prating, since 'certain issues 
strokes should arbitrate.' If you have any tiling to say, let 
mo hear from you. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXm. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Aug. 3, 1814. 

«It is certainly a litde extraordinary that you have not 
sent the Edinburgh Reviesv, as I requested, and hoped it 
would not require a note a day to remind you. I see culver- 
tisements of Lara and Jacqueline; pray, why? when I re- 
quested you to postpone publication till my return to town. 

" I have a most amusing episdc from the Ettrick bard — 
Hogg-, in which, speaking of his bookseller, whom he deno- 
minates the 'shabbiest' of the trade for not 'lifting his bills,' 
he adds, in so many words, * G — d d — n lum and them both.' 
This is a pretty prelude to asking you to adopt him (the said 
Hogg ;) but this he \nshcs ; and if you please, you and I will 
tall; it over. He has a poem ready for the press, (and your 
biUs too, if 'Zi/i!able,') and bestows some benedictions on 
Mr. Moore for his abduction of Lara from the forthcoming 
Miscellany. 

"P. S. Sincerely, I think Mr. Hogg would suit you very 
well ; and surely he Is a man of great powers, and deserving 
of encouragement. I must knock out a tale for him, and 
you should at all events consider before you reject his suit. 
Scott is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind, and Hogg 
says that, during the said gale, ' he is sure that Scott is not 
quite at his case, to say the best of it.' Ah 1 I w ish these 
homo-kecping bards could taste a MeditciTanean white 
squall, or the Gut in a gale of wind, or even the Bay of 
Biscay with no wind at all." 



LETTER CCXXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Hastings, Aug. 3, 1814. 
"73y the time this reaches your dwelling, I shall (God 
wot) be in town again |)robal)ly. I have here been re- 
newing my acquaintance with my old friend Ocean ; and I 
find his l>osom as pleasant a pillow for an hour in the morn- 
ing as his daughters of Paphos could be in the twilight. 
f have been swimming and eating turbot, and smuggling 
neat braiwlics and silk handkerchief-^, — and listening to 
my friend Hodgson's raptures about a jiretty wife-elect 
of his, — and walliing on clilFs, and tumbling down hills, 
and making the most of the ' dolcc farniente' for tlie last 
fortnight. I met a son of Lord Erskine's, who says he 
has been married a year, and is the 'happiest of men;' ar.d 
I have met the aforesaid H. who is also the ' liappiest of 
men;' so, it is worth while being here, if only to witness 
the superlative felicity of these foxes, who have cut off 
their tails, and would persuade the rest to part witli 
tkntr bnwhes to keep them in countenance. 



• /MliKlin; to r,i 



" It rejoicetli me that you like 'Lara.' Jeffrey is out 
with his forty-fifth number, which I suppose you have 
oot. He is only too kind to me, in my share of it, and I 
hety'in to fancy myself a golden pheasant, upon the strength 
of the plumage wherewith he hath bedecked me. But 
then, ' surgit amari,' &c. — the gentlemen of the Champion, 
and Perry, have got hold (I know not how) of the condo- 
latory address to Lady J. on the picture-abduction by our 
Regent, and have published them — with my name, too, 
smack — without even asking leave, or inquiring whether 
or no ! D — n their impudence, and d — n every thing. It 
has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no more 
about it.* 

"You shall have Lara and Jacque (both with some 
additions) when out; but I am still demurring and de- 
laying, and in a fuss, and so is Rogers in his way. 

"Newstead is to be mine again. Claughton foi-feits 
twenty-five thousand pounds ; but that don't prevent me 
from being very prettily ruined. I mean to bury myself 
there — and let my beard grow — and hate you all. 

" Oh ! I have had the most Smusing letter from Hogg, 
the Ettrick minstrel and shepherd. He wants me to 
recommend him to Murray, and, spealdng of his present 
bookseller, whose 'bills' are never 'lifted,' he didds, totidem 
verbis, ' G — d d — n him and them both.' I laughed, and so 
would you too, at the way in which this extrication was 
introduced. The said Hogg is a strange being, but of 
great, though uncouth, powers. I think very highly of him 
as a poet ; but he, and half of these Scotch and Lake 
troubadours, are spoiled by living in Utde circles and petty 
societies. London and the world is the only place to take 
the conceit out of a man — in the milling phrase. Scott, 
he said, is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind ; — during 
hich wind, he affirms, the said Scott, ' he is sure is not at 
his ease, — to say the best of it.' Lord, Lord, if these home- 
keeping minstrels had crossed your Atlantic or my Medi- 
terranean, and tasted a little open boating in a white 
squall — or a gale in 'the Gut' — or the 'Bay of Biscay, 
with no gale at all — how it would enliven and introduce 
them to a few of the sensations ! — to say nothmg of an 
illicit amour or two upon shore, in the way of essay upon 
the Passions, begirming with simple adultery, and com- 
pounding it as they went along. 

" I have forwarded your letter to Murray, — ^by the way, 
you had addressed it to Miller. Pray write to me, and say 
what art thou doing ? ' Not finished ! — Oons ! how is this ? 
— diesc ' flaws and starts' must be ' authorized by your 
grandam,' and are becommg of any other author. I was 
sorry to hear of your discrepancy with * *s, or rather, 
your abjuration of agreement. I don't want to be imjier- 
tinent, or buffoon on a serious subject, and am therefore at 
a loss what to say. 

" I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the proper 
price of your poem, as long as there is a prospect of getting 
it. For my own part, I have seriously and Jiot ivhiningly, 
(for that is not my way — at least, it used not to be,) neither 
hopes, nor prospects, and scarcely even \\ishes. I am, in 
some respects happy, but not in a manacr diat can or ought 
to last, — but enough of that. The worst of it is, I feel quite 
enervated and indifferent. I really do not know, if Jupiter 
were to offer me my choice of the contents of his benevolent 
cask, what 1 would pick out of it. If I was bom as the 
nurses say with a 'silver spoon in my mouth,' it has stuck 
in my diroat, and spoiled my palate so that nothing put into 
it is swallowed with much relish, — unless it be cayenne. 
However, I have grievances enough to occupy me that way 
too ; but for fear of adding to yours by this pestilent long 
diatribe, I postpone the reading them, sine die. Ever, dear 
M. yours, &c. 

" P. S. Don't forget my godson. You could not have 
fixed on a fitter porter for his sins than me, being used to 
carry double without inconvenience." * * ♦ 



• See Poems, p. \s\ , 



LETTERS, 1814. 



77 



LETTER CCXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Aug. 4, 1814 

"Not having received the slightest answer to my last 
three letters, nor the book (the last number of the Edin- 
burgh Review) wliich they requested, I presume that yoi 
were the unfortunate person* who perished in the pagoda 
on Monday last, and address tliis rather to your executors 
than yoursell^ regretting that you should have had the ill- 
iuck to be the sole victim on that joyous occasion. 

" I beg leave then to inform these gentlemen (whoever 
they may be) that I am a little surprised at the previous 
neglect of the deceased, and also at observing an advertise- 
ment of an approacliing publication on Saturday next, 
^ against the which I protested, and do protest, for the 
present. 

"Yours, (or theirs,) &c. « B." 



LETTER CCXXXVL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



«Aug.5,1814. 

" The Edinburgh Review is arrived — thanks. 1 enclose 
Mr. Hobhouse's letter, from which you will perceive the 
work you have made. However, I have done : you must 
send my rhymes to the devil your own way. It seems 
also that the 'faitliiful and spirited likeness' is another of 
your publications. I wish you joy of it ; but it is no like- 
ness — that is tlie point. Seriously, if] have delayed your 
journey to Scotland, I am sorry that you carried your com- 
plaisance so far ; particularly as upon trifles you have a 
more summary method ; — witness the grammar of Hob- 
house's ' bit of prose,' which has put him and me into a fever. 

'^Hogg must translate his own words: ^lifting' is a 
quotation from his letter, together with ' G — d d — n,' &c. 
which I suppose requires no translation. 

" I was unaware of the contents of Mr. Moore's letter ; 
I thinlf your offer very handsome, but of that you and he 
must judge. If ho can get more, you won't wonder that he 
should accept it. 

"Out with Lara since it must be. The tome looks 
pretty enough — on the outside. I shall be in town next 
wecl^ and in the mean time wish you a pleasant journey. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Aug. 12,1814. 

* I was not alone, nor will be while I can help it. New- 
stead is not yet decided. Claughton is to make a grand 
effort by Saturday week to complete, — if not, he must give 
up twenty-five thousand pounds, and the estate, with ex- 
penses, &c. &c. If I resume the Abbacy, you shall have 
due notice, and a cell set a])art for your recc])tion, with a 
pious welcome. Rogers I have not seen, but Larry and 
Jax:ky came out a few days ago. Of their effect, I know 
nothing. 

* + + + + + 

"There is something very amusing in your being an 
Edinburgh Reviewer. You know, I suppose, that Thurlow 
is none of die placidcst, and may possibly enact some 
tragedy on being told tliat he is only a fool. If, now, Jcflroy 
wore to be slain on account of an article of yours, there 
would be a fine conclusion. For my pari, as Mrs. Winifred 
Jenkins says, ' he has done tlio handsome thing by me,' 
particularly in his last number; so, ho is tlie best of men 
and the ablest of critics, and I won't have him killed, — 
though I dare say many wish ho were, for being so good- 
humoured. 

"Before I left Hastings, I got in a passion with an ink- 



Hee nolo to ilu- Hintit hum Ilonicc, p. -tSb- 



botde, which I flung out of the wmdow one night with a 
vengeance; — and what then? why, next morning I was 
horrified by seeing that it had struck, and split upon, the 
petticoat of Euterpe's graven image in the garden, and 
grimed her as if it were on purpose.* Only think of my 
distress, and — tlie epigrams that nrught be engendered on 
the Muse and her misadventure. 

" I had an adventure, almost as ridiculous, at some private 
theatricals near Cambridge — though of a different descrip- 
tion — since I saw you last. I quarrelled with a man in the 
dark for asking me who I w as, (insolently enough, to be 
sure,) and followed him into the green-room (a stable) in a 
rage, among a set of people 1 never saw before. He turned 
out to be a low comedian, engaged to act with the amateurs, 
and to be a civil-spoken man enough, when he found out 
that nothing very pleasant was to be got by rudeness. But 
you would have been amused with the row, and the dialogue, 
and the dress — or rather the undress — of the party, where 
I had introduced myself in a devil of a hurry, and the asto- 
nishment that ensued. I had gone out of the theatre, for 
coolness, into the garden ; there I had tumbled over some 
dogs, and, coming away from them in very ill-humour, en- 
countered the man in a worse, which produced all this 
confusion. 

" Well — and why don't you 'launch ?' — Now is your time. 
The people are tolerably tired with me, and not very much 
enamoured of Wordsworth, who has just spawned a quarto 
of metaphysical blank verse, which is nevertheless only a 
part of a poem. 

"Murray talks of divorcing Larry and Jacky — a bad sign 
for the authors, who, I suppose, will be divorced too, and 
throw the blame upon one another. Seriously, I don't care 
a cigar about it, and I don't see why Sam should. 

"Let me hear from and of you and my godson. Tf a 
daughter, the name will do qmte as well. * * + 

"Everj&c." 



LETTER CCXXXVHL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Aug. 13, 1814. 

"I wrote yesterday to Mayfield, and have just now en- 
franked your letter to mamma. My stay in town is so un- 
certain (not later than next week) that your packets for Uic 
north may not reach me ; and as I know not exactly where 
I am going — however, JVciostcad is my most probable des- 
tination, and if you send your despatches before Tuesday, 
I can forward tliem to our new ally. But, after tliat day, 
you had better not trust to their arrival in time. 

" * * has been exiled from Paris, on dit, for saying tlie 
Bourbons were old women. The Bourbons might have 
been content, I tliink, with returning the compliment. ♦ 
+ * * 

"I told you all about Jacky and Larry yesterday ; — tliey 
areto bo separated, — at least, so says the grand Murray, 
and 1 know no more of the matter. Jeflrey has done mo 
more than 'justice;' but as to tragedy — um! — I have no 
time for fiction at present. A man cannot paint a storin 
with the vessel under bare poles, on a loo shore. When I 
get to land, I will try what is to be done, and, if I founder, 
there be plenty of mine ciders and betters to console Mel- 
pomene. 

" When at Newstead, you must come over, if only f«u- a 
day — should Mrs. M. bo exii^cantc of your presence. Tho 
place, is worth seeing, as a ruin, and I can assure you there 
was some fun there, even in my time ; but that is piuit. Tho 
ghosts, iiowever, and tho gollucs, and the waters, and tlio 
desolation, m;dve it very lively still. 

" F.ver, de:ir Tom, yours, &c.* 



• Pin ■crvnnl hnd broiiBlil liim \ip « ImRO Jar of Ink. Into » lilch, not »iip- 
(lOiiInK It to br lull, ho liiul ihruiil liiii pen down to ilic »n y »K>ttom. Ka- 
inp'd, on nndinn it conic out nil mnrnn-d wiili Ink, lii> (tone Hip I'olile out 
of the window Into Ihi' unnlon, whore it IIrIiIo.I, w> liiir doii.-ii>>ed, upou 
onv ..filKhl londiii Min.n, iluil had l.wn lm|>"ri<d, nomo liinrl.. liir»,from 
Holluud,- the ninth having hicn, liy •oinc accldcul, lull hvlimd.— ^Voori. 



78 



LETTERS, 1814. 



LETTER CCXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 2, 1814. 

"I am obliged by what you have sent, but would rather 
not see any thing of the kind ;* we have had enough of 
these things already, good and bad, and next month you 
need not trouble yourself to collect even the higher gene- 
ration — on my account. It gives me much pleasure to hear 
of Mr. Hobhouse's and Mr. Merivalc's good entreatment 
by the journals you mention. 

"I still think Mr. Hogg and yourself might make out an 
alliance. Dodsley's was, I believe, the last decent thing of 
the kind, and his had great success in its day, and lasted 
several years ; but then he had the double advantage of 
editing and publishing. The Spleen, and several of Gray's 
odes, much of Shenstone, and many others of good repute, 
made their first appearance in his collection. Now, with 
the support of Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, &c. I see little 
reason why you should not do as well ; and if once fairly 
established, you would have assistance from the youngsters, 
I dare say. Stratford Canning (whose 'Buonaparte' is 
excellent,) and many others, and Moore, and Hobhouse, 
and I, would try a fall now and then (if permitted,) and you 
might coax Campbell, too, into it. By-the-by, he has an 
unpublished (though printed) poem on a scene in Germany 
(Bavaria, I thinlj,) which I saw last year, diat is perfectly 
magnificent, and equal to himself. I wonder he don't pub- 
lish it. 

*0h! — do you recollect S * *, the engraver's, mad letter 
about not engraving Phillips's picture of Lord Foley? (as 
he blundered it ;) well, I have traced it, I think. It seems, 
by the papers, a preacher of Johanna Southcote's is named 
Foley; and I can noway account for the said S * *'s con- 
fusion of words and ideas, but by that of his head's running 
on Johanna and her aposdes. It was a mercy he did not 
say Lord Tozer. You know, of course, diat S * * is a 
believer in this new (old) virgin of spiritual impregnation. 

"I long to know what she will produce: her being with 
child at sixty-five is indeed a miracle, but her getting any 
one to beget it, a greater. 

" If you were not going to Paris or Scotland, I could send 
you some game : if you remain, let me know. 

"P. S. A word or two of 'Lara,' which your enclosure 
brings before me. It is of no great promise separately ; 
but, as connected with the other tales, it will do very well 
for the volumes you mean to publish. I would reconunend 
this arrangement— Childe Harold, the smaller Poems, 
Giaour, Bride, Corsair, Lara; the last completes the series, 
and its very likeness renders it necessary to the others. 
Cawthorne writes that they are publishing English Bards 
in Ireland: pray inquire into this; because it must be 
stopped." 



LETTER CCXL. 

TO MR. MURRAV. 

« Newstead Abbey, Sept. 7, 1814. 

"I should think Mr. Hogg, for his own sake as well as 
yours, would be ' critical' as lago himself in his editorial 
capacity ; and that such a publication would answer his 
purpose, and yours too, with tolerable management. You 
should, however, have a good number to start with — I 
mean, good in quality ; in these days, there can be little fear 
of not coming up to the mark in quantity. There must be 
many ' fine things' in Wordsworth ; but I should think it 
difficult to make six quartos (the amount of the whole) all 
fine, particularly the pedler's portion of the poem ; but there 
can be no doubt of his powers to do almost any thing. 

" 1 am ' very idle.' I have read the few books I had with 
me, and been forced to fish, for lack of argument. I have 
caught a great many perch, and some carp, which is a 
comfort, as one would not lose one's labour willingly. 

• Tht RcTiews and MngBzinei of the month. 



" Prav, who corrects the press of your volumes ? I hope 
' The Corsair' is printed from the copy I corrected wdth the 
additional lines in the first Canto, and some notes from Sis- 
mondi and Lavater, which I gave you to add thereto. The 
arrangement is very well. 

"My cursed people have not sent my papers since Sun- 
day, and I have lost Johanna's divorce from Jupiter. Who 
hath gotten her with prophet ? Is it Sharpe ? and how ? 
+ * * * + * 

I should like to buy one of her seals: if salvation can be 
had at half a guinea a head, the landlord of the Crown and 
Anchor should be ashamed of himself for charging double 
for tickets to a mere terrestrial banquet. 1 am afraid, se- 
riously, that these matters will lend a sad handle to your 
profane scoffers, and give a loose to much damnable laugh- 
ter. 

"I have not seen Hunt's Sonnets nor Descent of Liberty: 
he has chosen a pretty place wherein to compose the last. 
Let me hear from you before you embark. Ever, fee." 



LETTER CCXLL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 15, 1814. 

" This is the fourth letter I have begun to you within the 
month. Whether I shall finish or not, or burn it like the 
rest, I know not. When we meet, 1 shall explain lohy I 
have not written — why I have not asked you here, as I 
wished — witli a great many other whys and wherefores, 
which will keep cold. In short, you must excuse all my 
seeming omissions and commissions, and grant me more 
remission than St. Athanasius will to yourselfj if you lop 
off a single shred of mystery from his pious puzzle. It is 
my creed (and it may be St. Athanasius's too) that your 
article on T * * will get somebody killed, and thal^ on the 
Saints, get him d— d afterward, which will be quite enow 
for one number. Oons, Tom! you must not meddle just 
now with the incomprehensible ; for if Johanna Southcote 
turns out to be * * * * * * * 

"Now for a little egotism. My affairs stand thus. To- 
morrow I shall know whether a circumstance of importance 
enough to change many of my plans will occur or not. If 
it does not, I am off for Italy next month, and London, m 
the mean time, next week. I have got back Newstead and 
twenty-five thousand pounds (out of twenty-eight paid 
already,) — as a ' sacrifice,' the late purchaser calls it, and 
he may choose his own name. I have paid some of my 
debts, and contracted others; but I have a few thousand 
pounds, which I can't spend after my own heart in this 
climate, and so, I shall go back to the south. Hobhouse, I 
think and hope, will go with me ; but, whether he will or 
not, I shall. 1 want to see Venice, and the Alps, and Par- 
mesan cheeses, and look at the coast of Greece, or rather 
Epirus, from Italy, as I once did— -or fancied I did — that of 
Italy, when off Corfu. All this, however, depends upon an 
event, which may, or may not, happen. Whether it will, 
I shall know probably to-morrow, and if it does, I can't well 
go abroad at present. 

" Pray pardon this parenthetical scrawl. You shall hear 
from me again soon ; — I don't call this an answer. 

" Ever most affectionately, &c.'' 

The "circumstance of importance," to which he alludes 
in this letter, was his second proposal for Miss Milbanke^ 
of which he was now waiting the result. 



LETTER CCXLII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 



"Nd. Sept. 15, 1814. 
I have written to you one letter to-night, but must send 
you this much more, as I have not franked my number, to 
say that I rejoice in my goddaughter, and will send her a 



LETTERS, 1814, 



79 



coral and bells, which I hope she will accept, the moment I 
get back to London. 

"My head is at this moment in a state of confusion, from 
various causes, wliich I can neither describe nor explain — 
but let that pass. My employments have been very rural 
— fishing, shooting, bathing, and boating. Books I have 
but few here, and those I have read ten times over, till sick 
of them. So, I have taken to breaking soda water bottles 
with my pistols, and jumping into the water, and rowing 
over it, and firing at the fowls of the air. But why should 
I ' monster my nothings' to you who are well employed, and 
happily too, I should hope. For my part, I am happy too, 
in my way — but, as usual, have contrived to get into three 
or four perplexities, which I do not see my way through. 
But a few days, perhaps a day, will determine one of them. 

"You do not say a word to me of your Poem. I wish I 
could see or hear it. I neither could, nor v/ould, do it or its 
author any harm. I believe I told you of Larry and Jacquy. 
A friend of mine was reading — at least a friend of his was 
reading — said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A 
passenger took up die book and queried as to the author. 
The proprietor said ' there were <W — to which the answer 
of the unknown was, ' Ay, ay — a joint concern, I suppose, 
summot like Slernhold and Hopkins.' 

"Is not this excellent? I would not have missed the 
'vile comparison' to have scaped being one of the 'Arcades 
ambo et cantare pares.' Good night. Again yours." 



LETTER CCXLm. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 20, 1814. 

" Here's to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh ! 
The girl who gave to snng 
What gold could never buy. 

"My dear Moore, I am going to be married— that is, I 
am accepted, and one usually hopes the rest will follow. 
My mother of the Gracclii (that are to be) ymi think too 
strait-laced for me, although the paragon of only children, 
and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men,' and 
full of 'most blessed conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss 
Milbanke is the lady, and I have her father's invitation to 
proceed there in my elect capacity, — which, however, I can- 
not do till I have settled some business in London, and got 
a blue coat. 

* She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know 
nothing certainly, and shall not inquire. But I do know, tliat 
she has talents and 'jxcellent qualities, and you will not deny 
her judgment, after having refused six suitors and taken me. 

"Now, if you have any thing to say against this, pray do: 
my mind's made up, positively fixed, determined, and there- 
fore I will listen to reason, because now it can do no harm. 
Things may occur to break it offj but I will hope not. In 
the mean time, I tell you (a secret, by-the-by, — at least, till 
I know she wishes it to be public) that I have proposed 
and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish 
me joy, for one may n't be married for months. I am going 
to town tomorrow ; but expect to be here, on my way tliere, 
within a fortnight. 

"If this had not happened I should have gone to Italy. 
In my way down, perhaps, you will meet me at Notting- 
ham, and come over with me here. I need not say that 
nothing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of course, 
reform thoroughly; and, seriously, il' I can contribute to her 
happiness, I shall secure my own. She is so good a person, 
that — that — in short, I wish I was a better. 

"Ever.&c." 



LETTER CCXLIV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF * * *. 

"Albany, Oct. 5, 1814. 
"dear lady ♦ *, 
■Your recollection and invitation dome great honour; 



but I am going to be ' married, and can 't come.' My in- 
tended IS two hundred miles off, and the moment my busi- 
ness here is arranged, I must set out in a great hurry to be 
happy. Miss Milbanke is the good-natured person who 
has undertaken me, and, of course, I am very much in love, 
and as silly as all single gentlemen must be in that senti- 
mental situation. I have been accepted these three weeks ; 
but when the event will take place, I don't exactly know. 
It depends partly upon lawyers, who are never in a hurry. 
One can be sure of nothing; but, at present, there appears 
no other interruption to this intention, which seems as mu- 
tual as possible, and now no secret, though I did not tell 
first, — and all our relatives are congratulating away to right 
and left in the most fatiguing manner. 

" You perhaps know the lady. She is niece to Lady 
Melbourne, and cousin to Lady Cowper, and others of your 
acquaintance, and has no fault, except being a great deal 
too good for me, and that I must pardon, if nobody else 
should. It might have been two years ago, and, if it had, 
would have saved me a v»orld of trouble. She has em- 
ployed the interval in refusing about half a dozen of my par- 
ticular friends (as she did me once, by the way,) and has 
taken me at last, for which I am very much obliged to her. 
I wish it was well over, for I do hate bustle, and there is no 
marrying without some ; — and then I must not marry in a 
black coat, they tell me, and I can't wear a blue one. 

"Pray forgive me for scribbling all this nonsense. You 
know I must be serious all the rest of my life, and this is 
a parting piece of buffoonery, which I write with tears in 
my eyes, expecting to be agitated. Believe me most se- 
riously and sincerely your obliged servant, " Bvron. 

"P. S. My best rems. to Lord * * on his return." 



LETTER CCXLV. 

to MR. MOORE. 

"Oct. 7, 1814. 

"Notwithstanding the contradictory paragraph in the 
Morning Chronicle, which must have been sent bv * *, or 
perhaps — I know not why I should suspect Claughton of 
such a thing, and yet I partly do, because il might interrupt 
his renewalof purchase, if so disposed; in short, it matters 
not, but we are all in the road to matrimony — lawyers set- 
tling, relations congratulating, my intended as kind as heart 
could wish, and every one, whose opinion I value, very 
glad of it. All her relatives, and all mine too, seem equally 
pleased. 

" Perry was very sorry, and has re-contradicted, as you 
will perceive by this day's paper. It was, to be sure, a 
devil of an insertion, since the first paragraph came from 
Sir Ralph's own County Journal, and this in the teeth of 
it would appear to him and his as my denial. But I havo 
written to do away that, enclosing Perry's letter, which was 
very polite and kind. 

" Nobody hates bustle so much as I do ; but there seems 
a fatality over every .scene of my drama, always a row of 
some sort or other. No matter — Fortune is my best friend, 
and as I acknowledge my obligations to her, I hope she 
will treat nie better than she treated tlie Athenian, who 
took some merit to himself on some occasion, but (after 
that) took no more towns. In fact, .s/jf,that exquisijle god- 
dess, has hitherto carried me through every thing, and 
will, I hope, now ; since I own it will be all her doing. 

"Well, now for ihoe. Your article on * * is perfection 
itself. You must not leave oil' reviewing. By Jove, I be- 
lieve you can do any thing. Tliere is wit, and taste, and 
learning, and gooti-humour (though not a whit loss sever© 
for that) in every line of tJial critique. 

* ♦ ♦ * ♦ ♦ 

"Next to your being an E. Reviewer, viy bein^ of tho 
same kidney, and .leflVoy's being such a friend to both, aro 
among the events which I conceive wore not calculated 
upon in Mr.— what's his name ?'8— ' E.ssay on Probtbili. 
ties.' 



80 



LETTERS, 1814. 



"But, Tom, I say — OonsI Scott menaces the 'Lord of 
the Isles.' Do you mean 1o compete ? or lay by, till tliis 
wave has broke upon the shelves (of booksellers, not rocks 
— a broken metaphor, by the way.) You ought to be afraid 
of nobody ; but your modesty is really as provoking and 
unnecessary as a * *'s. I am very merry, and have just 
been writing some elegiac stanzas on the death of Sir P. 
Parker.* He was my first cousin, but never met since 
boyhood. Our relations desired me, and I have scribbled 
and given it to Perry, who will chronicle it to-morrow. I 
am as sorry for him as one could be for one I never saw 
since I was a child ; but should not have wept melodiously, 
except 'at the request of friends.' 

"I hope to get out of town and be married, but I shall 
take Newstead in my way, and you must meet me at 
Nottingham and accompany me to mine Abbey. I will 
tell you the day when I know it. " Ever, &c. 

"P. S. By the way, my wife-elect is perfection; and I 
hear of nothing but her merits and her wonders, and that 
she is 'very pretty.' Her expectations, I am told, are 
great ; but whai, I have not asked. I have not seen her 
these ten months." 



LETTER CCXLVL 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Oct. 15, 1814. 
"my dear hunt, 
"I send you some game, of which I beg your accept- 
ance. I specify the quantity as a security against the 
porter ; a hare, a pheasant, and two brace of partridges, 
which, I hope, are fresh. My stay in town has not been 
long, and I am in all the agonies of quitting it again next 
week on business, preparatory to ' a change of condition,' 
as it is called by the talkers on such matters. I am about 
to be married ; and am, of course, in all the misery of a man 
in pursuit of happiness. My intended is two hundred miles 
off, and the efforts I am maldng vdth lawyers, &c. &c. to 
join my future connexions, are, for a personage of my sin- 
gle and inveterate habits, to say nothing of indolence, quite 
prodigious ! I sincerely hope you are better than your 
paper intimated lately, and that your approaching freedom 
will find you in full health to enjoy it. Yours ever, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCXLVIL 

to MR. MOORE. 

"Oct. 15, 1814. 

"An' there were any thing in man-iage that would make 
a difference between friends and me, particularly in your 
case, I would ' none on't.' My agent sets off for Durham 
next week, and I shall follow him, takuig Newstead and 
you in my way. I certainly did not address Miss Mil- 
banke with these views, but it is likely she may prove a 
considerable parti. All her father can give, or leave her, 
he will ; and from her childless vmcle, Lord Wentworth, 
whose barony, it is supposed, will devolve on Ly.Milbanke 
(his sister,) she has expectations. But these will depend 
upon his own disposition, which seems very partial towards 
her. She is an only child, and Sir Ralph's estates, though 
dipped by electioneering, are considerable. Part of them 
are settled on her ; but whether that will be dowered now, 
I do not know, — though, from what has been intimated to 
me, it probably will. The lawyers are to settle this among 
them, and I am getting my property into matrimonial array, 
and myself ready for the journey to Seaham, which 1 must 
make in a week or ten days. 

"I certainly did not dream that she was attached to me, 
which it seems she has been for some time. I also thought 
her of a very cold disposition, in which I was also mistaken 
— it is along story, and I won't trouble you with it. As to 



Foenu, p. m. 



her virtues, &c. &c. you will hear enough of them (for she 
is a kind of pattern in the north,) without my running into 
a display on the subject. It is well that one of us is of such 
fame, since there is a sad deficit in the morale of that article 
upon my part, — all owing to my ' bitch of a star,' as Captain 
Tranchemont says of his planet. 

" Don't think you have not said enough of me in your 
article on T * *, what more could or need be said? 
****** 

"Your long delayed and expected work — ^I suppose you 
will take fright at ' The Lord of the Isles' and Scott now. 
You must do as you like,— I have said my say. You ought 
to fear comparison with none, and any one would stare 
who heard you were so tremulous, — though, after all, I be- 
lieve it is the surest sign of talent. Good morning. I hope 
we shall meet soon, but I will write again, and perhaps you 
will meet me at Nottingham. Pray say so. 

" P. S. If this union is productive, you shall name the 
first fruits." 



LETTER CCXLVIII. 

TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 

"Oct. 18,1814. 
" MY DEAR DRURY, 

" Many thanks for your hitherto unacknowledged 'Anec- 
dotes.' Now for one of mine — I am gobg to be married, 
and have been engaged this month. It is a long story, and 
therefore I won't tell it, — an old and (though I did not 
know it till lately) a mutual attachment. The very sad 
life I have led since I was your pupil must partly account 
for the offs and ons in this now to be arranged business. 
We are only waiting for the lawyers and settlements, &c. 
and next week, or the week after, I shall go down to Sea- 
ham in the new character of a regular suitor for a wife of 
mine own. 

***** * 

" I hope Hodgson is in a fair way on the same voyage^ 
I saw him and his idol at Hastings. I wish he would be 
married at the same time. I should like to make a party, 
— ^like people electrified in a row, by (or rather through) 
the same chain, holding one anothePs hands, and all feel- 
ing the shock at once. I have not yet apprized him of this. 
He makes such a serious matter of all tliese things, and is 
so 'melancholy and gentlemanlilce,' that it is quite over- 
coming to us choice spirits. 

****** 

" They say one shouldn't be married in a black coat. I 
won't have a blue one, — that's flat. I hate it. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXLIX. 



TO MR. COWELL. 



"Oct. 22, 1814. 

* MY DEAR COWELL, 

"Many and sincere thanks for your kind letter— the bet, 
or ratlier forfeit, was one hundred to Hawke, and fifty to 
Hay (nothing to Kelly,) for a guinea received from each of 
the two former.* I shall feel much obliged by your setting 
me right if I am incorrect in this statement in any way, and 
have reasons for wishing you to recollect as much as pos- 
sible of what passed, and state it to Hodgson. My reason 
is this: some time ago Mr. * + * required a bet of me 
which I never made, and of course refused to pay, and have 
heard no more of it ; to prevent similar mistalses is my ob- 
ject in wishing you to remember well what passed, and to 
put Hodgson in possession of your memory on the subject. 

" I hope to see you soon in my way tlirough Cambridge. 
Remember me to H. and believe me ever and truly, fcc." 



He had agreed to forfeit these Bums to the peraons meutioned, should 



LETTERS, 1815. 



8] 



LETTER CCL. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Dec. 14, 1814. 

"my dearest TOM, 

"I will send the pattern to-morrow, and since you don't 
go to our friend ('of the keeping part of the town') this 
eveninfr, I shall e'en sulk at home over a solitary potation. 
My self-opinion rises much by your eulogy of my social 
qualities. As my friend Scrope is pleased to say, I believe 
I am very well f )r a ' holyday drinker.' AVhere the devil 
are you '/ with Wool'idge, I conjecture — for which you de- 
serve another abscess. Hoping that the American war 
will last for many years, and that all the prizes may be 
registered at Bermoothes, believe me, &c. 

"P. S. I have just been composing an epistle to the 
archbishop for an especial license. Oons ! it looks serious. 
Murray is impatient to see you, and would call, if you will 
give him audience. Your new coat! — I wonder you lil<e 
5ie colour, and don't go about, lilce Dives, in purple." 



LETTER CCLI. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



"Dec. 31, 1814. 

"A thousand thanks for Gibbon: ail the additions are very 
great improvements. 

"At last, I must be most peremptory with you about the 
print from Phillips's picture : it is pronounced on all hands 
the most stupid and disagreeable possible; so do, pray, have 
a new engraving, and let mo see it first ; tliere really must 
be no more from the same plate. I don t much care, my- 
self; but every one I honour torments me to death about if, 
and abuses it to a degree beyond repeating. Now, don't 
answer with excuses ; but, for my sake, have it destroyed : 
I never shall have peace till it is. I write in the greatest 
haste, 

"P. S. 1 have written this most illegibly; but it is to beg 
you to destroy the print, and have another ' by particular 
desire.' It must be d — d bad, to be sure, since every body 
says so but the original ; and he don't know what to say. 
But dodo it: that is, burn the plate, and employ a new etcher 
from the other picture. This is stupid and sulky." 



LETTER CCLII. 

TO MR, MURRAV. 

"Kirkby, Jan. 6, 1815. 

*' Tlie marriage took place on the 2d instant ; so pray 
make haste and congratulate away. 
■ " Thanks tor the Edinburgh Review and the abolition of 
the print. Let the next be from the other of Phillips — I 
mean {not the Albanian, but) the original one in the exhi- 
bition ; the last was from the copy. I should wish my sister 
and Lady Byron to decide upon the next, as they found 
fault with the last. / have no opinion of my own upon the 
subject. 

"Mr. Kinnaird will, I dare say, have the goodness to 
furni.^.h copies of the Melodies,* if you stale my wish upon 
the suliject. You may have them, if you tliink them worth 
inserting. The volumes in their collected state must be 
inscribed to Mr. Hobhouse, but I have not yet mustered 
the expressions of my inscription ; but will supply tliem in 
time. 

" With many thanks for your good wishes, which have all 
been realized, I remain very truly, " Yours, 

"Byron." 



• ThB Helirew Metodif* which he Imd cmployrd hiiiuelf in willing 
dtirinu hii recent nay in I.omloii. 

11 



LETTER CCLIIl. 

TO MR. NATHAN. 

"Jan. 7,1815. 

" DEAR NATHAN, 

' Murray, being about to publish a complete edition of 
my poetical ejfusiovs, has a wish to include the stanzas of 
the Hebrew Melodies. AVill you allow him that privilege 
thout considermg it an infringement on your copyright? 
I certainly %\ish to oblige the gentleman, but you know, 
Nathan, it is against all good fashion to give and take b.-ick. 
I therefore cannot grant what is not at my disposal. Let 
me hear from you on the subject. Dear Nathan, 

"Yours truly, 
"Byrou." 



LETTER CCLIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Halnaby, Darlington, Jan. 10, 1815. 

" I was man-ied this day week. The parson has pro- 
nounced it — Perry has announced it — and the Morning 
Post, also, under the head of ' Lord Byron's marriage' — as 
if it were a fabrication, or the pufP-direct of a new stay- 
maker. 

"Now for thine affairs. I have redde thee upon the 
Fathers, and it is excellent v.ell. Positively, you must not 
leave off reviewing. You shine in it — you kill in it ; and 
this article has been taken for Sydney Smith's (as I heard 
in town,) which proves not only your proficiency in parson- 
ology, but that you have all the airs of a veteran critic at 
your first onset. So, prithee, go on and prosper. 

Scott's ' Lord of the Isles' is out — ' the mail-coach copy' 
I have, by special license of Murray, 

* ***** 

■ Now is your time ; — you will come upon them newly 
and freshly. It is impossible to read what you have lately 
done (verse or prose) without seeing that you have trained 
on tenfold. * * has floundered ; * * has foundered, / 
have tired the rascals (i. e. the public) with my Harrys and 
Larrys, Pilgrims and Pirates. Nobody but Southey has 
done any thing worth a slice of bookseller's pudding ; and 
he has not luck enough to be found out in doing a good thing. 
Now, Tom, is thy time — 'Oh joyful day ! — I would not take 
a knighthood for thy fortune.' Let me hear from you soon, 
and believe me ever, &c. 

P. S. Lady Byron is vastly well. How are Mrs. Moore 
and Joe Atkinson's 'Graces ?' We must present our wo- 
men to one another," 



LETTER CCLV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 19, 1815, 
"Egad 1 1 don't think he is 'down ;' and my prophecy- 
like most auguries, sacred and profane — is not annulled, 
but inverted, 

****** 

To your question about the 'dog'* — Uniph ! — my 'mo- 
ther I won't say any thing against — that is, about her ; but 
how long a ' mistress' or friend may recollect paramours or 
competitors (lust and thirst being the two great and only 
bonds between the amatory or the amicable,) I can't say, — 
or, rather, you know as well as I could fell yt)U. But as for 
canine recollections, as far as I could ji'.dge by a rur of 
mine own (always bating Boatswjiin, the doa>osl, and, alas ! 
the maddest of dogs,) I had one (half a UY>(/l)y the she side) 
that doled on me at ten years old, and very nearly ate me 



.•Tlh* 



• Mr. Moore linil Jimt lu'Cii rending Mr. Poiillicy'* poem of " He 
i-irl«," i\ml wilh i-clVi-i'iirc to iin iiirlilrnt in it, Imil |nil thi- follo\vji>j!< 
lion la l.oi'il lUron -" I nhoiilil lil<v to know I'mm i.nu. wlu 
I^hilocynu- urct, wlii'.lnr it m ut nil prohiililr, llmi nny don (oui ol n nulo- 
ilriinu') t'ouid rccouniie n niixlor, whom iirlthrr hia own mother or mli- 
ir(>i> witi uhlr to nnd out. I don't cure about UlvHri'i due, &r.— all I 
want it to liiiow fivm j/ 'U (who arc renowii'd nt ' frimd ol the (lo(, COOk* 
paniun of the bear,') whvlher tuch a Uiln( U pnotabl*." 



LETTERS, 1815. 



at twenty. When I thought he was going to enact Argus, 
he liit a-.vay the backside of my breeches, and never would 
coaient to any kind of recognition, in despite of all kinds of 
bones which 1 oJered him. So, let Southey blush, and 
Homer too, as far as I can decide upon quadruped memo- 
ries.* 

" I humbly take it, the mother knows the son that pays 
her jointure— a mistress her mate, till he * * and refuses 
salary— a friend his fellow, till he loses cash and character, 
and a dog his master, till he changes him. 

" So, you want to know about Milady and me ? But let 
me nor, as Roderick Random says, 'profane the chaste 
mysteries of Hymen'f— damn tlie word, I had nearly spelled 
it with a small h. I like Bell as well as you do (or did, you 
villain !) Bessy— and that is (or was) saying a great deal. 

"Address your next to Seaham, Sto::kton-on-Tees, 

where we are going on Saturday (a bore, by-Uie-way) to 

see father-in-law. Sir Jacob, and my lady's lady-mother. 

Write — and write more at length — both to the public and 

" Yours ever most affectionately, " B." 



LETTER CCLV'L 



TO MK. MOORE. 



"Seaham, Stockton-on-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 

"I have heard from London that you have left Chats- 
worth and all the women full of ' entusymusy'J about you, 
personally and poetically ; and, in particular, that ' When 
first I met thee' ha=! been quite overwhelming in its effect. 
I told you it was one of the best things you over wrote, 
though that dog Power wanted you to omit part of it. They 
are all regretting your absence at Chatsworth, according to 
my informant — ' all the ladies quite, &.c. &c. &c.' Stap my 
vitals ! 

" Well, now you have got home again — which I dare 
say is as agreeable as a ' draught of cool small beer to 
the scorched palate of a waking sot' — now you have got 
home again, I say, probably I shall hear from you. Since 
I wrote last, I have been transferred to my father-in-law's, 
with my lady and lady's maid, &c. &c. &c. and the treacle- 
moon is over, and 1 am awake, and find myself married. 
My spouse and I agree to^and in — admiration. Swift 
says ' no wise man ever married ;' but, for a fool, I thinic it 
the most ambrosial of all possible future states. 1 still think 
one ought to marry upon lease ; but am very sure I should 
renew mine at the expiration, though next term were for 
ninety and nine years. 

"I wish you would respond, for I am here 'oblitusque 
meorum obliviscendus et illis.' Pray tell me what is going 

on in the way of intriguery, and how the w s and rogues 

of the upper Beggar's Opera go on — or rather go off — in or 
after marriage ; or who are going to break any particular 
commandment. Upon this dreary coast, we have nothing 
but county meetings and shipwrecks ; and I have this day 
dined upon fish, which probably dined upon the crews of 
several colliers lost in the late gales. But I saw the sea 
once more in all the glories of surf and foam, — abnost equal 
to the Bay of Biscay, and the interesting white squalls and 
short seas of Archipelago memory. 

"My papa, Sir Ralpho, hath recently made a speech at 
a Durham tax-meeting; and not only at Durham, but here, 
several times since, after dinner. He is now, I believe, 
speaking it to himself (I left him in the middle) over various 
decanters, which can neither interrupt him nor fall asleep, 
—as might possibly have been the case with some of his 
audience. " Ever thine, "B." 

' I must go to tea — damn tea. I wish it was Kinnaird's 
brandy, and with you to lecture me about it." 



LETTER CCLVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Seaham, Stockton-upon-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 
"You will oblige me very much by making an occasional 
inquiry at Albany, at my chambers, whether my books, &c. 
are kepc in tolerable order, and how far my old woman* 
continues in health and industry as keeper of my old den. 
Your parcels have been duly received and perused ; but I 
had hoped to receive ' Guy Mannering' before this time. 
I won't intrude further for the present on your avocations 
professional or pleasurable, but am, as usual, 

"Very truly, &c" 



LETTER CCLVIIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 4.1815. 

"I enclose you half a letter from * * which will explain 
itself — at least the latter part — the former refers to private 
business of mine own. If Jeffrey will take such an article, 
and you will undertake the revision, or, indeed, any portion 
of the article itself (for unless you do, by Phoebus, I will 
have nothing to do with if,) we can cook up, between us 
three, as pretty a dish of sour-crout as ever tipped over the 
tongue of a book-maker. + * * * 

" You can, at any rate, try Jeffrey's inclination. Your 
late proposal from him made me hint this to * *, who is a 
much better proser and scholar than I am, and a very 
superior man indeed. Excuse haste — answer this. 

'• Ever yours most, "B." 

"P. S. All is well at home. I wrote to you yesterday." 



LETTER CCLIX. 



TO MR. WOOKE. 



"Feb. 10, 1815. 
"my de.\r thom, 

"Jeffrey has been so very kind about me and my damn- 
able works, that I would not be indirect or equivocal with 
him, even for a friend. So, it may be as well to tell him 
that it is not mine ; but that, if I did not firmly and truly 
believe it to be much better than I could offer, I would 
never have troubled him or you about it. You can judge 
between you how far it is admissible, and reject if, if not 
of the right sort. For my own part, I have no interest in 
the article one way or the other, further than to oblige * *, 
and should the composition be a good one, it can hurt 
neither party, — nor, indeed, any one, saving and excepting 
Mr. * + * *. 

****** 

"Curse catch me if 1 know what H * * means or 
meaned about the demonstrative pronoun,t but I admire 
your fear of being inoculated with the same. Have you 
never found out that you have a particular style of your 
own, which is as distinct from all other people, as Hafiz of 
Shiraz from Hafiz of the Morning Post? 

" So you allowed B * * and such like to hum and haw 
you, or, rather. Lady Jersey out of her comphment, and me 
out of mbe.| Sunburn me but this was pitiful hearted. 
However, I will tell her all about it when I see her, 

" Bell desires me to say all kinds of civilities, and assure 
you of her recognition and high consideration. I will tell 
you of our movements south, which may be in about three 
weeks from this present writing. By-the-way, don't en- 
gage yourself in any travelling expedition, as I have a plan 
of travel into Italy, which we will discuss. And then, ihink 
of the poesy wherewithal we should overflow, from Venice 



• Don 3imn, r.-tnto 3, nUnia 23, IcUer 92. 
t The leiler H is blotted in llie M.S. 

X It wns thill that, acconlin; to hit account, Mr. Br.iliam, the celebrated 
•inger and actor used frequeutl/ to prooounce ibe word " eultiusiasm." 



* Mrs. Mule, his housekeeper. 

t Some remark whicli had been made with respect to the frequent use of 
the ttemoiistrative pronoim both by himself and by Sir W. .<-cott. 

t Verses to Lady Jersey (containing an allusion to Lord Byron,) which 
Mr. Moore had written, while at Chatsworth, but afterwards destrojeU. 



LETTERS, 18i5. 



83 



to Vesuvius, to say nothing of Greece, through all which— 
God willing — we might perambulate in one twelvemonth 
If I take my wife, you can take yours ; and if I leave mine, j 
you may do the same. ' Mind you stand by me, in either 
case, Brother Bruin.' 

" And believe me inveterately yours, " B." 



LETTER CCLX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 22, 1815. 

"Yesterday,! sent ofFthe packet and letter to Edinburgh. 
It consisted of forty-one pages, so that 1 have not added a 
line ; but in my letter, 1 mentioned what passed between 
you and me in autumn, as my inducement for presuming 
to trouble him either with my own or * *'s lucubrations. 
I am any thmg but sure that it will do; but I have told 
Jeffrey that if there is any decent raw material in it, he 
may cut it into what shape he pleases, and warp it to his 
liking. 

"So you wonU go abroad, then, with me, — but alone. I 
fully purpose starting much about the time you mention, 
and alone, too. 

****** 

"I hope Jeffrey won't think me very impudent hi sending 

* * only ; there was not room for a syllable. I have avowed 

* ♦ as the author, and said that you thought or said, when 
I met you last, that he (J.) would not be angry at the coali- 
tion (though, alas! we have not coalesced,) and so, if I have 
got into a scrape, I must get out of it — Heaven knows how. 

"Your i\,nacreon* is come, and with it I sealed (its first 
impression) the packet and epistle to our patron. 

"Curse the Melodies, and the Tribes to boot. Braham 
is to assist — or hath assisted — but will do no more good than 
a second physician. I merely interfered to oblige a whim 
of ICinnaird's, and all I have got by it was 'a speech' and a 
receipt for stewed oysters. 

"'Not meet' — pray don't say so. We must meet some- 
where or somehow. Newstead is out of the question, being 
nearly sold again, or, if not, it is uninhabitable for my spouse. 
Pray write again. I will soon. 

"P. S. Pray when do you come out? ever, or never? 
I hope I have made no blunder ; but I certainly think you 
said to me (after Wordsworth, whom I first pondered upon, 
was given up) that * * and I might attempt * * *. His 
length alone prevented me from trying my part, though I 
should have been less severe upon the Reviewee. 

"Your seal is the be ^t and prettiest of my set, and I thank 
you very much therefor. I have just been — or, rather, 
ought to be — very much shocked by the death of the Duke 
of Dorset. We were at school together, and there 1 was 
passionately attached to him. Since, we have never met 
— but once, 1 think, since 1805 — and it would be a paltry 
affectation to pretend that I had any feeling for him worth 
the name. But there was a time in my life when this event 
would have broken my heart ; and all I can say for it now 
is, that — it is not worth breaking. 

"Adieu — it is all a farce," 



LETTER CCLXL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 2, 1815. 

"MV DEAR TIIOM, 
"Jeffrey has sent me the most friendly of all possible let 
ters, and has accepted + *'s article. He says he has long 
liked not only, &tc. &c. but my 'character.' This must bo 
i/our doing, yon dog — ar'n't you ashamed of yourself, know- 
ing me so well ? This is what one gets for having you for 
a father confessor. 



'•I feel merry enough to send ycu a sad song.* You 
once asked me for some wcrds which you would set. Now 
you may set or not, as you like, — but there they are, in a 
legible hand,| and not in mine, but of my own sciiLb'i.'jfr; 
so you may say of them what you please. Why don't vcu 
write to me ? I shall make you ' a speech';^ if you don't 
respond quickly. 

" I am in such a state of sameness and stagnation, and 
so totally occupied in consuming the fruits — and saunterbg 
— and playing dull games at card: — and yawning — and 
trying to read eld Annual Registers and the daily papers— 
and gathering shells en the shore — and watching the growth 
of stunted gooseberry bushes in the garden — that I have 
neither time nor sense to say more than 

"Yours ever, "B. 

" P. S, I open my letter again to put a question to you. 
What would Lady Cork, or any other fashionable Pidcock, 
give, to collect you and Jeffrey and me to o??^ party? I 
have been answering his letter, which suggested this dainty 
query, I can't help laugliing at the thoughts of your face 
and mine ; and our anxiety to keep the Aristarch in good 
humour during the early part of a compotation, till we got 
drunk enough to make him ' a speech.' 1 think the critic 
would have much the best of us — of one, at least— for I 
don't tliink diffidence (I mean social) is a disease of yours." 



LETTER CCLXn. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 8, 1815. 

"An event — the death of poor Dorset — and the recol- 
lection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but 
could not — set me pondering, and finally into the train of 
thought which you have in your hands. I am very glad 
you lilce tiiem, for I fiatter myself they will pass as an imi- 
tation of your style. If I could imitate it well, I should 
have no great ambition of originality — I wish I could make 
you exclaim with Dennis, ' I'hal's my thunder, by G — d !' 
I wrote them with a view to your setting thein, and as a 
present to Power, if he would accept the words, and t/to did 
not think yourself degraded, for once in a way, by marrying 
them to music. 

"Sunburn Nathan ! why do you always twit me with his 
vile Ebrew nasalities? Have I not told you it was all K.'s 
doing, and my own exquisite facility of temper? But thou 
wilt be a w ag, Thomas ; and sec what you get for it. Now 
for my revenge. 

"Depend — and perpend — upon it that your opinion of 
* '' 's Poem will travel through one or other of the quintuple 
correspondents, till it reaches the car and the livtr of the 
author. § Your adventure, however, is truly laughable ; but 
how could you be such a po!ato ? Yon, ' a brother' (of the 
quill) too, 'near the throne,' to confide to a man's ovm pub' 
Usher (who has 'Lovight,' or rather sold, 'golden opinions' 
about him) such a damnatory parenthesis ! 'Between you 
and me,' quotha, it reminds me of a passage in tJio Heir at 
Law — ^ Ttite-'t-tcte ui'h Lady Duberly, I suppose' — ^ No— 
tete-h-*.6!c with Jive hujichcd people;^ and your confidential 
communication will doubtless be in circulation to that 
amount, in a short time, with several additions, and in several 
letters, all signed L. H. R. O. B. &c. &c. &c. 



* A «enl, with the head of Anacreon, which Mr. Moore had (ivtn him, 
t 8m Hour* of IdUueii. 



• The ver«e« encloied were lliosc melancholy onet, now |>rinted in hit 
works, " 'i'liore '• iiol u joy the world cuii give like iliul il lakee nwajr." 
Poem*, n. ir4. 

t The MS. wm in the hnndwiiiing of l.edy Byron. 

j These iillnKliMis to "u »i>eech" nr« coiinecied with a little Incident, 
nni wonh iiii'nu<>iiiiii;i wlilrli Inn! Ai))iiie<t ui bulh when I wu* in lowo. 

He will Hither loml (.mil li.iU been iilwxvt ao, ui iiiiiy l>r *vt hii tnitjr 

lellei») ot lhii3 liiir|iiii)( mi ^mne lunvrnlionitl (.hntsi- nr Joke. — A oort. 

ill II |ireceiliii« liitii. liiwiiuiiMo I'lie ol' tl c iiiiinfioin (kuiik in i«l" » 
well-kiinwii iiiilihslini-i-si ilih.il.iiii.iil, (Willi Willi h I huv,- jiliKv lierii lucky 
eniiii|{ii (o form a in <i'i- niliiiiuli- ioiuickioii,! I hud siud loiillihiKlxHy, ( le 
I thought.) in lei'iirme lull t'oi in llml Imil Jiinl iip|.ciiird,— " l«et«r»«« 
yon i\nd me, I do n»i inncli mlnihe Mi. * "» I'oeni." The leiier l<ein« 
chiefly iiiioiihuiineii , wh.. uinwoi e.l llnoiith the iej!ul.irhu»iniMch»nn«l, 
and, tomydiimny,Ci>iicliii!iil Willi ihr lolliiwliig wonl» : — H'e nre very 
•orry that you do not mjiiiivi.' of Mr. • "inew Pot-in, auJ ait your 
obeditiu, Ac. 4c. L. II.lt. O. c. c."-A/oor*. 



94 



LETTERS, 1815. 



"We leave this place tomorrow, and shall stop on our 
n-ay to town (in the inter\-al of taking a house there) at Col. 
Lei^n's, near Newmarket, where any epistle of yours will 
find its welcome way. 

"I have been very comr:>rtable here, listening to that d — d 
monologue, ^^•hich elderly gentlemen call conversation, and 
in which my pious father-in-law repeats himself every eve- 
ning, save one, wh^n ho played upon the fiddle. However, 
they have been very kind and hospitable, and I like them 
and tiie place vastly, and I hope they will live many happy 
months. Bell is in health, and unvaried good-humour and 
behaviour. But we are all in the agonies of packing and 
parting; and I suppose by this time to-morrow 1 shall be 
stuck in the chariot with my chin upon a bandbox. I have 
prepared, however, another carriage for the abigail, and all 
the trumpery which our wives drag along with them 
" Ever thine, most affectionately, 



"B.' 



LETTER CCLXIIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 27, 1815. 

"I meant to write to you before on the subject of your 
loss;* but the recollection of the uselessness and worthless- 
ness of any observations on such events prevented me. I 
shall only now add, that I rejoice to see you bear it so well, 
and that I trust limc will enable Pvlrs. M. to sustain it better. 
Every thing should be done to divert and occupy her with 
other thoughts and cares, and I am sure all that can be done 
will. 

"Now to your letter. Napoleon — but the papers will 
have told you all. I quite tliink with you upon th.e subject, 
and for my reed dioughts this time last year, I would refer 
you to the last pages of the .Journal I gave you. I can 
forgive the ro:^ue for utterly falsifying every line of mine 
Ode — which I take to be the last and ultermost stretch of 
human magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a 
certain abbe, who v.rote a Treatise on the Swedish Con- 
stitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal ? Just as 
he had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus 
III. had destroyed this immortal government; 'Sir,' quoth 
the abbe, ' the king of Sweden may overthrow the consti- 
tmion, but not iny book! ." I think of the abbe, but not with 
him. 

*= Making every allowance for talent and most consum- 
mate daring, there is, afier all, a good deal in luck or destiny. 
He might have been stopped by our frigates — or wrecked 
in the gulf of Lyons, which is particularly tempestuous — or 
—a thousand things. But he is certainly Fortune's fa- 
vourite, and 

Once fairly net out on liis party of pleasure, 
Taking towns at his liking ami crowns at his leisure, 
From Elhrt to I^yons and Paris he goes, 
Making balls for \.\w ladies, and botes to his fnes. 

You must have seen the account of his driving into the 
middle of the royal army, and tlie immediate etfect of his 
pretty speeche?. And now, if he don't drub the allies, there 
is 'no purchase in money.' If he can take France by him- 
self^ the devil's in't if he don't repulse the invaders, when 
backed by those celebrated sworders — those boys of the 
blade, the Imperial Guard, and the old and new armv. It 
i.? impossible not to be dazzled and overwhelmed by his 
cha'-acter and career. Nothing cvrr so disappointed me 
as his abdication, and nothing could have reconciled me to 
him but some such revival as his recent exploit ; though no 
one could anticipate such a complete and brilliant reno- 
vation. 

"To your question, lean only answer tliat there have 
been some symptoms which look a little gestatory. It is a 
Eubject upon v.luch I am not particularly anviou?, except 
thai I tliink it would please I'er uncle, Loid Wentwortli, 
and her fahi^r and m.)thor. The fjrmer (Lord W.) is now 
in town, and in very indi;icn.'nt health. You perhaps know 

• The dealh of hi» iiif,int goilrtaushu-r, (Hivia ny:on Moore. 



that his property, amounting to seven or eight thousand a 
year, will eventually devolve upon Bell. But the old gen- 
tleman has been so very kind to her and nie, that I hardly 
know how to wi^h him in heaven, if he can be comfortable 
on earth. Her father is still in the country. 

" We mean to metropolize to-morrow, and you will ad- 
dress your ne.xt to Piccadilly. We have got the Dutchess 
of Devon's house there, she being in France. 

"I don't care what Power says to secure the property of 
the Song, so that it is not complimentary to me, nor r^ny 
thing about 'condescending' or 'noble author' — both 'vUe 
phrases,' as Polonius says. 

>f: * + * * 

" Pray, let me hear from you, and when you mean to be 
in town. Your continental scheme is impracticable for the 
present. I have to thank you for a longer letter than usual, 
which I hope will induce you to ta.x my gratitude still far- 
ther in the same way. 

"You never told me about 'Longman' and 'next winter, 
and I am not a 'milestone.'"* 



LETTER CCLXIV. 

TO MR. COLERIDGE. 

"Piccadilly, March 31, 1815. 

" DEAR SIR, 

■ It v,ill give me great pleasure to comply with your re- 
quest, though I hope there is still taste enough left among 
us to render it almost unnecessaiy, sordid and interested 
as, it must be admitted, many of 'the trade' are, where 
circumstances give them an advantage. I trust you do not 
permit yourself to be depressed by the temporary partiality 
of what is called ' the pubhc' fjr the favourites of the mo- 
ment ; all experience is against the permanency of such 
impressions. You must have lived to see many of these 
pass away, and will survive many more — 1 mean person- 
ally, for poetically, 1 would not insult you by a comparison. 
If I may be permitted, 1 would suggest that there never 
was such an opening for tragedy. In Kean, there is an 
actor worthy of expressing the thoughts of the characters 
which you have every power of imbodying; and I cannot 
but regret that the part of Ordonio was disposed of before 
his appearance at Drury-lane. We have nothing to be 
mentioned in the same breath with 'Remorse' for very 
many years ; and I should think that the reception of that 
play was sufficient to encourage the highest hopes of author 
and audience. It is to be hoped that you are proceeding 
in a career which could not but be successful. With my 
best respects to Mr. Bowles, I have the honour to be, 
"Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

"Byrox." 
" P. S. You mention my ' Satire,' lampoon, or whatever 
you or others please to call it. I can only say, that it was 
written when I was very young and very angry, and has 
been a thorn in my side ever since; more particularly as 
almost all the persons animadverted upon became subse- 
quently my acquaintances, and some of them mv friends, 
which is ' heaping fire upon an enemy's head,' and forcdving 
me too readily to permit me to forgive myself The part 
applied to you is pert, and petulant, and shallow enough ; 
but, although I l:ave long done every thing in my power to 
suppress the circulation of the uhole thing. I shall always 
regret the wantonness or generality of many of its attempt- 
ed attacks." 



" Thanks for the books 



LETTER CCLXV. 

TO MR. MURR.A.V, 

"April 9, 1815. 
I have great objection to your 



• I ii.vl accii-ied him of having entirely fortrol that, in a preceding letter, 
I had iiiliirmi'd him ol my iiitcnlion to publish with the Messrs. Longman 
in the eusiiin<; winter, an:! udiled that, in giving him this information, I 
found t hud been,— to use an ekgaDt Irish metaphor,—" whisiling jigs to 
n milestone."— .Voo/f. 



LETTERS, 1815. 



65 



proposit.on about inscribinor the vase,* which i?, that it 
would appear or,tmtatious on my part ; and of course I must 
send it as it is, without any alteration. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCLXVL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"April 23, 1815. 
" Lord Wentworth died last week. The bulk of his pro- 
perty (f/om seven to eight thousand per ann.) is entailed 
on Lady Milbanlce and Lady Byron. The hrst is gone 
to take possession in Leicestershire, and attend the funeral, 
&c. this day. 

***** 

" I have mentioned the facts of the settlement of Lord 
W.'s property, because the newspapers, with their usual 
accuracy, have been making all kmds of blunders in their 
statement. His will is just as expected — the principal 
part settled on Lady Milbanke (now Noel) and Bell, and 
a separate estate left for sale to pay debts (which are not 
great,) and legacies to his natural son and daughter. 

"Mrs. * *'s tragedy was last night damned. They may 
bring it on again, and probably will ; but damned it was, — 
■ not a word of the last act audible. 1 went (malgre that I 
ought to have staid at home in sackcloth for unc, but I 
could not resist the^rsi night of any thing) to a private and 
quiet nook of my private box, and witnessed the whole 
process. The first three acts, with transient gushes of 
applause, oozed patiently but heavily on. I must say it 
was badly acted, particularly by * *, who was groaned 
upon in the third act, — something about ' horror — such a 
horror' was the cause. Well, the fourth act became as 
muddy and turbid as need be; but the fifth — whatGarrick 
used to call (like a fool) the concoction of a play — the fifth 
act stuck fast at the King's prayer. You know he says, 
'he never went to bed without saying them, and did not 
like to omit them now.' But he was no sooner upon hii; 
knees, than the audience got upon their legs — the damn- 
able pit — and roared, and groaned, and hissed, and whis- 
tled. Well, that was choked a little ; but the ruffian scene 
— tjie penitent peasantry — and killing the Bishop and the 
Princess — oh, it was all over. The curtain fell upon un- 
heard actors, and the announcement attempted by Kean 
for Monday was equally ineffectual. Mrs. Barlley was 
so frightened, that, though the people were tolerably quiet, 
the Epilogue was quite inaudible to half the house. In 
short, — you know all. I clapped till my hands were skin- 
less, and so did Sir James Mackintosh, who was with me 
in the box. All the world were in the house, from the 
Jerseys, Greys, &c. &c. downwards. But it would not 
do. It i.>, after all, not an acting play ; good language, but 
no power. * * ***** 

Women (saving Joanna Baillie) cannot write tragedy; they 
have not seen enough nor felt enough of life for it. 1 think 
Semiramis or Catherine II. might have wriUen (could tlicy 
have been unqueened) a rare play. 

******* 

" It is, however, a good warning not to risk or write tra- 
gedies. I never had much bent that way : but, if I had, this 
would have cured me. " Ever, carissime Thorn. 

"Thine, B." 



ful, that I made no mention of the drawing?,* &c. when I 
had the pleasure cf seeing you this morning. The fact is, 
that till this moment I had not seen them, nor heard cf their 
arrival : they were carried up in;o the library, where I have 
not been till just now, and no intimation given me of their 
coming. The present is so very magnificen*, that — in short, 
I leave Lady Byron to thank you for it herself) and merely 
send this to apologize for a piece of apparent and uninten- 
tional neglect on my own part. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCLXVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"May 21, 1815. 
"You must have thought it very odd, not to say ungrate- 



• A Inrge ■cpulchral vn«c of silver, prenciitcd hv l.onl Bvroii, llirciigli 
Mr. Murray, lo Sir Wulli-r .Scoll. It wu» lull ofUeiiil riitiVs lioiiit, aii.l 
had iii»iri|iiioin on two Bides of llie base. One ran thus—' Tlie bonea 
coMiaiiicd In this urn were found in cerluin ancient iie|M'ltlirei wiiliia the 
land wallii of Aiheni in the moiilli of l-'ebruury, 181 1." Tlio other lace 
bear;! tliu lineii ol Juvenal : 



KxprMde— qiiol lihras In diicc snmmo invcniei. 
— l\tor» aula fiitetur ijiiautuln homijtuin corjiiuc 



'—Juv. 



LETTER CCLXVIIL 



TO MR. HtTJST. 



"13 Piccadilly Terrace, May— June 1, 1815. 

"my DEAR HU:ST, 

" I am as glad to hear from as 1 shall be to see you. We 
came to town what is called late in the season ; and since 
that time, the death of Lady Byron's uncle (in the first 
place) and her own delicate state of health, have prevented 
either of us from going out much; however, she is now bet- 
ter, and in a fair way of going creditably through the whole 
process of beginning a family. 

"I have the alternate weeks of a private box at Drury- 
lane Theatre; this is my week, and I send you an ad- 
mission to it for Kean's nights, Friday and Saturday next, 
in case you should like to see him quietly; it is close to the 
stage, the entrance by the private-box door, and you can go 
without the bore of crowding, jostling, or dressing. I also 
enclose you a parcel of recent letters from Paris ; perhaps 
you may find some extracts that niay amuse yourself or 
your readers. I have only to beg you will prevent your 
copyist, or printer, from mixing up any of the EngUsh names, 
or private matter contained therein, which might lead to a 
discovery of the writer ; and as the Exammer is sure to 
travel back to Pari?, might get him into a scrape, to say 
nothing of his coi re-pondent at home. At any rate I hope 
and think the perusal will amuse you. Whenever you 
come this way, I shall be happy to make you acquainted 
with Lady Byron, whom you will find any thing but a fine 
lady, a species of animal whom you probably do not affect 
more than myself. Thanks fjr the 'Mask;' there is not 
only poetry and thought in the bodv, but much research 
and good old reading in your prefatory matter. I hope 
you have not given up your narrative j^oeni, of which I 
heard you speak as in progress. — It rejoices me to hear 
of the well-doing and regeneration of the 'Feast,' se;ting 
aside my own selhsh reasons for w i^hing it success. 1 fear 
you stand almost sing'e in your Uking cf 'Lara,' it is na- 
tural that I should, as being my last and most unpopular 
effervescence: passing by irs other sins, it is too li.ile nar- 
rative, and loo metaphysical to please the greater number 
of readers. I have, however, much con-olalion in the 
exception w ith which you fiiriii^h me. Fi om Moore I have 
not heard very lately ; I fi-ar he is a little huino: ous, be- 
cause I am a lazy corrcspcndcnt ; but that shall be mended. 
"Ever your obliged 

and very sincere friend, 

"Byrow. 

"P. S. 'Politics!' The barking of the war-dogs for their 
carrion has sickened me of ll.cm for the prcccnl." 



LETTER CCLXIX. 



TO MR. MOOKE. 



"13, Piccadilly Terrace, Juno 12, 1815. 
"I have nothing to offer in behalf of my late i-iletice, ex- 
cept the most inveterate and ineirablo lu/iness; but 1 am 
loo supine to invent a lie, or 1 caiuinlj/ should, boin^ 
ashamed of the truth. Kinnaird, 1 hope, has nppeasi'd 
your magnanimous uidignution at his biundors. I wished 



• Mr. M.irrnv lio.l pinwnlnl J.ady Byrou ulth twcWo Jr»win{», by 
Stolliurd, fruin Lord liyron'i I'ovou. 



86 



LETTERS, 1815. 



ani wish you were in Comrruttee, with all my heart.* It 
Ecems so hopeless abusincs--, that the company of a friend 
would be quite consoling, — but more of this when we meet. 
In the mean time, you are entreated to prevail upon Mrs. 
Esterre to engage herself. I believe she has been written 
to, but your influence, in person, or proxy, would probably 
go farther than our proposals. Wliat they are, I know- 
not: all my new function consists in listening to the despair 
of Cavendish Bradshaw, the hopes of Kinnaird, the wisnes 
of Lord Essex, the coniplai.its of Whiibread, and the cal- 
culations of Peter Moore, — all of which, and whom, seem 
totally at variance. C. Bradshaw wants to light the 
theatre with 5 as, which may, perhaps, (if the vulgar be 
beheved,) poison half the audience, and all the Dramatis 
PersoncB. Essex has endeavoured to persuade Kean not 
to get drunk, the consequence of which is, that he has never 
been sober since. Kinnaird, with equal success, would 
have convinced Raymond that he, the said Raymond, had 
too much salary. Whitbread wants us to assess the pit 
another sixpence, — a d — d insidious proposition, — which 
will end in an O. P. combustion. To crown all, Robins, 
the auctioneer, has the impudence to be displeased, be- 
cause he has no dividend. The villain is a proprietor of 
shares, and a long-lunged ora!:or in the meetings. I hear 
he has prophesied our incapacity, — ' a foregone conclusion,' 
whereof I hope to give him signal proofs before we are 
done. 

* Will you give us an Opera? no, I 'II be sworn, but I wish 
you would. * ***** 

" To go on with the poetical world, "Walter Scott has 
gone back to Scotland. Murray, the bookseller, has been 
cruelly cudgelled of misbegotten knaves, 'in Kendal green,' 
at Newington Butts, in his way home from a purlieu dinner 
— and robbed, — would you believe it? — of three or four 
bonds of forty pounds apiece, and a seal-ring of his grand- 
father's worth a million! This is his version, — but others 
opine that D'Israeli, with whom he dined, knocked him 
down with his last publication, ' the Cluarrels of Authors,' 
— in a dispute about copyright. Be that as it may, the 
newspapers have teemed with his 'injuria forms,' and he 
has been embrocated and invisible to all but the apothecary 
ever since. 

"Lady B. is better than three months advanced in her 
progress towards maternity, and, we hope, likely to go well 
through with it. We have been very little out this season, 
as I wish to keep her quiet in her present situation. Her 
father and mother have changed their names to Noel, in 
compliance with Lord Wentworfh's will, and in complai- 
sance to the property bequeathed by him. 

"I hear that you have been gloriously received by the 
Irish, — and so you ou^ht. But do n't let them kill you with 
claret and kindness at the national dinner in your honour, 
which, I hear and hope, is in contemplation. If you will 
tell me the day, I'll get drunk myself on this side of (he 
water, and waft you an applauding hiccup over the 
Channel. 

"Of politics, wo have nothing but the yell for war; and 
Castlereagh is preparing his head fjr the pike, on which 
we shall see it carried before he has done. The loan has 
made every body sulky. I hear ofen from Paris, but in 
direct contradiction to the home statements of our hirelings. 
Of domestic doings, there has been nothing since Lady 
D* *. Not a divorce stirring, — but a good many in 
embryo, in the shape of marriages. 

" I enclose you an epistle received this morning from I 
know not whom ; but I think it will amuse you. The 
writer must be a rare fellow. 

"p. S. A gentleman named D'Alton (not your Dalton) 
has sent me a Nafioiial Poem called 'Dermid.' The same 
cause which prevented my writing to you operated against 
my wish to write to him an c|)istlc of thanks. If you see 
him, wilt you malie all kinds of fine speeches for me, and 



• The Commiilte of Managen of Dniry-liine Ttieatre. 



tell him that I am the laziest and most ungrateful of 
mortals ? 
"A word more; — don't let Sir John Stevenson (as an 

evidence on trials for copyright, Sic.) talk about the price 
of your next Poem, or they w ill come upon you for the 
Property Tax for it, I am serious, and have jusi heard a 
long story of the rascally tax-men makmg Scott pay for 
his. So,' take care. Three hundred is a devil of a de- 
duction out of three thousand. 



LETTER CCLXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 7, 1815. 

"'Grata superveniet,' &c. &c. I had written to you 
again, but burnt the letter, because I began to think you 
seriously hurt at my indolence, arfd did not know how the 
buffoonery it contained might be taken. In tha mean time 
I have yours, and all is well. 

"I had given over all hopes of yours. By-the-by, my, 
'grata superveniet' should be in the present tense; for 1 
perceive it looks now as if it applied to this present scrawl 
reaching you, whereas it is to the receipt of thy Kilkenny 
epistle that I have tacked that venerable sentiment. 

"Poor Whitbread died yesterday morning, — a sudden and 
severe loss. His health had been wavering, but so fatal an 
attack was not apprehended. He dropped down, and, I 
beheve, never spoke afterward. I perceive Perry attributes 
his death to Drury-lane, — a consolatory encouragement to 
the new Committee. I have no doubt that * +, who is of 
a plethoric habit, will be bled immediately; and as I have, 
since my marriage, lost much of my paleness, and, — 'hoi- 
resco rcferens' (for I hate even moderate fat) — that happy 
slenderness, to which, when I first knew you, I had attained, 
I by no means sit easy under this dispensation of the Morn- 
ing Chronicle. Every one must regret the loss of Whit- 
bread; he was surely a great and very good man. 

" Paris is taken for the second time, I presume it, fur the 
future, will have an anniversary capture. In the late battles, 
like all the w^orld, I have lost a connexion, — poor Frederick 
Howard,* the best of his race, I had little intercourse, of 
late years, with his family, but I never saw or heard but 
good of him, Hobhouse's brother is killed. In short, the 
havoc has not left a family out of its tender mercies. 

"Every hope of a republic is over, and we must go on 
under the old system. But I am sick at h.eart of politics 
and slaughters ; and the luck which Providence is pleased 
to lavish on Lord * *, is only a proof of the little value the 
gods set upon prosperity, when they permit such * * *s as 
he and tliat drunken corporal, old Blucher, to bully their 
betters. From this, however, Wellington should be ex- 
cepted. He is a man, — and the Scipio of our Hannibal. 
However, he may thank the Russian frosts, which destroyed 
the real elite of the French army, for the successes of Wa- 
terloo. 

'* La ! Moore — how you blasphemes about ' Parnassus' 
and 'Moses !' I am ashamed for you. Won't you do any 
thing for the drama ? We beseech an Opera, Kinnaird's 
blunder was partly mine, I wanted you of all things in the 
Committee, and so did he. But we are now glad you were 
wiser; for it is, I doubt, a bitter business. 

" When shall wc see you in England? Sir Ralph Noel 
(late Milbanke— he don't promise to be late Noel in a hurry) 
finding that one man can't inhabit two houses, has given his 
place in the north to me for a habitation ; and there Lady 
B. threatens to be brought to bed in November. Sir R. 
and my Lady Mother are to quarter at Kirby — Lord 
Wentworlh's that was. Perhaps you and Mrs. Moore 
will pay us a visit at Seaham in the course of the autumn. 
If so, you and I {without our ivives) will take a lark to Edin- 
burgh and embrace Jeffrey. It is not much above one 
hundred miles from us. But all this, and other high mat- 

• See Cliilde Harold, Canto III— stania 29. 



LETTERS, 1S15. 



87 



ters, we will discuss at meeting, which I hope will be on 
your return. We do n't leave town till August. 

«Ever,&c." 



LETTER CCLXXI. 



TO MR. SOTHEBV. 



"Sept. 15, 1815. Piccadilly Terrace. 

"SEAR SIR, 

"'Ivan'* is accepted, and wU be put in progress on 
Kean's arrival. 

" The theatrical gentlemen have a confident hope of its 
success. I know not that any alterations for the stage will 
be necessary: if any, they will be trifling, and you shall be 
duly apprized. I would sugsest that you should not attend 
any except the latter rehearsals — the managers have re- 
quested me to state this to you. You can see them, viz. 
Dibdin and Rae, whenever you f)lea3e, and I will do any 
thing you wish to be done, on your suggestion, in the mean 
time. 

"Mrs. Mardyn is not yet out, and nothing can be deter- 
mined till she has made her apptarance — I mean as to her 
capacity for the part you mention, which I take it for 
granted is not in Ivan — as I think Ivan may be performed 
very well without her. But of that hereafter. 

"Ever yours, very truly, "Bvron. 

"P. S. You will be glad to hear that the season has 
begun uncommonly well — great and constant houses — the 
performers in much harmony with the Committee and one 
another, and as much good-humour as can be preserved in 
such complicated and extensive interests as the Drury-lane 
proprietary." 



LETTER CCLXXIL 



TO MR. SOTHEBY, 



"Sept. 25, 1815. 
"dear sir, 

" I think it would be adviseable for you to see the acting 
managers when convenient, as these must be points on 
which you will want to confer ; the objection I stated was 
merely on the part of the performers, and is general and 
not particular to this instance. I thought it as well to 
mention it at once — and some of the rehearsals you will 
doubtless see, notwithstanding. 

"Rae, I rather think, has his eye on Naritzen for him- 
self. He is a more popular performer than Bartley, and 
certainly the cast will be stronger with him in it; besides, 
he is one of the managers, and will feel doubly interested 
if he can act in both capacities. Mrs. Bartley will be 
Petrowna ; — as to the Empress, I know not what to say or 
think. The truth is, we are not amply furnished with 
tragic women ; but make the best of those we have, you can 
take your choice of them. Waihave all great hojjcs of the 
success — on which, setting aside other considerations, we 
are particularly anxiou.s, as being the first tragedy to be 
brought out since the old Committee. 

" By-the-way — I have a charge against you. As the 
great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occasion — 'By 
G— d, that is my thunder !' so do I exclaim ' This is mif 
lightning !' I allude to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with 
Petrowna and the Empress, where the thought and almost 
expression are similar to Conrad's m the 3d Canto of the 
•Corsair.' J, however, do not say this to accuse you, but 
to exempt myself from suspicion, as there is a priority ( f six 
months' publication, on my part, between the ai)peanuice 
of that composition and of your tragedies. 

"George Lambe meant to have written to you. If you 
do n't like to confer with the managers at present, I will 
attend to your wishes — so ^tatc them. 

" Yours very truly, " Byron." 



' A Tragedy, by Mr. Sothoby. 



LETTER CCLXXIII. 

TO MR. TAYLOR. 

"13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept. 25, 1815. 
"hear sir, 

"I am sorry you should feel uneasy at what has by no 
means troubled me.* If your Editor, his correspondents, 
and readers, are amused, I have no objection to be the 
theme of all the ballads he can find room for, — provided his 
lucubrations are confined to me only. 

" It is a long time since things cf this kind have ceased 
to 'fright me from my propriety ;' nor do I know any similar 
attack which would mduce me to turn again, — unless it 
involved those connected wiih me, whose qualities, I hope, 
are such as to exempt them in the eyes of those who bear 
no good-will to myself. In such a case, supposing it to 
occur — to reverse the saying of Dr. Johnson, — 'what the 
law could not do for me, I would do for myself,' be the 
consequences what they might. 

"I return you, with many thanks, Cobnan and the letters. 
The Poems, I hope, you intended me to keep; — at least, I 
shall do so, till I hear the contrary. 

" Very truly yours." 



LETTER CCLXXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Sept. 25, 1815. 
" Will you publish the Drury-lane ' Magpye ? or, what is 
more, will you give fifiy, or even forty, pounds for the copy- 
right of the said ? I have undertaken to ask you this ques- 
tion on behalf of the translator, and wish you would. Wo 
can't get so much for him by ten pounds from any body 
else, and I, knowing your magnificence, would be glad of an 
answer. "Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Sept. 27, 1815. 

" That 's right, and splendid, and becoming a publisher of 
high degree. Mr. Concancn (the translator) will be de- 
lighted, and pay his waslicrwoman ; and in reward for your 
bountiful behaviour in this inslance, I won't ask you to 
publi.-h any more for Drury-lane, or any lane whatever 
again. You will have no tragedy or any thing else from 
me, I assure you, and may think yourself lucky in having 
got rid of me, for good and all, without more damage. But 
I '11 tell you what we will do for you, — act SoUieby's Ivan, 
which will succeed ; and then your present ajid next im- 
pression of the dramas of ihat dramalic gentleman will bo 
expedited to your heart's content ; and if there is any tiling 
very good, you shall have the refusal ; but you sha'n't have 
any more requests. 

"Sotheby has got a thought, and almost the words, from 
the third Canto of the Corsair, which, you know, was pub- 
lished six months before his tragedy. It is from the storm 
in Conrad's cell. I have writ ten to Mr. Solheby to claim 
it ; and, as Dennis roared out of the pit, 'By G — d, thaVs my 
thunder !' so do I, and will 1, exclaim, ' By G — tl, that 's my 
UglitnirigP that electrical fluid being, in fact, the subject oC 
the said passage. 

" You will have a print of Fanny Kelly, in the Maid, to 
prefix, which is honestly worth twice the money you have 
given for the MS. Pray what did you do with the note I 
gave you about Muiigo Park ? "Ever, fiic." 

LETTER CCLXXVL 

TO MK. HUNT. 

"13, Terrace, Ticcadilly, Oct. 7. 1815. 
"my pear hunt, 
" I had written a long answer to your last, which I put 



• All ntlttck on l.onl niul Lady Byron, In Uie Sun new«i">l>«r, of which 
Mr. Taylor wui iiropiiiilor. 



88 



LETTERS, 1815. 



into the fire, partly, because it was a repetition of what I 
have already said, and next, because I considered what 
my opinions are worth, before I made you pay double 
pos'age, as your proximity lays you within the jaws of 
the tremendous ' Twopenny,' and beyond the verge of 
franking, the only parliamentary privilege, (saving one 
other,) of much avail in these ' costermonger' days. 

" Pray don't make me an exception to the 'Long live King 
Richard' of your bards in the ' Feast.' I do allow him* to 
be ' the princeof the bards of his time,' upon the judgment 
of those who must judge more impartially than I probably 
do. I acknowledge him as I acknowledge the Houses of 
Hanover and Bourbon, the — n^t the 'one-eyed monarch of 
the blind,' — but the blind monarch of the one-eyed. I merely 
lake the liberty of a free subject to vituperate certain of 
his edicts, and that only in private. I shall be very glad to 
see you, or your remaining canto ; if both together, so 
much the better. — I am interrupted." * * + * 



LETTER CCLXXVIL 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Oct. 15, 1815. 

"de.ir hunt, 

"I send you a thing whose greatest value is its present 
rarity ;f the present copy contains some manuscript cor- 
rections previous to an edition which was printed, but not 
published, and, in short, all that is in the suppressed edition, 
tlie fiih, except twenty lines in addition, for wliich there 
was not room in t!ie copy before me. There are in it many 
opinion-i I have altered, and some which I retain ; upon the 
whole, I wish that it had never been written, though my 
sending you this copy (the only one in my possession, unless 
one of Lady B.'s be excepted) may seem at variance with 
this statement: but my reason for this is very ditFerent ; it 
is, however, the only gift I have made of the kind this many 
a day. 

"P. S. You probably know that it is not in print for sale, 
nor ever will be (if I can help it) again." 



sion, which shan't be longer than I can make it. My mo- 
tive for writing that poem was, 1 fear, not so fair as you are 
willing to believe it; I was angry, and determined to be 
witty, and, fighting in a crowd, dealt about my blows against 
all aWie, without distinction or discernment. When 1 came 
home from the East, among other new acquaintances and 
friends, politics and the state of the Nottingham rioter?, (of 
which county I am a landholder, and Lord Holland Re- 
corder of the town,) led me by the good offices of Mr. 
Rogers, into the society of Lord Holland, who, with Lady 
Holland, was parlicularly kind to ine; about March, 1812, 
this introduction took place, when 1 made my first speech 
on the Frame Bill, in the same debate in which Lord Hol- 
land spoke. Soon after this, 1 was correcting the f.fth 
edition of 'E. B.' for the press, when Rogers represented to 
me that he knew Lord and Lady Holland would not be 
sorry if I suppressed any farther publication cf that Poem; 
and I immediately acquiesced, and v> ith great pleasure, for 
I had attacked them upon a fancied and talse provocation, 
mth many others; and neither was, nor am sorry, to have 
done what I could to stifle that ferocious rhapsody. This 
was subsequent to my acquaintance with Lord Holland, 
and was neither expressed nor understood, as a condition 
of that acquaintance. Rogers told me he thought I ought 
to suppress it ; I thought so too, and did as far as I could, 
and that's all. I sent you my copy, becai-se I consider your 
having it much the same as having it myself. Lady Byron 
has one ; I desire not to have any other, and sent it only as 
a curiosity and a memento." 



LETTER CCLXXVm. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Oct. 22,1815. 
■ MY DEAR HUNT, 

"You have excelled yourselfj if not all your contempo- 
raries, in the canto which I have just finished. I think it 
above the former books ; but that is as it should be; it rises 
willi the subject, the conception appears to me perfect, and 
the execution perhaps as nearly so as verse will admit. 
There is more originality tlian I recollect to have seen else- 
where witlun the same compass, and frequent and great 
happiness of expression. In short, I must turn to the faults, 
or what appear to be such to me : these are not many, nor 
such as may not be easily altered, being almost all verbal; 
and of the same kind as 1 pretended to point out in the 
former cantos, viz. occasional quaintness and obscurity, and 
a kind of harsh and yet colloquial compounding of epithets, 
as if to avoid saying common things in the common way; 

'difficile est propria communia dicere,' seems at times to I °'' Perhaps earlier. Lady B. is very ponderous and pros- 
have met with in you a literal translator. 1 have made a ' P'^''""^) apparently, and 1 wish it well over. 
few, and but a few pencil marks on the MS. which you can I " There is a play before me from a personage who sipis 
follow, or not, as you please. | himself 'Hibernicus.' The hero is Malachi, the Irishman 

" The Poem, as a whole, will give you a very high station ; ^"^ ^^^" ' ^"'^ ^^^^ villain and usurper, Turgesius the Dane, 
but where i-j the conclusion? Don't let it cool in the com- '^'^'^ conclusion is fine. Turgesius is chained by the leg 
position! You can always delay as long as you like re- ^^''^^ ^'^c^ direction) to a pillar on the stage; and King 



LETTER CCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 28, 1815. 
"You are, it seems, in England again, as I am to hear 
from every body but yourself ; and I suppose you punctilious 
because I did not answer your last Irish letter. When did 
you leave the ' swate country V Is ever mind, I forgive you ; 
— a strong proof of— I know not what — to give tlie lie to— 

' He never pardons wlio liath done llie wrong.' 

"You have written to * *. You have also written to 
Perry, who intimates hope of an Opera from you. Cole- 
ridge has promised a Tragedy. Now, if you keep Perry's 
word, and Coleridge keeps his own, Drury-lane will be set 
up; — and, sooth to say, it is in grievous want of such a lift. 
We began at speed, and are blown already. When I say 
' we,' I mean Kinnaird, who is the ' all in all sufficient,' and 
can count, which none of the rest of the Committee can. 

" It is really very good fun, as far as the daily and nightly 
stir of these strutters and frettcrs go; and, if the concern 
could be brought to pay a shilling in the pound, would do 
much credit to the management. Mr. has an ac- 
cepted tragedy, * * * + *^ whose first scene is in his sleep, 
(I do n't mean the author's.) It was forwarded to us as a 
prodigious favourite of ^an's ; but the said Kean, upon 
interrogation, denies his eulogy, and protests against his 
part. How it will end, I know not. 

"I say so much about the theatre, because there is no- 
thing else alive in London at this season. All the world 
are out of it, except us, who remain to lie in,— in December, 



vising, though I am not sure, in the very face of Horace 
that the ' nonum,' &c. is attended with advantage, unless 
we read 'months' for 'years.' I am glad the book sentf 
reached you. I forgot to tell you the story of its suppres- 



• Words wor'.ti. 

t A copy of the EiiglUh Cards and Scotch Revicwcra . 



Malachi makes him a speech, not unlike Lord Castle- 
reagh's about the balance of power and the lawfulness of 
legitimacy, which puts Turgesius into a phrensy— a's Ca.s- 
tlereagh's would, if his audience was chained by the leg. 
He draws a dagger and rushes at the orator ; biit, finding 
himself at the end of his tether, he sticks it into his o,\r. 
carcass, and dies, saying, he has fulfilled a prophecy. 



LETTERS, 1815. 



89 



" Now, this is serious, downright matter of fact, and the 
gravest part of a tragedy which is not intended for bur- 
lesque. 1 tell it you for the honour of Ireland. The writer 
hopes it will be represented : — but what is Hope ? nothing 
but the paint on the face of Existence ; the least touch of 
Truth rubs it off^ and then we see what a hollow-cheeked 
harlot we have got hold of. I am not sure that I have not 
said this last superfine reflection before. But never mind ; 
— it will do for the tragedy of Turgesius, to which I can 
append it. 

"Well, but how dost thou do? thou bard, not of a thou- 
sand, but three thousand ! I wish your friend. Sir John 
Piano-forte, had kept that to himself; and not made it pub- 
lic at the trial of the song-seller in Dubhn. I tell you why ; 
it is a liberal thing for Longman to do, and honourable for 
you to obtain ; but it will set all the ' hungry and dinnerless 
lank-jawed judges' upon the fortunate author. But they 
be d— d! — the 'Jeffrey and the Moore together are confi- 
dent against the world in ink !' By-the-way, if poor Cole- 
ridge — who is a man of wonderful talent, and in distress, 
and about to publish two vols, of Poesy and Biography, 
and who has been worse used by the critics than ever we 
were — will you, if he comes out, promise me to review him 
favourably in the E. R.? Praise him, I think you must, 
but you will also praise him well, — of all things the most 
difficult. It will be the making of him. 

" This must be a secret between you and me, as Jeffrey 
might not like such a project — nor, indeed, might Coleridge 
himself like it. But I do think he only wants a pioneer, 
and a sparkle or two to explode most gloriously. 

"Ever yours most affectionately, " B." 



LETTER CCLXXX. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



«13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept.— Oct. 30, 1815. 
"my dear hunt, 
" Many thanks for your books, of which you already 
know my opinion : their external splendour should not dis- 
turb you as inappropriate — they have still more within than 
without. I take leave to differ from you on Wordsworth, 
as freely as I once agreed with you ; at that time I gave 
him credit for a promise, which is unfulfilled. I still think 
his capacity warrants all you say of it only, but that his 
performances since ' Lyrical Ballads' are miserably inade- 
quate to the ability which lurks within him: there is un- 
doubtedly much natural talent spilt over the 'Excursion,' 
but it is rain upon rocks, where it stands and stagnates, or 
rain upon sands, where it falls without fertilizing. "Who 
can understand him? Let those who do, make him intel- 
ligible. Jacob Behmen, Svvedcnborg, and Joanna South- 
cote, are mere types of this arch-apostle of mystery and 
mysticism. But 1 have done, — no, 1 have not done, for I 
have two petty, and perhaps unworthy objections in small 
matters to make to him, which, with his pretensions to 
accurate observations, and fury against Pope's false trans- 
lation of ' the moonlight scene m Homer,' I wonder he 
should have fallen into : these be they : — He says of Greece 
in the body of his book, that it is a land of 

' Rivera, fertile plains, niitl sounding shores, 
Under a cope of variegated sky.' 

The rivers arc dry half the year, the plains are barren, and 
the shores still and tidclcss as the Mediterranean can make 
them ; the sky is any thing but variegated, being for months 
and months but 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.' — The 
next is in his notes, where he talks of our 'Monuments 
crowded together in the busy, &c. of a large to\^■n,' as com- 
pared with the 'still seclusion of a Turkish c«Tn<>l<"ry in 
some remote place.' This is pure stuff; for otic moinimcnt 
in our churchyards there are ten in tlie Turkish, and so 
crowded that you cannot walk between them ; that is, 
divided merely by a path or road ; and as to 'remote places,' 
men never take the trouble, in a barbarous country, to 

12 



carry their dead very far: they must have lived near to 
where they were buried. There are no cemeteries in 
'remote places,' except such as have the cypress and the 
tombstone still left, where the olive and the habitation of 
the living have perished. . . . These things I was struck 
with, as coming peculiarly in my own way ; and in both of 
these he is wrong : yet I should have noticed neither, but 
for his attack on Pope for a like blunder, and a peevish 
affectation about him of despising a popularity which he 
will never obtain, I write in great haste, and, I doubt, not 
much to the purpose, but you have it hot and hot, just as it 
comes, and so let it go. By-the-way, both he and you go 
too far against Pope's 'So when the moon,' &c. ; it is no 
translation, I know ; but it is not such false description as 
asserted. I have read it on the spot ; there is a burst, and 
a lightness, and a glow about the night in the Troad, which 
makes the 'planets vivid,' and the ' pole glaring.' The moon 
is, at least the sky is, clearness itself; and I know no more 
appropriate expression for the expansion of such a heaven 
— o'er the scene — the plain — the sea — the sky — Ida — the 
Hellespont — Simois — Scamander — and the Isles — than 
that of a ' flood of glory.' I am getting horribly lengthy, 
and must stop : to the whole of your letter I sav ' ditto to 
Mr. Burke,' as the Bristol candidate cried by way of 
electioneering harangue. You need not speak of morbid 
feelings and vexations to me ; I have plenty ; but I must 
blame partly the times, and chiefly myself: but let us forget 
them. / shall be very apt to do so when I see you next. 
Will you come to the theatre and see our new manage- 
ment ? You shall cut it up to your heart's content, root 
and branch, afterwards, if you like, but come and see it ! 
If not, I must come and see you. "Ever yours, 

"Very truly and affectionately, 
" ByRON. 
" P. S. Not a word from Moore for these two months. 
Pray let me have the rest of Rimini. You have two ex- 
cellent points in tliat Poem, originahty and Italianism. 1 
will back you as a Bard against half the fellows on whom 
you have thrown away much good criticism and eulogy ; 
but do n't let your bookseller publish in quarto, it is the 
worst size possible for circulation. I say this on biblio* 
polical authority. "Again, yours ever, "B." 



LETTER CCLXXXL 

to me. MOORE. 

« Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 31, 1815. 
I have not been able to ascertain precisely the time of 
duration of the stock market; but I believe it is a good time 
for selling out, and I hope so. First, because I shall see 
you ; and, next, because I shall receive certain moneys on 
behalf of Lady B. the which will materially conduce to mv 
comfort, — 1 wanting (as the duns say) 'to malvc up a sum.' 

"Yesterday, I dined out with a largeish party, where 
were Sheridan and Cohnan, Harry Harris of C. G. and his 
brother. Sir Gilbert Heathcotc, Ds. Kijinaird, and others 
of note and notoriety. Like other parties of the kind, it 
was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then dis- 
putatious, then unintelligible, then altogethcry, then inar- 
ticulate, and then drunk. When we had roarhod the last 
step of this glorious ladder, it was diflirult to get down again 
without stumbling ; — and, to cro\\n all, Kinnaird and 1 had 
to conduct Sheridan down a d^l corkscrew staircase, 
which had certainly been constructed before the discovery 
of fermented liquors, and to which no legs, however crooked, 
could |)ossil)ly acconunodatc tluniselvcs. A^'e deiHwited 
him safe at home, where his man, evidently used to the 
business, wailcil to receive him in the hall. 

" Both he and Colman were, as usual, very good ; but I 
carried away much wine, anil tho wine hod previously 
carried away my memory; so that alt wa.^ hiccup and 
happiness for the last hour or so, and I am not impre;:nat»'d 
with any of tho conversation. Perhaps you heard of a lato 



90 



LETTERS, 1815. 



answer of Sheridan to the watchman who found him bereft 
of that ' divine particle of air,' called reason,— * * 
♦ * * * *. He, the watchman, found 

Sherry in the street, fuddled and bewildered, and almost 
msensible. ' Who are you, sir T — no answer. ' What 's 
your name ?' — a hiccup. ' What 's your name ?' — Answer, 
in a slow, deliberate, and impassive tone, — 'Wilber- 
force!!!' Is not that Sherry all over?— and to my mind 
excellent. Poor fellow, lus very dregs are better than the 
' first sprightly runnings' of others. 

" My paper is full, and I have a grievous headach. 

" P. S. Lady B. is in full progress. Next month will 
bring to light (with the aid of ' Juno Lucina, ftr opem^ or 
rather opes, for the last are most wanted) the tenth wonder 
of the world ; Gil Bias being the eighth, and he (my son's 
father) tlie ninth," 



LETTER CCLXXXIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Nov. 4, 1815. 

"Had you not bewildered my head with the 'stocks,' 
your letter would have been answered directly. Had n't I 
to go to the city? and hadn't T to remember what to ask 
when I got tliere? and had n't I forgotten it ? 

''I should be undoubtedly delighted to see you; but I don't 
like to urge against your reasons my own inclinations. 
Come you must soon, for stay you won't. I know you of 
old ; — ^you have been too much leavened with London to 
keep long out of it. 

"Lewis is going to Jamaica to suck his sugar-canes. 
He sails in two days ; I enclose you his fareweU note. I 
saw him last night at D. L. T. for the last time previous 
to his voyage. Poor fellow ! he is really a good man ; an 
excellent man ; he left me his walking-stick and a pot of 
preserved ginger. I shall never eat the last without tears 
in my eyes, it is so hot. We have had a devil of a row 
among our ballarinas : Miss Smith has been wTonged about 
a hornpipe. The Committee have interfered ; but Byrne, 
the d — d ballet-master, won't budge a step. I am furious, 
80 is George Lambe. Kinnaird is very glad, because — he 
do n't know why ; and I am vcrj' sorry, for the same reason. 
To-day I dine with Kd. — we are to have Sheridan and 
Colman again ; and to-morrow, once more, at Sir Gilbert 
Heathcote's. 

****** 

" Leigh Hunt has written a real good and very original 
Poem, which I diink will be a great hit. You can have no 
notion how very well it is written, nor should I, had I not 
redde it. As to us, Tom — eh, when art thou out ? If you 
think the verses worth it, I would rather tliey were em- 
balmed in the Irish Melodies, than scattered abroad in a 
separate song ; much rather. But when are thy great 
things out? I mean the Po of Pos; thy Shah Nameh. 
It is very kind in Jeffrey to like the Hebrew Melodies. 
Some of the fellows here preferred Sternhold and Hopkins, 
and said so; — 'the fiend receive their souls therefor 1' 

" I must go and dress for dinner. Poor, dear Murat, 
what an end ! You know, I suppose, that his white plume 
used to be a rallying point in battle,* like Henry the 
Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage; so 
would neither suffer his soul or body to be bandaged. You 
shall have more to-morrow or next day. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXXIIL 

TO MR. MURR.*.y. 

"Nov. 4, 1815. 
"When you have been enabled to form an opinion on 
Mr. Coleridge's MS. you will oblige me by returning it, as, 
in fact, I have no authority to let it out of my hands. I 



>Sm Poems, p. 196. 



think most highly of it, and feel anxious that you should be 
the publisher ; but if you are not, I do not desptur of finding 
those who will. 

"I have written to Mr. Leigh Hunt, stating your willing- 
ness to treat with him, which, when I saw you, I understood 
you to be. Terms and time I leave to his pleasure and 
your discernment ; but this I will say, that 1 think it the 
safest thing you ever engaged in. I speak to you as a man 
of business: were I to talk to you as a reader or a critic, I 
should sav, it was a very wonderful and beautiful perform- 
ance, with just enough of fault to make its beauties more 
remarked and remarkable. 

"And now to the last ; my owti, which I feel ashamed of 
after the others : — pubhsh or not as you like, I do n't care 
one damn. If you do n't, no one else shall, and I never 
thought or dreamed of it, except as one in the collection. 
If it is worth being in the fourth volume, put it there and 
nowhere else ; and if not, put it in the fire. "Yours, 



LETTER CCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 14, 1815. 

"I return you your bills not accepted, but certainly not 
unhonoured. Your present offer is a favour which I would 
accept from you, if I accepted such from any man. Had 
such been my intention, I can assure you I would have 
asked you fairly, and as freely as you would give ; and I 
cannot say more of my confidence or your conduct. 

" The circumstances which induce me to part with my 
books,* though sufficiently, are not immediately, pressing. 
I have made up my mind to them, and there 's an end. 

" Had I been disposed to trespass on your kindness in 
this way, it would have been before now ; but I am not 
sorry to have an opportunity of declining it, as it sets my 
opinion of you, and indeed of human nature, in a different 
light from that in which I have been accustomed to con- 
sider it. • Believe me very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Dec. 25, 1815. 
"I send some Unes, written some time ago, and intended 
as an opening to the 'Siege of Corinth.' I had forgotten 
then^and am not sure that they had not better be left out 
now : on that, you and your Synod can determine.! 

« Yours, &c* 



FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS WRITTEN ABOUT THIS TIME 
TO MR. HUNT, 

"With regard to the English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers, I have no concealments, nor desire to have any, 
from you or yours; the suppression occurred (I am assure 
as I can be of any thing) in the manner stated : I have 
never regretted that, but very often the composition, that is, 
the humciir of a great deal in it. As to the quotation you 
allude to, I have no right, nor indeed desire, to prevent it ; 
but, on the contrary, in common with all other writers, I do 
and ought to take it as a compliment, 

" The paper on the Methodists I redde, and agree with 
the writer on one point, in which you and he perhaps differ ; 



* In consequence of his pecuniary embarrassments at this time, he had 
expressed an intention of parting with his boolfs. On hearing this, Mr. 
Murray instantly forwarded him 1500Z. with an assurance that another 
sum of the same amount should be at his service in a. few weeks, and that 
if such assistance should not be sufficient, Mr. Murray was most ready ta 
dispose of the copyrights of all his past works for his use. 

t See Poems, p. 131. * 



LETTERS, 1816. 



91 



that an addiction to poetry is very generally the result of 
'an uneasy mind in an uneasy body ;' disease or deformity 
have been the attendants of many of our best. Collins mad 
— Chatterton, /think, mad — Co%vper mad — Pope crooked 
— Milton blind — Gray (I have heard that the last was 
afflicted by an incurable and very grievous distemper, 
though not generally known) and others — I have some- 
where read, however, that poets rarely go mad. I suppose 
the writer means that their insanity effervesces and evapo- 
rates in verse — may be so. 

"I have not had time to attack your system, which ought 
to be done, were it only because it is a system. So, by and 
by, have at you. "Yours, ever, 

"Byron." 



"Of ' Rimini,^ Sir Henry Englefield, a mighty man in the 
blue circles, and a very clever man any where, sent to 
Murray, in terms of the highest eulogy; and with regard to 
the common reader, my suter and cousin (who are now all 
my family, and the last since gone away to be married) 
were in fixed perusal and delight with it, and they are ' not 
critical,' but fair, natural, unaffected, and understanding 
persons. Frere, and aO the arch-literati, I hear, are also 
unanimous in a high opinion of the Poem." 



LETTER CCLXXXVI. 

TO MR, MOORE. 

"Jan. 5, 1816. 

"I hope IMrs. M. is quite re-established. The little girl 
was born on tlie 10th of December last : her name is Au- 
gusta Ada, (the second a very antique family name, — I 
believe not used since the reign of King John.) She was, 
and is, very flourishing and fat, and reckoned very large 
for her days — squalls and sucljs incessantly. Are you 
answered ? Her mother is doing very well, and up again. 

'^1 have now been married a year on the second of this 
month — heigh-ho ! I have seen nobody lately much worth 
noting, except S * * and another general of die Gauls, once 
or twice at dinners out of doors. S * * is a fine, foreign, 
villainous-looking, intelligent, and very agreeable man ; his 
compatriot is more of the petit-maitre, and younger, but I 
should think not at all of the same intellectual calibre with 
the Corsican — which S * *, you know, is, and a cousin of 
Napoleon's. 

"Are you never to be expected in town again? To be 
sure, there is no one here of the 1500 fillers of hot rooms, 
called tlie fashionable world. My approaching papa-ship 
detained us for advice, &c. &c. — though I would as soon 
be here as any where else on this side of the straits of 
Gibraltar. 

"I would gladly — or, rather, sorrowfully — comply witli 
your request of a dirge for the poor girl you mention.* But 
how can I write on one I have never seen or known ? 
Besides, you will do it much better yourself I could not 
write upon any thing, without some personal experience 
and foundation ; far less on a theme so peculiar. Now, you 
have botli in this case; and, if you had nciUier, you have 
more imagination, and would never fail. 

" This is but a dull scrawl, and I am but a dull fellow. 
Just at present, I am absorbed in 500 contradictory con- 
templations, though with but one object in view — which will 
probably end in nothing, as most things we wish do. But 
nevermind — as somebody says, 'for the blue sky bends 
over all.' 1 only could be glad, if it bent over me where it 
IS a Utile bluer; like the 'skyish top of blue Olympus,' which, 
by-the-way, looked very wliite when I last saw it. 

"Even&c." 



• T hnd menlionsd to him, as a »ubject worthy of hin best yiowcii of 
pnthos, ■ melnncholy event which hud lust occurrrd In my iicichhoiithooil, 
and to which I have myBulf mivdealiujionlii one of the Sacred Melodies— 
" Weep not for her." — Moort. 



LETTER CCLXXXVn. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Jan. 29, 1816. 
"dear hunt, 

"I return your extract with thanks for the perusal, and 
hope you are by this time on the verge of publication. My 
pencil-marks on the ma rgin of your former manuscripts I 
never thought worth tlie trouble of deciphering, but I had 
no such meaning as you imagine for their being withheld 
from Murray, from whom I differ entirely as to the terms 
of your agreement ; nor do I think you asked a piastre too 
much for the Poem. However, I doubt not he will deal 
fairly by you on the whole ; he is really a very good fellow, 
and his faults are merely the leaven of his 'trade' — 'the 
trade !' the slave-trade of many an unlucky writer. 

" The said Murray and I are just at present in no good 
humour with each other; but he is not the worse for that; I 
feel sure that he will give your work as fair or a fairer 
chance in every way than your late publishers ; and what 
he can't do for it, it will do for itself 

"Continual business and occasional indisposition have 
been the causes of my negligence (for I deny neglect) in 
not wridng to you immediately. These are excuses; I 
wish they may be more satisfactory to you tlian they are 
to me. I opened my eyes yesterday morning on your 
comphment of Sunday. If you knew what a hopeless and 
lethargic den of dulness and drawling our hospital is during 
a debate : and what a mass of corruption in its patients, you 
would wonder, not that I very seldom speak, but that I ever 
attempted it, feeling, as I trust 1 do, independently. How- 
ever, when a proper spirit is manifested ' without doors,' I 
will endeavour not to be idle within. Do you think such a 
time is coming? Methmks there are gleams of it. My 
forefathers were of the other side of the question ui Charles' 
days, and the fruit of it was a title and the loss of an enor- 
mous property. 

"If the old struggle comes on, I may lose the one, and 

shall never regain the other, but no matter; there are 

things, even in this world, better than either. 

"Very truly, ever yours, 



B." 



LETTER CCLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"Feb. 8, 1816. 

" Do not mistake me — I really returned your book for 
the reason assigned, and no other. It is too good for so 
careless a fellow. I have parted with all my own books, 
and positively won't deprive you of so valuable ' a drop of 
that immortal man.' 

" I shall be very glad to see you, if you like to call, though 
I am at present contending with ' the slings and arrows of 
outrageous fortune,' some of which have struck at me from 
a quarter whence I did not indeed expect them. But no 
matter, ' there is a world elsewhere,' and I will cut my way 
through this as 1 can. 

" U you write to Moore, will you tell him that I shall 
answer liis letter the moment I can muster time and 
spirits? "Ever yours, "Bn." 



LETTER CCLXXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 29, 1816. 

" I have not answered your letter for a time ; and, at 
present, the reply to part of it might extend to such a length, 
that I sliall delay it till it can be made in person, and llien 
I will shorten it as much as 1 can. 

" In the mean time, 1 am at war ' with all the world and 
his wife;' or ratlier, 'all the world and my wife' are at war 
with me, and have not yet crushed me, whatever lliey may 
do. I do n't luiow that in tlw course u»' a luiirl^rtNidUi 



92 



LETTERS, 1816. 



existence I was ever, at home or abroad, in a situation so 
completely uprooting of present pleasure, or rational hope 
for the future, as this same. I say this, because I thinlc so, 
and feel it. But I shall not sink under it the more for that 
mode of considering the question. I have made up my 
mind. 

" By-the-way, however, you must not believe all you 
hear on the subject ; and do n't attempt to defend me. If 
you succeeded in that, it would be a mortal, or an immortal 
offence— who can bear refutation ? I hav^ but a very short 
answer for those whom it concerns ; and all the activity of 
myself and some vigorous friends have not yet fixed on any 
tangible ground or personage, on which or with whom I can 
discuss matters, in a summary way, with a fair pretext; 
though I nearly had nailed one yesterday, but he evaded by 
— what was judged by others— a satisfactory explanation. 
I speak of circulators — against whom I have no enmity, 
though I must act according to the common code of usage, 
when I hit upon those of the serious order. 

" Now for other matters — Poesy, for instance. Leigh 
Hunt's poem is a devilish good one — quaint, here and there, 
but with the substratum of originality, and with poetry 
about it that ^vill stand the test. 1 do not say this because 
he has inscribed it to me, which I am sorry for, as I should 
otherwise have begged you to review it in the Edinburgh. 
It is really deserving of much praise, and a favourable 
critique in the E. R. would but do it justice, and set it up 
before the public eye where it ought to be. 

"How are you? and where? I have not the most distant 
idea what I am going to do myself, or with myself— or 
where — or what. I had, a few weeks ago, some things to 
Bay, that would have made you laugh ; but they tell me 
now that I must not laugh, and so I have been very serious 
—and am. 

" I have not been very well — with a liver complaint — but 
am much better within the last fortnight, though still under 
latrical advice. I have latterly seen a little of * * 
** + + + ** + +_ 

" I must go and dress to dine. My little girl is in the 
country, and, they tell me, is a very fine child, and now 
nearly three months old. Lady Noel (my mother-in-law, 
or rather, at law) is at present overlooking it. Her daughter 
(Miss Milbanke that was) is, I believe, in London with 
her father, A Mrs. Charlmont,* (now a kind of house- 
keeper and spy of Lady N.'s) who, in her better days, was 
a washenvoman, is supposed to be — by the learned — very 
much the occult cause of our late domestic discrepancies. 

"In all this business, I am the sorriest for Sir Ralph. 
He and I are equally punished, though magis pares quern 
timiles in our affliction. Yet it is hard for both to suffer 
for the fault of one, and so it is — I shall be separated from 
my wife ; he will retain his. "Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXC. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Feb. 26, 1816. 
"dear hunt, 
"Your letter would have been answered before, had I 
not thought it probable that, as you were in town for a day 
or so, I should have seen you ;— I do n't mean this as a hint 
at reproach for not calling, but merely that of course I 
should have been very glad if you had called in your way 
home or abroad, as I always would have been, and always 
bhall be. With regard to the circumstances to which you 
allude, tliere is no reason why you should not speak openly 
to me on a subject already sufficiently rife in the mouths 
and minds of what is called 'the world.' Of the 'fifty re- 
ports,' it follows that forty-nine must have more or less 
error and exaggeration; but I am sorry to say, that on the 
main and essential point of an intended, and, it may be, an 
inevitable separation, I can contradict none. At present I 
Bhall say no more, but this is not from want of confidence; 



* Mri. CharlmoBt. Sm I'oems, p. 193 



in the mean time I shall merely request a suspension of 
opinion. Your prefatory letter to ' Rimini' I accepted as 
it was meant, as a public compliment and a private kind- 
ness. I am only sorry that it may perhaps operate against 
you as an inducement, and, with some, a pretext for attack 
on the part of the political and personal enemies of both ; 
not that this can be of much consequence, for in the end 
the work must be judged by its merits, and, in that respect, 
you are well armed. Murray tells me it is going on well, 
and, you may depend upon it, there is a substratum of 
poetry, which is a foundation for sohd and durable fame. 
The objections (if there be objections, for this is a pre- 
sumption, and not an assumption) will be merely as to the 
mechanical part, and such, as I stated before, the usual 
consequences of either novelty or revival. I desired Mur- 
ray to forward to you a pamplilet with two things of mine 
in it, tlie most part of both of them, and of one in particular, 
tvritten before others of my composing, which have preceded 
them in publication; they are neither of them of much 
pretension, nor intended for it. You will perhaps wonder 
at my dwelling so much and so frequently on former sub- 
jects and scenes ; but the fact is, that I found them fading 
fast from my memory ; and I was, at the same time, so 
partial to their place, (and events connected with it,) that 
I have stamped them while I could, in such colours as I 
could trust to now, but might have confused and misapplied 
hereafter, had I longer delayed the attempted delineation." 



LETTER CCXCI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 8, 1816. 

"I rejoice in your promotion as Chairman and Chari- 
table Steward, &.c. &c. These be dignities which await 
only the virtuous. But then, recollect, you are six-and- 
thirty, (I speak this enviously — not of your age, but the 
' honour — love — obedience — troops of friends,' which ac- 
company it,) and I have eight years good to run before I 
arrive at such hoary perfection; by which time, — if I am at 
all, — it will probably be in a state of grace or progressing 
merits. 

"I must set you right in one point, however. The fault 
wcis not — no, nor even the misfortune, — in my 'choice' 
(unless in choosing ai all) — for I do not believe, and I must 
say it, in the very dregs of all this bitter business, that there 
ever was a better, or even a brighter, a kinder, or a more 
amiable and agreeable being than Lady B. I never had, 
nor can have, any reproach to malie her, while with me. 
Where there is blame, it belongs to myself; and, if 1 cannot 
redeem, I must bear it. 

"Her nearest relatives are a * * * * — my circumstances 
have been and are in a state of great confusion — my health 
has been a good deal disordered, and my mind ill at ease 
for a considerable period. Such are the causes (I do not 
name them as excuses) which have frequently driven me 
into excess, and disqualified my temper for comfort. Some- 
thing also may be attributed to tlie strange and desultory 
habits which, becoming my own master at an early age, 
and scrambling about, over and through the world, may 
have induced. I still, however, think that, if I had had a 
fair chance, by being placed in even a tolerable situation, I 
might have gone on fairly. But that seems hopeless, and 
there is nothing more to be said. At present — except my 
health, which is better (it is odd, but agitation or contest of 
any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for 
the time)— I have to battle with all kinds of unpleasant- 
nesses, including private and pecuniary difficulties, &c. &c, 

"I believe I may have said this before to you, — but I 
risk repeating it. It is nothing to bear the privations of 
adversity, or, more properly, ill fortune; but my pride recoils 
from its indignities. However, I have no quarrel with that 
same pride, which will, I think, buckler me through every 
thing. If my heart could have been broken, it would have 
been so years ago, and by events more afflicting than these. 



LETTERS, 18J6. 



93 



"I agree with you (to turn from this topic to our shop) 
that I have written too much. The last things were, how- 
ever, published very reluctantly by me, and for reasons I 
will explain when we meet. I know not why I have dwelt 
so much on the same scenes, except that I find them fading, 
or confusing (if such a word may be) in my memory, in 
the midst of present turbulence and pressure, and I feU 
anxious to stamp before the die was worn out. I now 
break it. With those countries, and events connected with 
them, all my really poetical feelings begin and end. Were 
I to try, 1 could make nothing of any other subject, and 
that I have apparently exhausted. 'W^o to him,' says 
Voltaire, 'who says all he could say on any subject.' 
There are some on which, perhaps, I could have said still 
more; but I leave them all, and not too soon. 

"Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year, 
which you still have? I do n't wish (lilie iVIr. Fitzgerald, 
in the Morning Post) to claim the character of 'Vates' in 
all its translations; but were they not a little prophetic? I 
mean those beginning 'There's not a joy the world can,'* 
&c. &c. on which 1 rather pique myself as being the truest, 
though the most melancholy, I ever wrote. 

" What a scrawl have I sent you ! You say nothing of 
yourself, except that you are a Lancasterian churchwarden, 
and an encourager of mendicants. When are you out? 
and how is your family? My child is very well and 
flourishing, I hear : but I must see also. I feel no disposi- 
tion to resign it to the contagion of its grandmother's society, 
though I am unwilling to take it from the mother. It is 
weaned, however, and something about it must be decided. 

"Ever, &c." 



[The letter that follows was in answer to one received 
from Mr. Murray, in which he had enclosed him a draft 
for a thousand guineas for the copyright of his two Poems, 
the Siege of Corinth and Parisina.] 

LETTER CCXCIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 2, 1816. 

"Your offer is liheral in the extreme, (you see I use the 
word to you and oTyou, though I would not consent to your 
using it of yourself to Mr. * * + *j) and much more than 
the two poems can possibly be worth ; but I cannot accept 
it, nor will not. You are most welcome to them as addi- 
tions to the collected volumes, without any demand or 
expectation on my part whatever. But I cannot consent 
to their separate publication. I do not like to risk any 
fame (whether merited or not) which I have been favoured 
with, upon compositions which I do not feel to be at all 
equal to my own notions of what they should be, (and as 
I flatter myself some have been, here and there,) though 
they may do very well as things v\ ithout pretension, to add 
to the publication wiili the lighter pieces. 

"I am very glad that the handwriting was a favourable 
omen of the morale of the piece: but you must not trust to 
that, for my copyist would write out any thing 1 desired in 
all the ignorance of innocence — I hope, however, in this 
instance, with no great peril to either. 

"P. S. I have enclosed your draft torn, for fear of acci- 
dents by tlic way — I \%ish you would not throw temptation 
in mine. It is not from a disdain of the universal idol, not 
from a present superfluity of his treasures, I can assure 
you, that I rt-fuse to wor.slu|) him ; but what is right is right, 
and must not yield to circumstances." 



LETTER CCXCm. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"Feb. 20, 1816. 
■I wrote to you hastily tJiis morning by Murray, to say 



S«e Potno, p. 19^1. 



that I was glad to do as Mackintosh and you suggested 
about Mr. * *. It occurs to me now, that as I have never 
seen Mr. * * but once, and consequently have no claim to 
his acquaintance, that you or Sir J. had better arrange it 
with him in such a manner as may be least offensive to his 
feelings, and so as not to have the appearance of officious- 
ness nor obtrusion on my part. I hope you will be able to 
do this, as I should be very sorry to do any thing by him 
that may be deemed indelicate. The sum Murray ofl"ered 
and offers was and is one thousand and fifty pounds: this 
I refused before, because I thought it more than the two 
things were worth to Murray, and from other objections, 
which are of no consequence. I have, however, closed 
with M. in consequence of Sir J.'s and your suggestion, 
and propose the sum of six hundred pounds to be trans- 
ferred to Mr. * * in such manner as may seem best to 
your friend, — the remainder I think of for other purposes. 
"As Murray has offered the money down for the copy- 
rights, it may be done directly. I am ready to sign and 
seal immediately, and perhaps it had better not be delayed. 
I shall feel very glad iif it can be of any use to * * ; only 
do n't let him be plagued, nor think himself obliged and all 
that, which makes people hate one another, &c. 

" Yours, very truly, « B." 



LETTER CCXCIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Feb. 22, 1816. 

"When the sum offered by you, and even pressed by 
you, was declined, it was with reference to a separate 
publication, as you know and I know. That it was large, 
I admitted and admit; and that made part of my conside- 
ration in refusing it, till I knew better what you were likely 
to make of it. With regard to what is past, or is to pass, 
about Mr. + *, the case is in no respect different from the 
transfer of former copyrights to Mr. Dallas. Had I taken 
you at your word, that is, taken your money, I might have 
used it as I pleased ; and it could be in no respect different 
to you whether I paid it to a w — , or a hospital, or assisted 
a man of talent in distress. The truth of the matter 
seems this: you offered more than the poems are worth. 
I said so, and I think so ; but you know, or at least ought to 
know, your o\^■n business best; and \\hen you recollect 
what passed between you and me upon pecuniary subject* 
before this occurred, you will acquit me of any wish to take 
advantage of your in)prudenc6. 

" The things in question shall not be published at all, and 
there is an end of the matter. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXCV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"March 6, 1816. 

*♦*♦ + * 

"I sent to you to-day for this reason — the books you 
purchased are again seized, and, as matters stand, had much 
better be sold at once by public auctiou. I wish to see 
you, to return your bill for them; which, tliank God, is 
neither due nor paid. Thai part, as far as jyou are con- 
cerned, being settled, (which it can be, and shall be, when 
I see you lo-murrow,) 1 have no further delicacy about the 
matter. This is about the tenth execution in as many 
months; so I am |)retty well hardened ; but it is fit I should 
pay the forfeit of my forefather's extravagance and my 
own ; and whatever my faults may bo, 1 suppose they will 
be pretty well expiated in time— or eternity. 

" Ever, &c. 

" P. S. I need hardly say that I knew nothuig till this 
day of the new seizure. I had released them from former 
one."?, and tlwught, when you took them, that they wer« 
yours. 

" You shaD have your bill again to-morrow.* 



94 



LETTERS, 1816. 



LETTER CCXCVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Feb.3,1816. 

"I sent for ' Marmion,' which I return, because it occurred 
to me, there might be a resemblance between part of 'Pa- 
risina' and a similar scene in Canto 2 of ' Marmion.' I fear 
there is, tliough I never diought of it before, and could hardly 
wish to imitate that which is inimitable. I wish you would 
ask Mr. Giftbrd whether I ought to say any tiling upon it; 
— I had completed the story on tlie passage from Gibbon, 
which indeed leads to a like scene naturally, without a 
thought of the kind: but it comes upon me not very com- 
fortably. 

"There are a few words and phrases I want to alter in 
the MS. and should like to do it before you print, and will 
return it in an hour. "Yours ever." 



LETTER CCXCVn. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



Feb. 20, 1816. 
* 



"To return to our business — your epistles are vastly 
agreeable. With regard to the observations on careless- 
ness, &c. I think, with all humility, that the gentle reader 
has considered a rather uncommon, and designedly irregu- 
lar, versification for haste and negligence. The measure 
is not that of any of the other poems, which (I believe) 
were allowed to be tolerably correct, according to Bysshe 
and the fingers — or ears — by which bards write, and readers 
reckon. Great part of tlie ' Siege' is in (I ihink) what the 
learned called Anapests, (though I am not sure, being 
heinously forgetful of my metres and my •' Gradus',) and 
many of the hnes intentionally longer or shorter tlian its 
rhyming companion ; and rhyme also occurring at greater 
or less intervals of caprice or convenience. 

" I mean not to say that this is right or good, but merely 
that I could have been smoother, had it appeared to me of 
advantage ; and that I was not otherwise without being 
aware of the deviation, though I now feel sorry for it, as 1 
would undoubtedly rather pleaise than not. My wish has 
been to try at something different from my former efforts ; 
as I endeavoured to make them differ from each other. 
The versification of the 'Corsair' is not that of 'Lara;' nor 
the 'Giaour' that of the 'Bride:' 'Childe Harold' is again 
varied from these ; and I strove to vary the last somewhat 
from cdl of the others. 

"Excuse all this d — d nonsense and egotism. The fact 
is, that I am rather trying to thbik on the subject of this 
note, tlian really thinking on it. — I did not know you had 
called : you are always admitted and welcome when you 
choose. "Yours, &c. &c. 

"P. S. You need not be in any apprehension or grief on 
my account : were I to be beaten down by the world and 
its inheritors, I should have succumbed to many things 
years ago. You must not mistake my not bullying for 
dejection ; nor imagine that because I feel, I am to faint: — 
but enough for the present. 

" I am sorry for Sotheby's row. "Wliat the devil is it 
about? I thought it all settled ; and if I can do any thing 
about him or Ivan still, I am ready and willing. I do not 
think it proper for me just now to be much behind the 
scenes, but I will see the committee and move upon it, if 
Sotheby likes. 

" If you see Mr. Sotheby, will you tell him that I wrote 
to Mr. Coleridge, on getting Mr. Sotheby's note, and have, 
I hope, done what Mr. S. wished on that subject?" 



in what is called intimac)', and have heard me at limes 
conversin<^ on the imtoward topic of my recent family 
disquietudes. Will you have the goodness to say to me at 
once, whether you ever heard me speak of her witli dis- 
respect, witli mikindness, or defending myself at Tier expense 
by any serious imputation of any description against her? 
Did you never hear me say, ' that when there was a right 
or a wrong, she had the riglu?'' — The reason I put these 
questions to you or others of my friends is, because I am 
said, by her and hers, to have resorted to such means of 
exculpation. " Ever very truly yours, " B.' 



LETTER CCXCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ouchy, near Lausanne, June 27, 1816. 
"I am thus far (kept by stress of weather) on my way 
back to Diodati, (near Geneva,) from a voyage in my boat 
round the lake; and I enclose you a sprig of Gibbon^s 
acacia and some rose leaves from his garden, which, with 
part of his house, 1 have just seen. You will find honour- 
able mention, in his Life, made of this ' acacia,' when he 
walked out on the night of concluding his history. The 
garden and summer house, where he composed, are ne- 
glected, and the last utterly decayed ; but they still show it 
as his ' cabinet,' and seem perfectly aware of his memory. 
My route, through Flanders, and by the Rhine, to Swit- 
zerland, was all I expected and more. 

" 1 have traversed all Rousseau's ground, with the Helois© 
before me, and am struck to a degree that I cannot express 
with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the 
beauty of their reality. Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and 
the Chateau de Chillon, are places of which I shall say 
Utde, because all I could say must fall short of the impres- 
sions they stamp. "^ 

" Three days ago, wc were nearly wrecked in a squall 
off* Meillerie, and driven to shore. I ran no risk, being 
so near the roclcs, and a good swimmer ; but our party 
were wet, and incommoded a good deal. The wind was 
strong enough to blow down some trees, as we found at 
landing ; however, all is righted and right, and we are thus 
far on our return. 

"Dr. Polidori is not here, but at Diodati, left behind in 
the hospital with a sprained ankle, which he acquired in 
tumbling from a wall — he can't jump. 

" I shall be glad to hear you are well, and have receive 
for me certain helms and swords, sent from Waterloo,- 
which I rode over with pain and pleasure. 

"I have finished a thiid Canto of Childe Harold, (con- 
sisting of one hundred and seventeen stanzas,) longer than 
either of the two former, and in some parts, it may b^ 
better ; but of course on that 1 cannot determine. I shall 
send it by the first safe-looking opportunity. 

"Ever, Sec." 



LETTER CCC. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Diodati, near Geneva, July 22, 1816. 
"I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and Dr. Polidori 
received your letter; but the packet has not made its 
appearance, nor the epistle, of which you gave notic» 
therein. I enclose you an advertisement,! which was 
copied by Dr. Polidori, and which appears to be about the 
most impudent imposition tliat ever issued from Grub- 
street. I need hardly say that I know nothing of all this 



LETTER CCXCVni. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"March 25, 1816. 
■You are one of the few persons with whom I have Uved 



• See notes to 3d Canto of Childe Hjii-oUl. 

t The following was the advertisement enclosed : 

" Neatly printed and hot-piessed, 2s. 6d. 

" Lord Byron's Farewell to Kngland, with three other poems— Ode to 

St. Helena, to My Daughter on her Birthday, and to the Lily of France. 

" Printed by J. Johnston, Cheapside, S35 ; Oxford, 9. 

" The above beautiful Poems will be read with the most lively interest, 

as it is probable they will be the last of tlie author's that will appear in 

England."— (They were written by a Mr. John Agg.) 



LETTERS, 1816. 



95 



trash, nor whence it may spring, — ^ Odes to St. Helena,' — 
' Farewells to England,' &c. &c.— and if it can be dis- 
avowed, or is worth disavowing, you have full authority to 
do so. 1 never wrote, nor conceived, a line on any thing 
of the kind, any more than of two other things with which 
I was saddled — something about ' G aul,' and another about 
'Mrs. La Valette ;' and as to the 'Lily of France,' I should 
as soon think of celebrating a turnip. 'On the morning of 
my daughter's birth,' I had other things to think of than 
verses ; and should never have dreamed of such an inven- 
tion, till Mr. Johnston and his pamphlet's advertisement 
broke in upon me with a new light on the crafts and subtle- 
ties of the demon of printing, — or rather publishing. 

"I did hope that some succeeding he would have super- 
seded the thousand and one which were accumulated 
during last winter. I can forgive whatever may be said of 
or against me, but not what they make me say or sing for 
myself. It is enough to answer for what I have written ; 
but it were too much for Job himself to bear what one has 
not. I suspect that when the Arab patriarch wished that 
his * enemy had written a book,' he did not anticipate his 
own name on the title-page. I feel quite as much bored 
with this foolery as it deserves, and more than I should be 
if I had not a headach. 

" Of Glenarvon,* Madame de Stael told me (ten days 
ago, at Copet) marvellous and grievous things; but 1 have 
seen nothing of it but the motto, which promises amiably 
"•for us and for our tragedy.' If such be the posy, what 
should the ring be? — ^ a name to all succeeding,'! &c. The 
generous moment selected for the publication is probably 
its kindest accompaniment, and — trutli to say — the time 
was well chosen. I have not even a guess at the contents, 
except from the very vague accounts I have heard. 
****** 
****** 

"I ought to be ashamed of the egotism of this letter. It 
is not my fault altogether, and I shall be but too happy to 
drop the subject, when others will allow me. 

" I am in tolerable plight, and in my last letter told you 
what I had done in the way of all rhyme. 1 trust that you 
prosper, and that your authors are in good condition. I 
should suppose your stud has received some increase by 
what 1 hear. Bertram| must be a good horse ; does he 
run next meeting? I hope you will beat the Row. 

" Yours alway, &c." 



LETTER CCCL 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"Diodati, near Geneva, July 29, 1816. 

" Do you recollect a book, Mathieson's Letters, wliich 
you lent me, which I have still, and yet hope to return to 
your library? Well, I have encountered at Copet and 
elsewhere Gray's correspondent, that same Bonstettcn, to 
whom I lent the translation of his correspondent's epistles 
for a few days ; but all lie could remember of Gray amounts 
to little, except tliat he was the most 'melancholy and 
gentlemanlike' of all possible poets. Bonstettcn himself is 
a fine and very lively old man, and much esteemed by his 
compatriots; he is also a hltdrateur of good repute, and all 
his friends have a mania of addressing to him volumes of 
letters — Mathicson, MuUer the historian, &c. &c. He is 
a good deal at Copet, where I have met him a few times. 
All there are well, except Rocca, who, lam sorry to say, 
looks in a very bad state of health. Schlegel is in high 
force, and Madame as brilliant as ever. 

" I came here by the Netherlands and tlie Rhine route, 
and Basle, Berne, Morat, and Lausanne. I have circum 



navigated the Lake, and go to Chamouni with the first fair 
weather ; but really we have had lately such stupid mists, 
fogs, and perpetual density, that one would think Castle- 
reagh had the Foreign Affairs of the kingdom of Heaven 
also on his hands. I need say nothing to you of these 
parts, you having traversed them already. I do not think 
of Italy before September. I have read Glenarvon, and 
have also seen Ben. Constant's Adolphe, and his preface, 
denying the real people. It is a work which leaves an 

pleasant impression, but very consistent with the conse- 
quences of not being in love, which is perhaps as disagree- 
able as any thing, except being so. 1 doubt, however, 
whether all such liens (as he calls them) terminate so 
wretchedly as his hero and heroine's. 

"There is a third Canto (a longer than either of the 
former) of Childe Harold finished, and some smaller things, 
— among them a story on the Chateau de Chillon; I only 
wait a good opportunity to transmit them to the grand 
Murray, who, I hope, flourishes. Where is Moore ? Why 
is he not out ? My love to him, and my perfect conside- 
ration and remembrances to all, particularly to Lord and 
Lady Holland, and to your Dutchess of Somerset. 

" Ever, &c. 
P. S. I send you a/ac simile^ a note of Bonstetten's, 
thinking you might like to see the hand of Gray's corre- 
spondent." 



• A Novel, by l.ady Caroline Lamb : Lord Byroii, under niiolher name, 
Wat one of its principal characters, 
t The mono l»— 

" He left a nnme to all iucceeding timea, 
Llnk'd with on« virtue and a ihouiand Crimea." 
t Maturln'f Tragedy 



LETTER CCCIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Diodati, Sept.29, 1816. 

" I am very much flattered by Mr. Gifibrd s good opinion 
of the MSS.* and shall be still more so, if it answers youi 
expectations and justifies his kindness. I liked it myselfj 
but that must go for nothing. The feelings with which 
most of it was written need not be envied me. With 
regard to the price, / fixed none, but left it to Mr. Kinnaird, 
Mr. Shelley, and yourself, to arrange. Of course, they 
would do their best ; and as to yourself] I knew you would 
make no difficulties. But I agree with Mr. Kinnaird 
perfectly, that the concluding five hundred should be only 
conditiotial ; and for my own sake, 1 wish it to be added, 
only in case of your selling a certain number, that number 
to be fixed by yourself. I hope this is fair. In every thing 
of this kind there mu.st be risk ; and till that be past, in one 
way or the other, I would not willingly add to it, particularly 
in times like the present. And pray always recollect that 
notliing could mortify me more — no failure on my own part 
— than having made you lose by any purchase from me. 

"The Monodyf was written by request of Mr. Kinnaird 
for the theatre. I did as well as I could ; but where I have 
not my choice, 1 pretend to answer for nothing. Mr. 
Hobhouse and myself are just returned from a journey of 
lalies and mountains. We have been to the Grindelwald, 
and the Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the Wcngcn 
Alp ; and seen torrents of nine iuindred feet in fall, and 
glaciers of all dimensions; we have heard shepherd s pipes, 
and avalanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from 
the valleys below us, like the spray of the ocean of hell.J 
Chamouni, aiid that which it inherits, we saw a month 
ago; but, though Mont Blanc is higher, it is not equal in 
wildncss to the Jungfrau, the Eighers, the Shreckhorn, and 
the Rose Glaciers. 

" We set off for Italy next week. The road is within 
tliis month infested with bandits, but we must take our 
chance and such precautions as are requisite. 

" Ever, &c. 

"P. S. My best remembrances to Mr. Gilford. Pray 
aay all that can bo said from me to him. 

"I am sorry that Mr. Matiirin did not like Phillips 
picture. I thought it was reckoned a good one. If he had 



• CliiMe Harold , M Caiilo. 

t On tlie death of .shcridan, Pocma, p. liO. 

} Km Journal Id SwilscrUuid, Uapt. 9B. 



06 



LETTERS, 1816. 



made die speech on the original, perhaps he would have 
been more readily forgiven by the proprietor and the 
painter of the portrait." + * * 

LETTER CCCIIL 

TO MR. MUHRAY. 

«Diodati;Sept. 30, 1816. 
"I answered your obliging letters yesterday: to-day the 
Monody* arrived with its <i^e-page, which is, I presume, 
a separate publication, ' The request of a friend :' — 

' Obliged by hunger and request of friends.' 
I will request you to expunge that same, unless you please 
to add, 'by a person of quality,' or 'of wit and honour about 
town.' Merely say, 'written to be spoken at Drury-lane.' 
To-morrow I dine at Copet. Saturday I strike tents for 
Italy. This evening, on the lake in my boat with Mr. 
Hobhouse, the pole which sustains the mainsail slipped in 
tacking, and struck me so violently on one of my legs, (the 
tuorst, luckily,) as to make me do a foolish thing, viz. to 
fcdnt — a downright swoon; the thing must have jarred 
some nerve or other, for the bone is not injured, and hardly 
painful, (it is six hours since,) and cost Mr. Hobhouse 
some apprehension and much sprinkling of water to re- 
cover me. The sensation was a very odd one : I never 
had but two such before, once from a cut on the head from 
a stone, several years ago, and once (long ago also) in 
falling into a great wreath of snow; — a sort of gray giddi- 
ness first, then nothingness and a total loss of memory on 
beginning to recover. The last part is not disagreeable, 
if one did not find it again. 

" You want the original MSS. Mr. Davies has the first 
fiur copy in my own hand, aind I have the rough composition 
here, and will send or save it for you, since you wish it. 

•= With regard to your new literary project, if any thing 
falls in the way which will, to the best of my judgment, suit 
you, I will send you what I can. At present I must lay 
by a little, having pretty well exhausted myself Ln what I 
have sent you. Italy or Dalmatia and another summer 
may, or may not, set me off again. I have no plans, and 
am nearly as indifferent what may come as where I go. I 
shall take Felicia Hemans' Restoration, &c. with me ; it 
is a good poem — very. 

"Pray repeat my best thanks and remembrances to Mr. 
Gifford for all his trouble and good-nature towards me. 
< " Do not fancy me laid up, from the beginning of this 
scrawl. I tell you the accident for want of better to say ; 
but it is over, and I am only wondering what the deuce 
was the matter with me. 

"I have lately been over all the Bernese Alps and their 
lakes. I think many of the scenes (some of which were 
not those usually frequented by the English) finer than 
Chamouni, which I visited some time before. I have been 
to Clarcns again, and crossed the mountains behind it: of 
this tour I kept a short joumalf for my sister, which I sent 
yesterday in three letters. It Ls not all for perusal; but if 
you like to hear about the romantic part, she will, I dare 
say, show you what touches upon the rocks, &c. 

"Christabel — I won't have any one sneer at Christabel: 
it is a fine wild poem. 

+ ♦ ♦ * ♦ 

"Madame de Stael wishes to see the Antiquary, and I 
am going to take it to her to-morrow. She has made 
Copct as agreeable as society and talent can make any 
place on earth. "Yours ever, "N." 



LETTER CCCIV. 

TO MR. MtTRH.VV. 

"Diodati, Oct. 5, 1816. 
*♦♦♦♦♦ 

•Save me a copy of 'Buck's Richard III.' republished 

* On lb* death of Sheridan. Sm Letter 299. f See Joamal,p. 244. 



by Lonr-man ; but do not send out more books — I have too 
many. 

" The 'Monody' is in too many paragraphs, which makes 
it unintelligible to me ; if any one else understands it in the 
;ires:ent form, they are wiser; however, as it cannot be 
rectitied till my return, and has been already published, 
even publish it on in the collection — it will fill up the place 
of the omitted epistle. 

" Strike out ' by request of a friend,' which is sad trash, 
and must have been done to make it ridiculous. 

"Be careful in the printing the stanzas beginning, 
' Though the clay of my destiny 's,' &c.* 
which I think well of as a composition. 

"'The Antiquary' is not the best of the three, but much 
above all the last twenty years, saving its elder brothers. 
Holcroft s Memoirs are valuable, as showing the strength 
of endurance in the man, which is worth more than all the 
talent in the world. 

"And so you have been publishing 'Margaret of Anjou' 
and an Assyrian tale, and refusing AV. W.'s Waterloo, and 
the 'Hue and Cry.' I know not which most to admire,, 
your rejections or acceptances. I believe that prose is, 
after all, the most reputable ; for certes, if one could foresee 
— but I won't go on — that is, with this sentence ; but poetry 
is, I fear, incurable. God help me ! if I proceed in this 
scribbling, I shall have flittered away my mind before I am 
thirty ; but it is at times a real relief to me. For the pre- 
sent — good evening." 



LETTER CCCV. 



TO MR. MX7RR.4.y. 



"Martigny, Oct. 9, 1816. 

" Thus far on my way to Italy. We have just passed 
the 'Pisse Vache' (one of the first torrents in Switzerland) 
in time to view the iris which the sun flings along it before 
noon. 

"I have written to you twice lately. Mr. Davies, I 
hear, is arrived. He brings the original MS. which you 
wished to see. Recollect that the printing is to be from 
that which Mr. Shelley brought ; and recollect also, that 
the concluding stanzas of Childe Harold (those to my 
daugliter) which I had not made up my mind whether to 
pubUsh or not when they werejirst written, (as you will see 
marked on the margin of tlie first copy,") I had (and have) 
fully determined to publish with the rest of the Canta as 
in the copy which you received by Mr. Shelley, before I 
sent it to England. 

" Our weather is very fine, which is more than the sum- 
mer has been. — At Milan I shall expect to hear from you. 
Address either to Milan, paste restante, or by way of Ge- 
neva, to the care of Monsr. Hentsch, Banqiiier. I write 
these few lines in case my other letter should not reach 
you ; I trust one of them wiU, 

" P. S. My best respects and regards to Mr. GifTord. 
Will you tell him, it may perhaps be as well to put a short 
note to tliat part relatbg to Clarens^ merely to say, that of 
course the description does not refer to that particular spot 
so much as to tlie command of scenery round it ? I do 
not know that this is necessary, and leave it to Mr. G.'s 
choice, as my editor,— if he will allow me to call him so at 
this distance." 



LETTER CCCVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Milan, Oct. 15, ISI6. 

"I hear that Mr. Davies has arrived in En;;Iand, — but 

that of some letters, &c. committed to his care by Mr. 

Hobhouse, only half have been delivered. This intelligence 

naturally makes me feel a little anxious for mine, and 



• Set Pi>ems,p. igg. 



LETTERS, 1816, 



97 



among them for the MS. which I wished to have compared 
with the one sent by me through the hands of Mr. Shelley. 
I trust that it has arrived safely, — and indeed not less so, 
that some little crystals, &c. from Mont Blanc, for my 
daughter and my nieces, have reached their address. Pray 
have the goodness to ascertain from Mr. Davies that no 
accident (by custom-house or loss) has befallen them, and 
satisfy me on this point at your earliest convenience. 

"If I recollect rightly, you told me that Mr. Gifford had 
kindly undertaken to correct the press (at my request) 
during my absence — at least 1 hope so. It vidll axld to my 
many obligations to that gentleman. 

" I wTote to you, on my way here, a short note, dated 
Martigny. Mr. Hobhouse and myself arrived here a few 
days ago, by the Simplon and Lago Maggiore route. Of 
course we visited the Borromean Islands, which are fine, 
but too artificial. The Simplon is magnificent in its na- 
ture and its art, — both God and man have done wonders, 
— to say nothing of the Devil, who must certainly have 
had a hand (or a hoof) in some of the rocks and ravines 
tlirough and over which the works are carried. 

"Milan is striking — the cathedral superb. The city 
altogether reminds me of Seville, but a little inferior. We 
had heard divers bruits, and took precautions on the road, 
near the frontier, against some 'many worthy fellows (i. e. 
felons) that were out,' and had ransacked some pre- 
ceding travellers, a few weeks ago, near Sesto, — or Cesto, 
I forget which, — of cash and raiment, besides putting tliem 
in bodily fear, and lodging about twenty slugs in the re- 
treating part of a courier belonging to Mr. Hope. But 
we were not molested, and, I do not think, in any danger, 
except of making mistakes in tlie way of cocking and 
priming whenever we saw an old house, or an ill-looking 
thicket, and now and then suspecting the 'true men,' who 
have very much the appearance of the thieves of other 
countries. What the thieves may look like, I know not, 
nor desire to know, for it seems they come upon you in 
bodies of thirty ('in buckram and Kendal green') at a time, 
so that voyagers have no great chance. It is something 
like poor dear Turkey in that respect, but not so good, for 
there you can have as great a body of rogues to match the 
regular banditti ; but here the gens-d'armes are said to be 
no great things, and as for one's own people, one can 't carry 
them about, like Robinson Crusoe, vsith a gun on eacli 
shoulder. 

"I have been to the Ambrosian library — it is a fine 
collection — full of MSS. edited and unedited. I enclose 
you a list of the former recently publislied: these are mat- 
ters for your literati. For me, in my simple way, I have 
been most delighted with a correspondence of letters, all 
original and amatory, between Lucretia Borgia and Car- 
dinal Bembo, preserved there. I have pored over them and 
a lock of her hair, the prettiest and fairest imaginable — I 
never saw fairer — and shall go repeatedly to read the 
epistles over and over \ and if I can obtain some of tiie hair 
by fair means, I shall try. I have already persuaded tlie 
librarian to promise me copies of the letters, and I hope he 
will not disappoint me. They are short, but very simple, 
sweet, and to the purpose ; there are some copies of verses 
in Spanish also by her ; the tress of her hair is long, and as 
I said before, beautiful. The Brcra gallery of paintings 
has some fine pictures, but notliing of a collection. Of 
painting I know nothing; but I like a Guerrino — a picture 
of Abraham [tutting away Hagar and Ishmutl — vvlii<;h 
seems to mc natural and goodly. The Flemisli school, 
such as I saw it in Flanders, I utterly detested, despised, 
and abhorrefl ; it might be painting, but it was not nature; 
the Italian is pleasing, and their ideal very noble. 

** The Italians I have encountered here arc very intelli- 
pent and agreeable. In a few days I am to meet Monti. 
By-the-way, T have just heard an anecdote of l>rcraria, 
who published such admirable things against the piuiish- 
ment of death. As soon as his lMK)k was out, liis servant 
(having read it, I presume,) stolo his watch; and tiis master, 
13 



while correcting the press of a second edition, did all he 
could to have him hanged by way of advertisement. 

"I forgot to mention the triumphal arch begun by Na- 
poleon, as a gate to this city. It is unfinished, but the part 
completed worthy of another age and the same country. 
The society here is very oddly carried on, — at the theatre, 
and the theatre only, — which answers to our opera. People 
meet there as at a rout, but in very small circles. From 
Milan I shall go to Venice. If you write, write to Geneva, 
as before — the letter will be forwarded. "Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCVIL 

TO_MR. MtTRRAT. 

"Milan, Nov. 1,1S18. 

"I have recently written to you rather frequently, but 
without any late answer. Mr. Hobhouse and myself tet 
out for Venice in a few days ; but you had better still ad- 
dress to me at Mr. Hentsch's, Banquier, Geneva; he will 
forward your letters. 

" I do not know whether T mentioned to you, some time 
ago, that I had parted witli the Dr. Polidori a few weeks 
previous to my leaving Diodati. I know no great harm of 
him; but he had an alacrity of getting into scrapes, and was 
too young and heedless ; and ha\Tng enough to attend to in 
my o\vn concerns, and without time to become liis tutor, I 
thought it much better to give him his conge. He arrived 
at Milan some weeks before Mr. Hobhouse and myself. 
About a week ago, in consequence of a quarrel at the 
theatre v.ith an Austrian officer, in which he was exceed- 
ingly in the wrong, he has contrived to get sent out of t]ie 
territory, and is gone to Florence. I was not present, the 
pit having been the scene of altercation ; but on being sent 
for from the Cavalier Breme's box, where I was quietly 
staring at the ballet, I found the man of medicine begirt 
with grenadiers, arrested by the guard, conveyed into the 
guard-room, where there was much swearing in several 
languages. They were going to keep him there for the 
night ; but on my giving my name, and answering for his 
apparition next morning, he was permitted egress. Next 
day he had an order from the government to be gone in 
twenty-four hours, and accordingly gone he is, some days 
ago. We did what we could for him, but to no purpose ; 
and indeed he brought it upon himself, as far as I could 
learn, for I was not present at the squabble itself. I believe 
this is the real state of his case ; and I tell it you because I 
believe things sometimes reach you in England in a false 
or exaggerated form. We found Alilan very polite and 
hospitable, and have the same hopes of Verona and Venice. 
I have filled my paper. "Ever yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCVm. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

« Verona, Nov. 6, 1816. 

"my dear MOORE, 

" Your letter, written before my departure from England, 
and addressed to me in London, only reached me recently. 
Since that j)eriod, I have been over n portion of that part 
of Europe which I had not already seen. About a month 
since, I crossed the Ali)s from Switzerland to Milan, 
which I left a few days ago, and am thus far on my way to 
Venice, where I shall probably winter. Yesterday 1 was 
on the shores of the Beiiacus, with h'lajitictibus dfranitu. 
Catullus's Sirmium has still its name and site, und is re- 
membered for his sake ; but the very heavy antunuial rains 
and mists j)rcvented our quitting our route (llial is, Hob- 
house and myself, who arc at present voyaging logellier,) 
as it was better not to see it at all than to a great disad- 
vantage. 

" I fciuml on the Bcnacus the same tradition of a city 
still visible in calni weather bolow the watei^ which you 
have preserved of Lough Neagh, ' When Uic clear, cold 



98 



LETTERS, 1816. 



eve 's declining.' I do not know that it is authorized by 
records ; but they tell you such a story, and say that the 
city was swallowed up by an earthquake. "VVe moved 
to-day over the frontier to Verona, by a road suspected 
of thieves — ^ the wise convey it call,'— but without molesta 
tion. I shall remain here a day or two to gape at the 
usual marvels — amphitheatre, paintings, and all that time- 
tax of travel — though Catullus, Claudian, and Shakspeare 
have done more for Verona than it ever did for itself. 
They still pretend to show, 1 believe, the ' tomb of all the 
Capulets' — we shall see. 

"Among many things at Milan, one pleased me par- 
ticularly, viz. the correspondence (in the prettiest love- 
letters in the world) of Lucretia Borgia with Cardinal 
Bembo, {who, you say^ made a very good cardinal,) and a 
lock of her hair, and some Spanish verses of hers, — the 
lock very fair and beautiful. I took one single hair of it 
as a relic, and wshed sorely to get a copy of one or two 
of the letters; but it is prohibited : that I don't mind; but 
it was impracticable ; and so I only got some of them by 
heart. They are kept in the Ambrosian Library, which 
I often visited to look them over — to the scandal of the 
librarian, who wanted to enlighten me vdth sundry valuable 
MSS, classical, philosophical, and pious. But 1 stick to 
the Pope's daughter, and wish myself a cardinal. 

* I have seen the finest parts of Switzerland, the Rhine, 
the Rhone, and the S\viss and Italian lakes ; for the beau- 
ties of which I refer you to the Guide-book. The north of 
Italy is tolerably free from the English; but the south 
swarms with them, I am told. Madame de Stael I saw 
frequently at Copet, which she renders remarkably plea- 
sant. She has been particularly kind to me. I was for 
pome months her neighbour, in a country-house called 
Diodati, which I had on the Lake of Geneva. My plans 
are very uncertain ; but it is probable that you will see me 
jn England in tbx spring. I have some business there. 
If you write to me^ will you address to the care of Mons. 
Hentsch, Banquier, Geneva, who receives and forwards my 
letters. Remember me to Rogers, who wrote to me lately, 
with a short account of your poem, which, I trust, is near 
the light. He speaks of it most highly. 

"My health is very endurable, except tliat I am subject 
to casual giddiness and faintnesses, which is so hke a fine 
lady, that I am rather ashamed of the disorder. When I 
sailed, 1 had a physician with me, whom, after some months 
of patience, I found it expedient to part with, before I left 
Geneva some time. On arriving at Milan, I found this 
gentleman in very good society, where he prospered for 
some weeks; but, at length, at the theatre he quarrelled 
with an Austrian officer, and was sent out by the govern- 
ment in twenty-four hours. I was not present at his 
squabble ; but on hearmg that he was put under arrest, I 
went and got him out of his confinement, but could not 
prevent his being sent off, which, indeed, he partly deserved, 
being quite in the wrong, and having begun a row for row's 
sake. I had preceded the Austrian government some 
weeks mysell^ in giving him his conge from Geneva. He 
U not a bad fellow, but very young and hotheaded, and 
more likely to incur diseases than to cure them. Hobhouse 
and myself found it useless to intercede for him. This 
happened some time before we left Milan. He is gone to 
Florence. 

<* At Milan I saw, and was visited by, Monti, the most 
celebrated of the living Italian poets. He seems near 
sixty: in face lie is like the late Cooke the actor. His 
frequent changes in politics have made him very unpo]>ular 
a.s a man. I saw many more of their literati; but none 
whoso names arc well known in England, except Aoerbi. 
I lived much with the Italians, particularly with the IVlar- 
quis of flrame's family, who are very able and intelligent 
men, especially the Abate. There was a famous impro- 
visatore who held forth while I was there. His fluency 
astonished mo; but although I understand Italian, and 
^ak it, (with ilftore re$dines3 thJ^n accuracy,) I could only 



carry off a few very commonplace mythological images^ 
and one line about Artemisia, and another about Algiers, 
with sixty words of an entire tragedy about Etiocles and 
Polynices. Some of the Italians liked him— others called 
his performance ' seccatura' (a devilish good word, by-the- 
way) — and all Milan was in controversy about him. 

" The state of morals in these parts is in some sort lax. 
A mother and son were pointed out at the theatre, as being 
pronounced by the Milanese world to be of the Theban 
dynasty — but this was all. The narrator (one of the first 
men in Milan) sc-emed to be not sufficiently scandalized by 
the taste or the tie. All society in Milan is carried on at 
the opera : they have private boxes, where tliey play at 
cards, or talk, or any thing else ; but (except at the Cas- 
sino) there are no open houses, or balls, &c. &c. * * 
+ + * + *****♦ 

"The peasant girls have all very fine dark eyes, and 
many of them are beautiful. There are also two dead 
bodies in fine preservation — one Saint Carlo Boromeo, at 
Milan ; the other not a saint, but a chie^ named Visconti, 
at Monza — both of which appeared very agreeable. In 
one of the Boromean isles, (the Isola bella,) there is a large 
laurel — the largest known — on which Buonaparte, staying 
there just before the battle of Marengo, carved with his 
knife the word 'Battaglia.' 1 saw the letters, now half 
worn out and partly erased. 

" Excuse this tedious letter. To be tiresome is the pri- 
vilege of old age and absence : I avail myself of the latter, 
and the former I have anticipated. If I do not speak to 
you of my own affairs, it is not from want of confidence, 
but to spare you and myself. My day is over — what then'' 
— I have had it. To be sure, 1 have shortened it;* and if 
I had done as much by this letter, it would have been as 
well. But you will forgive that, if not the other faults of 
"Yours, ever and most affectionately, "B. 
«P. S.Nov. 7, 1816. 

" I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre is won- 
deiful — beats even Greece. Of the truth of Juhet's story, 
they seem tenacious to a degree, insisting on the fact — 
giving a date, (1303,) and showing a tomb. It is a plain, 
open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves 
in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a 
cemetery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation 
sti-uck me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted 
as their love. I have brought away a few pieces of the 
granite, to give to my daughter and my nieces. Of the 
other marvels of this city, paintings, antiquities, &c. except- 
ing the tombs of the Scaliger princes, I have no pretensions 
to judge. The G othic monuments of the ScaUgers pleased 
me, but ' a poor virtuoso am I,' and "Ever yours." 



LETTER CCCIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Venice, Nov. 17, 181& 
" I wrote t& you from Verona the other day in my pro- 
gress hither, which letter I hope you will receive. Some 
three years ago, or it may be more, I recollect your telling 
me that you had received a letter from our friend San^ 
dated 'On board his gondola.' My gondola is, at this- 
present, waiting for me on the canal ; but I prefer writing 
to you in the house, it being autumn — and rather an 
English autumn than otherwise. It is my intention ta 
remain at Venice during the winter, probably, as it has 
always been (next to the East) the greenest island of my 
imagination. It has not disappointed me ; though its evi- 
dent decay would, perhaps, have that effect upon others. 
But I have been familiar with ruins too long to dislike 
desolation. Besides, I have fallen in love, which, next to 
falling into the canal, (which would be of no use, as I can 



• Set Don Juan, Canto I. stanza W3, *e. 



LETTERS, 1816. 



9d 



swinn,) is the best or the worst thing I could do. I have 
got some extremely good apartments in the house of a 
'Merchant of Venice,' who is a good deal occupied with 
business, and has a wife in her twenty-second year. Ma- 
rianna (that is her name) is in her appearance altogether 
like an antelope. She has the large, black, oriental eyes, 
with that peculiar expression in them which is seen rarely 
among Europeans — even the Italians — and which many 
of the Turkish women give themselves by tinging the eye- 
lid, — an art not knovra out of that country, I believe. This 
expression she has naturally, — and something more than 
this. In short, I cannot describe the effect of this kind of 
eye, — at least upon me. Her features are regular, and 
rather aquiline — mouth small — skin clear and soft, with a 
kind of hectic colour — forehead remarkably good: her hair 
is of the dark gloss, curl, and colour of Lady Jersey's : her 
figure is light and pretty, and she is a famous songstress — 
scientifically so: her natural voice (in conversation, I 
mean) is very sweet; and the naivete of the Venetian dia- 
lect is always pleasing in the mouth of a woman, 

« Nov, 23. 
"You will perceive that my description, which was pro- 
ceeding with the minuteness of a passport, has been inter- 
rupted for several days. In the mean time, * * 
****** 
***** * 

"Dec. 5. 
" Since my former dates, I do not know that I have much 
to add on the subject, and, luckily, nothing to take away ; 
for I am more pleased than ever with my Venetian, and 
begin to feel very serious on that point — so much so, that I 
shall be silent. 

***** 

"By way of divertisement, I am studying daily, at an 
Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. I found 
that my mind wanted something craggy to break upon ; and 
this — as the most difficult thing I could discover here for 
an amusement — I have chosen, to torture me into atten- 
tion. It is a rich language, however, and would amply 
repay any one the trouble of learning it. I try, and shall 
go on ; but I answer for nothing, least of all for my intentions 
or my success. There are some very curious MSS. in 
the monastery, as well as books ; translations also from 
Ghreek originals, now lost, and from Persian and Syriac, 
&c. ; besides works of their own people. Four years ago 
the French instituted an Armenian professorship. Twenty 
pupils presented themselves on Monday morning, full of 
noble ardour, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. 
They persevered, with a courage worthy of the nation and 
of universal conquest, till Thursday ; when Jifteen. of the 
twenty succumbed to the six- and- twentieth letter of the 
alphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an alphabet — 
that must be said for them. But it is so like these fellows, 
to do by it as they did by their sovereigns — abandon both ; 
to parody the old rhymes, ' Take a thing and give a thing' 
— ^"Take a King and give a King.' They are the worst 
of animals, except their conquerors. 

" I hear that Hodgson is your neighbour, having a Uving 
in Derbyshire, You will find him an excellent-heartctl 
fellow, as well as one of the cleverest; a Uttle, periiaps, too 
much japanned by preferment in the church and tlie tuition 
of youth, as well as inoculated with the disease of domestic 
felicity, besides being overrun widi fine feelings about 
woman and amstaruy, (that small changt; of Love, which 
people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and 
repay in baser metal ;) but, otherwise, a very worthy man, 
who has lately got a pretty wife, and (I suppose) a child 
by this time. Pray remember mo to him, and say that I 
know not which to envy most — his neighbourhood, him, or 
you. 

"Of Venice I shall say little. You nmsl luud sicn 
many descriptions; and tlioy are most of tlioni like. It is 
a poetical place ; and classical, to uh, from Shakspcarc and 



Otway.* 1 have not yet sinned against it in vefse, nor do 
I know that I shall do so, having been tuneless since I 
crossed the Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the 
' estro.' By-the-way, I suppose you have seen 'Glenarvon.' 
Madame de Stael lent it me to read from Copet last 
autumn. It seems to me, that if the authoress had written 
the truth, and nothing but the truth — the whole truth — the 
romance would not only have been more romantic, but more 
entertaining. As for the likeness, the picture CEui't be good 
— I did not sit long enough. When you have leisure, let 
me hear from and of you, believing me ever and truly yours, 
most affectionately, "B. 

"P. S. Oh! your Poem — is it out? I hope Longman 
has paid his thousands^ but don't you do as Horace Twiss' 
father did, who, having made money by a quarto tour, 
became a vinegar merchant ; when, lo ! his vinegar turned 
sweet (and be d — d to it) and ruined him. My last letter 
to you (from A^'erona) was enclosed to Murray*— have you 
got it 1 Direct to me here, poste restante. There are no 
English here at present. There were several in Switzer- 
land — some women ; but, except Lady Dalrymple Hamil- 
ton, most of them as ugly as virtue — at least, those that I 
saw." 



LETTER CCCX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Venice, Dec. 24, 1816. 

*I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends 
postage — once from Verona — once from Venice, and again 
from Venice — thrice that is. For this you may thank 
yourself, for I heard that you complained of my silence — 
so, here goes for garrulity. 

"I trust that you received my other twain of letters. My 
' way of life' (or ' May of life,' which is it, according to the 
commentators?) — my 'way of life' is fallen into great 
regularity. In the mornings I go over in my gondola t« 
hobble Armenian with the friars of the convent of St. 
Lazarus, and to help one of tliem in correcting the English 
of an English and Armenian grammar which he is publish- 
ing. In the evenings I do one of many nothings— either 
at the theatres, or some of tlie conversaziones, which are 
like our routs, or rather worse, for the women sit in a semi- 
circle by the lady of tlie mansion, and the men stand about 
the room. To be sure, there is one improvement upon ours 
— instead of lemonade with their ices, they hand about stiff 
rum-punch — punch, by my palate; and tliis they think 
English. I would not disabuse them of so agreeable an 
error, — 'no, not for Venice.' 

" Last night I \%'ris at the Count Governor's, which, of 
course, comi)rises the best society, and is very much like 
other gregarious meetings in every country, — as in ours, — 
except that, instead of the bishop of Winchester, you Imvo 
the patriarch of Venice ; and a motley crew of Austrians, 
Germans, noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you sec a 
quiz, you may be sure he is a consul. Oh, by-tlie-way, I 
forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell you tliat at Milan 
I met with a countryman of yours — a Colonel * * * *| a 
very excellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows 
all about Milan, and is, as it were, a native there. He i.s 
particularly civil to strangers, and this is his history, — at 
least, an episode of it. 

" Six-and-twonty years ago Col. * ♦ * *, Uion an ensign, 
being in Italy, fell in love with the Marche.>--a ♦ * ♦ *, and 
she witli liim. The lady must be, at least, tw»>nly years 
his senior. The war broke out ; he returned to Kngiand, 
to serve — not his country, for tlial 's Ireland — but England, 
which is a ditleront thing; and shv — heaven knows what 
she did. In the year 1814, the first annunciation of the 
ilefinitive treaty of peace (and tyranny) was develop«Hl lo 
the astonished Miliuiese by the arrival of Col. ♦ * ♦ * 
whf), Hinging himself full length at the feci of Madame 



Sm ChiUU Hui-olil, Cnnto IV. lUnia 4 "nd 18, 



100 



LETTERS, 1816. 



♦ * * *, murmured forth, in half-forgotten Irish Italian, 
eternal vows of indelible constancy. The lady screamed 
and exclaimed, 'Who are you?' The Colonel cried, 
'What, do n't you know me ? I am so and so,' &c. &;c. &c.; 
till, at length, the Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence 
to reminiscence, through the lovers of the intermediate 
twenty-five years, arrived at last at the recollection of her 
povero sub-lieutenant. She then said, 'Was there ever 
such virtue?' (that was her very word,) and, being now a 
widow, gave him apartments in her palace, reinstated him 
in all the rights of wrong, and held him up to the admiring 
world as a miracle of incontinent fidelity, and the unshaken 
Abdiel of absence. 

"Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of Mar- 
montel's. Here is another. The same lady, several years 
ago, made an escapade widi a Swede, Count Fersen, (the 
same whom the StockhoUn mob quartered and lapidated 
not very long since,) and they arrived at an osteria on the 
road to Rome or thereabouts. It was a summer evening, 
and, while they were at supper, they were suddenly regaled 
by a svmphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment, so 
prettily' played, that, wishing to hear them more distinctly, 
the Count rose, and going into the musical society, said, 
'Gentlemen, I am sure that, as a company of gallant cava- 
liers, you will be delighted to show your skill to a lady, who 
feels anxious,' &c. &c. The men of harmony were all 
acquiescence — every instrument was tuned and toned, and, 
striking up one of their most ambrosial airs, the whole 
band followed the Count to the lady's apartment. At their 
head was the first fiddler, who, bowing and fiddling at the 
same moment, headed his troop and advanced up the room. 
Death and discord 1 — it was the Marquis himself, who was 
on a serenading party in the country, while his spouse had 
run away from town. The rest may be imagined — but, 
first of all, the lady tried to persuade him that she was there 
on purpose to meet him, and had chosen this method for 
an harmonic surprise. So much for this gossip, which 
amused me when I heard it, and I send it to you, in the 
hope it may have the like effect. Now we 'U return to 
Venice. 

" The day after to-morrow (to-morrow being Christmas- 
day) the Carnival begins. I dine with the Countess 
Albrizzi and a party, and go to the opera,* On that day 
the Phenix (not the Insurance Office but the theatre of 
that name) opens: I have got me a box there for the 
season, for two reasons, one of which is, that the music is 
remarkably good. The Contessa Albrizzi, of whom I 
have made mention, is the De Stael of Venice, not young, 
but a very learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very 
polite to strangers, and, I bcheve, not at all dissolute, as 
most of the women are. She has written very well on the 
works of Canova, and also a volume of Characters, besides 
other printed matter. She is of Corfu, but married a dead 
Venetian — that is, dead since he married. 

"My flame (my 'Donna' whom I spoke of in my former 
epistle, my Marianna) is still my Marianna, and I her — 
what she pleases. She is by far the prettiest woman I 
have seen here, and the most loveable I have met with any 
where — as well as one of the most singular. I believe I 
toU you the rise and progress of our liaison in my former 
letter. Lest that should not have reached yon, I will 
merely repeat that she is a Venetian, two-and-twcnty 
years old, married to a merchant well to do in the world, 
and that she has great black oriental eyes, and all the 
quaUties which her eyes promise. Whether being m love 
with her has steeled me or not, I do not know ; but I have 
not seen many other women who seem pretty. The no- 
bility, in particular, are a sad-looking race — the gentry 
rather better. And now, what art thou doing? 

"What are yon doing now, 

Oh, Thoma* Moore? 

What are you doing now, 

Oh, Thonuu Moore? 

• S«e Letter 127. 



Sighitig or suing now, 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billing or cooing now, 
Which, Thomas Moore? 



Are you not near tlie Luddites ? By the Lord ! if there 's 
a row, but I '11 be among ye ! How go on the weavers — 
the breakers of frames — the Lutherans d" politics— the 
reformers ? 



' As the liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
So we, boys, we 
Will die fighting, or live free. 
And down with all kings but king Ludd I 



' When the web that we weave is complete, 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 

We will fling the winding-sheet 

O 'er the despot at our feet. 
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 



" Though black as his heart its hue, 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 

Yet this is the dew 
Which the tree shall renew 
Of liberty, planted by Ludd ! 

There 's an amiable chanson for you — all impromptu. I 
have written it principally to shock your neighbour Hodg- 
son, who is all clergy and loyalty — mirth and innocence-- 
milk and water. 

" But the Carnival 's coming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore, 
The Carnival 's coming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore, 
Masking and humming, 
Fifing and drumming, 
Giiitarring and strumming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore. 

The other night I saw a new play, — and the author. The 
subject was the sacrifice of Isaac. The play succeeded, 
and they called for the author — according to continental 
custom — and he presented himself, a noble Venetian, 
Mali, or Malapiero, by name. Mala was his name, and 
pessima his production, — at least, I tliought so, and I ought 
to know, having read more or less of five hundred Drury- 
lane offerings, during my coadjutorship wdth the sub-and- 
super Committee. 

" When does your Poem of Poems come out ? I hear 
that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Coleridge's Chris- 
tabel, and declared against me for praising it.* I praised 
it, firstly, because I thought well of it ; secondly, because 
Coleridge was in great distress, and, after doing what little 
I could for him in essentials, I thought that the public 
avowal of my good opinion might help him farther, at least 
with the booksellers. 1 am very sorry that Jeffrey has 
attacked him, because, poor feUow, it will hurt him in mind 
and pocket. As for me, he 's welcome — 1 shall never think 
less of Jeffrey for any thing he may say against me or mine 
in future .f 

" I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send (for I do 
not know whether they are out or no,) the poem, or poesies 
of mine, of last summer. By the mass ! they 're sublime — 
'Ganion Coheriza' — gainsay who dares! Pray, let me 
hear from you, and of you, and, at least, let me know that 
you have received these three letters. Direct, right here, 
paste restante. « Ever and ever, &c. 

"P. S. I heard the other day of a pretty trick of a book- 
seller, who has published some d — d nonsense, swearing 
the bastards to me, and saying he gave me five hundred 
guineas for them. He lies — I never wrote such stuf^ never 
saw the poems, nor the publisher of them, in my hfe, nor 
had any communication, directly or indirectly, with the 
fellow. Pray say as much for me, if need be. I have 
written to Murray, to make him contradict the impostor. 



• See Note 6 to the ' Siege of Corinth.' 
t See Don Juan, Canto 10, stanza 16. 



LETTERS, 1816. 



101 



LETTER CCCXL 



TO MR. MUKRAV. 



"Venice, Nov. 25, 1816 

•It is some months since I have heard from or of you — 
I think, not since I left Diodati. From Milan I wrote 
once or twice ; but have been here some little time, and 
intend to pass the winter without removing. I was much 
pleased with the Lago di Garda, and with Verona, par- 
ticularly the amphitheatre, and a sarcophagus in a convent 
garden, which they show as Juliet's: they insist on the truth 
of her history. Since my arrival at Venice, the lady of 
the Austrian governor told me that between Verona and 
Vicenza there are still ruins of the castle of the Montecchi, 
and a chapel once appertaining to the Capulets. Romeo 
seems to have been of Vicenza, by the tradition ; but 1 was 
a good deal surprised to find so firm a faith in Bandello's 
novel, which seems really to have been founded on a fact. 

"Venice pleases me as much as I expected, and 1 
expected much. It is one of those places which I know 
before I see tliem, and has always haunted me the most 
after the East. I like the gloomy gayety of their gondolas, 
and the silence of their canals. I do not even dislike the 
evident decay of the city, though I regret the singularity of 
its vanished costume : however, there is much left still ; the 
Carnival, lOO, is coming. 

"St. Mark's, and indeed Venice, is most alive at night. 
The theatres are not open till nine, and the society is pro- 
portionably late. All this is to my taste, but most of your 
countrymen miss and regret the rattle of hackney coaches, 
without which they can 't sleep. 

"I have got remarkably good apartments in a private 
house ; I see something of the inhabitants, (having had a 
good many letters to some of them ;) I have got my gon- 
dola; I read a little, and luckily could speak Italian (more 
fluently than correctly) long ago. I am studying, out of 
curiosity, the Venetian dialect, which is very naVve, and 
soft, and peculiar, though not at all classical; I go out fre- 
quently, and am in very good contentment. 

" The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house 
of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I know,) is, 
without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful 
of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human 
execution. 

' In this beloved marble view,' &c.* 

Talking of the ' heart' reminds me that I have fallen in love, 
which, except falling into the canal, (and that would be 
useless, as I swim,) is the best (or worst) thing I could do. 
I am therefore in love — fathomless love; but lest you 
should make some splendid mistake, and envy me the 
possession of some of those princesses or countesses with 
whose affections your English voyagers are apt to invest 
themselves, I beg leave to tell you that my goddess is only 
the wife of a ' Merchant of Venice ;' but then she is pretty 
as an antelope, is but two-and-twenty years old, has the 
large, black, oriental eyes, with the Italian countenance, 
and dark glossy hair, of the curl and colour of Lady Jer- 
sey's. Then she has the voice of a lute, and the song of a 
seraph, (though not quite so sacred,) besides a long post- 
script of graces, virtues, and accomplishments, enough to 
furnish out a new chapter for Solomon's Song. But her 
great merit is finding out mine — there is nothing so amiable 
as discernment. Our little arrangement is completed, the 
usual oaths having been taken, and every thing fullilkd 
according to the 'understood relations' of such liaisons. 

" The general race of women appear to be handsome ; 
but in Italy, as on aJmost all the continent, the highest 
orders are by no means a well-looking generation, and 
indeed reckoned by tiicir countrymen very much otherwise. 
Some are exceptions, but most of them as ugly as Virtue 
herself. 



'SMFoenw, p. 484. 



" If you write, address to me here, paste restanie, as 1 
shall probably stay the vvmter over. I never see a news- 
paper, and know nothing of England, except in a letter 
now and then from my sister. Of the MS. sent you, I 
know nothing, except that you have received it, and are to 
publish it, &c. &c.; but when, where, and how, you leave 
me to guess ; but it do n't much matter. 

"I suppose you have a world of works passing through 
your process for next year ? When does Moore's Poem 
appear ? I sent a letter for him, addressed to your care, 
the other day." 



LETTER CCCXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Dec. 4, 1816. 

" I have written to you so frequently of late, that you 
will think me a bore ; as I think you a very impolite person 
for not answering my letters from Switzerland, Milan, 
Verona, and Venice. There are some things I wanted, 
and want to know; viz. whether Mr. Davies, of inaccurate 
memory, had or had not delivered the MS. as delivered to 
him ; because, if he has not, you will find that he will boun- 
tifully bestow transcriptions on all the curious of his ac- 
quaintance, in which case you may probably find your 
publication anticipated by the 'Cambridge,' or other 
Chronicles. In the next place — I forget what was next; 
but, in the third place, I want to hear whether you have 
yet published, or when you mean to do so, or why you have 
not done so, because in your last (Sept. 20, — you may be 
ashamed of the date,) you talked of this being done imme- 
diately. 

"From England I hear nothing, and know nothing of 
any thing or any body. I have but one correspondent, 
(except Mr. Kinnaird on business now and tlien,) and her 
a female ; so that I know no more of your island, or city, 
than the Italian version of the French papers chooses to 
tell me, or the advertisements of Mr. Colburn tagged to 
the end of your Quarterly Review for the year ago. I 
wrote to you at some length last week, and have httle to 
add, except that I have begun, and am proceeding in, a 
study of the Armenian language, which I acquire, as well 
as I can, at the Armenian convent, where I go every day 
to take lessons of a learned friar, and have gained some 
singular and not useless hiformation with regard to the 
literature and customs of that oriental people. They have 
an establishment here — a church and convent of ninety 
monks, very learned and accomplished men, some of tlicm. 
They have also a press, and make great efforts for tlio 
enlightening of their nation. I find the language (which 
is twin, the literal and the vulgar) difficult, but not in- 
vincible (at least, I hope not.) I shall go on. I found it 
necessary to twist my niind round some severe study, and 
this, as being the hardest I could devise here, will be a file 
for the serpent. 

" I mean to remain here till the spring, so address to me 
(Uredli/ to Vonce, paste rcstaiiic. — Mr. Hobhouse, for the 
present, is gone to Rome, with his brother, brother's wife, 
and sister, who overtook him lierc; he returns in two 
months. I should have gone too, but I fell in love, and 
must stay that over. I should think that and the Armenian 
alphabet will last the winter. The lady has, luckily for mo, 
been less obdurate than the lan<;uage, or, bet« een the two, 
I should have lost my remains of sanity. By-the-way, 
she is not an Armenian but a Venetian, as I believe 1 told 
you in my last. As for Italian, I am tlueiit enough, even 
in its Venetian modilicaUon, which is something like Uie 
Somersetshire version of Knulish; ami as for the more 
classical ilialeot.«;, I liad not forgv)t my former practiiie niuclt 
during my voyaging. " Yours, ever and truly, 

«B. 

"P. S. Remember mo to Mr. Giflonl." 



102 



LETTERS, ml. 



LETTER CCCXm. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Dec. 9, 1816. 

"In a letter from England, I am informed that a man 
named Johnson has taken upon himself to publish some 
poems called a ' Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, a Tempest, and 
an Address to my Daughter,' &c. and to attribute them to 
me, adding that he had paid five hundred gul.:eas for them. 
The answer to this is short ; / 7iever wrote such poems, never 
received the sum he Tnentions, nor any other in the same 
quarter, nor (as far as moral or mortal certainty can be 
sure,) ever had, directly or indirectly, the sligliiest communi- 
cation with Johnson in my life; not being aware that the 
person existed till this intelligence gave me to understand 
that there were such people. Nothing surprises me, or 
this perhaps would, and most things amuse me, or this 
probably would not. With regard to myself, the man has 
merely /«;(/,• that's natural — his betters have set him the 
example : but with regard to you, his assertion may per- 
haps injure you in your publications ; and I desire that it 
may receive the most public and unqualified contradiction. 
I do not know that there is any punishment for a thing of 
this kind, and if there were, I should not feel disposed to 
pursue this ingenious mountebank farther than was ne- 
cessary for his confutation ; but tlius far it may be neces- 
sary to proceed. 

• You will make what use you please of this letter ; and 
Mr. Kinnaird, who has power to act for me in my absence, 
will, I am sure, readily join you in any steps which it may 
be proper to take with regard to the absurd falsehood of 
this poor creature. As you will have recently received 
several letters from me on my way to Venice, as well as 
two written since my arrival, I wall not at present trouble 
you farther. " Ever, &c. 

"P. S. Pray let me hear that you have received this 
letter. Address to Venice, poste restanie. 

" To prevent the recurrence of similar fabrications, you 
may state, that I consider myself responsible for no i)ub- 
lication from the year 1812 up to the present date, which 
is not from your press. I speak of course from that period, 
because, previously, Cawthom and Ridge had both printed 
compositions of mine. ' A Pilgrimage to Jerusalem 1' how 
the devil should I write about Jerusalem, never having yet 
been there? As for 'A Tempest,' it was not a tempest 
when I left England, but a very fresh breeze : and as to an 
'Address to little Ada,' (who, by-the-way, is a year old to- 
morrow,) I never wrote a line about her, except in ' Fare- 
well,' and the third Canto of Childe Harold." 



LETTER CCCXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Dec. 27, 1816. 

"As the demon of silence seems to have possessed you, 
I am determined to have my revenge in postage : this is 
my sixth or seventh letter since summer and Switzerland. 
My last was an injunction to contradict and consign to 
confusion that Cheapside impostor, who (I heard by a 
letter from your island) had thought proper to append my 
name to liis spurious poesy, of which I know nothing, nor 
of his pretended purchase or copyright. I hope you have, 
at least, received that letter. 

" As the news of Venice must be very interesting to you, 
I will regale you with it. 

••Yesterday, being the feast of St. Stephen, every mouth 
was put in motion. There was nothing but fiddling and 
playing on the virginals, and all kinds of conceits and diver- 
tisements, on every canal of this aquatic city. I dined with 
the Countess Albrizza and a Paduan and Venetian party, 
and afterward went to the opera, at the Fenice theatre 
(which op«ns for the Carnival on that day,) — the finest, 
by-the-way, I have ever seen : it beats our theatres hollow 
in beauty and scenery, and those of Milan and Brescia 



bow before it. The opera and its sirens were much Uke 
other operas and women, but the subject of the said opera 
was something edifying ; it turned — the plot and conduct 
thereof— upon a fact narrated by Livy of a hundred and 
fifty married ladies having poisoned a hundred and fifty 
husbands in good old times. The bachelors of Rome be- 
lieved this extraordinary mortality to be merely the com- 
mon effect of matrimony or a pestilence ; but the surviving 
Benedicts, being all seized with the colic, examined into 
the matter, and found that ' their possets had been drugged ;' 
die consequence of which was, much scandal and several 
suits at law. This is really and truly the subject of the 
musical piece at the Fenice ; and you can't conceive what 
pretty things are sung and recitativoed about the horrenda 
strage. The conclusion was a lady's head about to be 
chopped off by a lictor, but (I am sorry to say) he left it 
on, and she got up and sung a trio with the two Consuls, 
the Senate in the back ground being chorus. The ballet 
was distinguished by nothing remarkable, except that the 
principal she-dancer went into convulsions because she 
was not applauded on her first appearance ; and the mana- 
ger came forward to ask if there was ' ever a physician in 
the theatre.' There was a Greek one in my box, whom I 
wished very much to volunteer his services, being sure that 
in this case these would have been the last convulsions 
which would have troubled the ballarina ; but he would 
not. The crowd was enormous, and in coming out, having 
a lady under my arm, I was obliged, in making way, almost 
to ' beat a Venetian, and traduce the state,' being com- 
pelled to regale a person with an English punch in the 
guts, which sent him as far back as the squeeze and the 
passage would admit. He did not ask for another, but, 
with great signs of disapprobation and dismay, appealed 
to his compatriots, who laughed at him. 

" I am going on with my Armenian studies in a morning, 
and assisting and stimulating in the English portion of an 
English and Armenian grammar, now publishing at the 
convent of St. Lazarus. 

" The superior of the friars is a bishop, and a fine old 
fellow, with the beard of a meteor. Father Paschal is 
also a learned and pious soul. He was two years in 
England, 

"I am still dreadfully in love with the Adriatic lady 
whom I spake of in a former letter (and not in this — I add, 
for fear of mistakes, for the only one mentioned in the first 
part of this epistle is elderly and bookish, two things which 
I have ceased to admire,) and love in this part of the 
world is no sinecure. This is also the season when every 
body make up their intrigues for the ensuing year, and cut 
for partners for the next deal. 

"And now, if you do 'nt write, I do'nt know what I won't 
say or do, nor what I will. Send me some news — good 
news. 

" Yours, very truly, &c. &c. &c. « B. 

« P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford, with all duty. 

• I hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Cole- 
ridge's Christabel, and me for praising it, which omen, I 
think, bodes no great good to your forthcome or coming 
Canto and Castle (of Chillon.) My run of luck within the 
last year seems to have taken a turn every way ; but never 
mind, I will bring myself through in the end — if not, I can 
be but where I began. In the mean time, I am not dis- 
pleased to be where I am — I mean at Venice. My Adri- 
atic nymph is this moment here, and I must therefore re- 
pose from this letter." 



LETTER CCCXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Jan. 2, 1817. 
« Your letter has arrived. Pray, in publishing the Third 
Canto, have you omitted any passages? I hope not ; and 
indeed wrote to you on my way over the Alps to prevent 
such an incident. Say in your next whether or not the 
whole of tlie Canto (as sent to you) has been published. I 



LETTERS, 1817. 



103 



wrote to you again the other day {t>mce, I think,) and shall 
be glad to hear of the reception of those letters. 

" To-day is the 2d of January. On this day three years 
ago the Corsair's publication is dated, I think, in my letter 
to Moore. On this day two years I married (' Whom the 
Lord loveth he chasteneth,' — I sha'n't forget the day in a 
hurry,) and it is odd enough that I this day received a 
letter from you announcing the publication ofChilde Harold, 
&c. &c. on the day of the date of the ' Corsair ;' and I also 
received one from my sister, written on the 10th of Decem- 
ber, my daughter's birth-day (and relative chiefly to my 
daughter,) and arriving on the day of the date of my mar- 
riage, this present 2d of January, the month of my birth, — 
and various other astrologous matters, which I have no 
time to enumerate. 

" By-the-way, you might as well write to Hentsch, my 
Geneva banker, and inquire whether the two packets con- 
signed to his care were or were not delivered to Mr. St. 
Aubyn, or if they are still m his keeping. One contains 
papers, letters, and all the original MS.* of your Tliird 
Canto, as first conceived ; and the other some bones from 
the field of Morat. Many thanks for your news, and the 
good spirits in which your letter is written. 

" Venice and I aoree very well ; but I do not know that 
I have any thing new to say except of the last new opera, 
which I sent in my late letter. The Carnival is commenc- 
ing, and there is a good deal of fun here and there — 
besides business; for all the world are making up their 
intrigues for the season, changing, or going on upon a re- 
newed lease. I am very well off with Marianna, who is 
not at all a person to tire me ; firstly, because I do not 
tire of a woindin personally^ but because they are generally 
bores in their disposition; and, secondly, because she is 
amiable, and has a tact which is not always the portion of 
the fair creation; and, thirdly, she is very pretty; and, 
fourthly, — but there is no occasion for farther specification. 
+ * * Sofar we have gone on very well; 
as to the future, I never anticipate, — carpe diem — the past 
at least is one's own, which is one reason for making sure 
of the present. So much for my proper liaison. 

"The general state of morals here is much the same as 
in the Doges' time: a woman is virtuous (according to 
the code) who hmits herself to her husband and one lover; 
tliose who have two, three, or nxore, are a little wild ; but 
it is only those who are indiscriminately diffuse, and form 
a low connexion, such as the Princess of Wales with her 
courier (who, by-the-way, is made a knight of Malta,) 
who are considered as overstepping the modesty of mar- 
riage. In Venice, the nobility have a trick of marrying with 
dancers and singers; and, truth to say, the women of 
their own order are by no means handsome ; but the gene- 
ral race, the women of the second and other orders, the 
wives of the merchants, and proprietors, and untitled gen- 
try, are mostly beV sangiie, and it is with these that the 
more amatory connexions are usually formed. There are 
also instances of stupendous constancy. I knew a woman 
of fifty who never had but one lover, who dying early, she 
became devout, renouncing all but her husband. She 
piques herself, as may be presumed, upon this miraculous 
fidelity, talking of it occasionally with a species of mis- 
placed morality, which is rather amusing. There is no 
convincing a woman here that she is in the smallest degree 
deviating from the rule of right or the fitness of things in 
having an amoroso. The great sin seems to lie in concealing 
it, or having more than one, that is, unless such an exten- 
sion of the prerogative is understood and approved of by 
the prior claimant. In my case, I do not know that I had 
any predecessor, and am pretty sure that there is no par- 
ticipator ; and am inclined to think, from the youth of the 
party, and from the frarik, undisguised way in which every 
body avows every thing in this part of the world, when 
there is any tiling to avow, as well as from some other 



circumstances, such as the marriage being recent, &c. &c. 
&c., that this is the premier pas. It does not much signify. 

" In another sheet, I send you some sheets of a grammar, 
EngUsh and Armenian, for the use of the Armenians, of 
which I promoted, and indeed induced, the pubhcation. 
(It cost me but a thousand francs — French livres.) I still 
pursue my lessons in the language without any rapid pro- 
gress, but advancing a little daily. Padre Paschal, with 
some little help from me, as translator of his Italian into 
English, is also proceeding in a MS. Grammar for the 
English acquisition of Armenian, which will be printed also, 
when finished. 

" We want to know if there are any Armenian types 
and letter-press in England, at Oxford, Cambridge, or else- 
where ? You know, I suppose, that, many years ago, the 
two Whistons published in England an original text of a 
history of Armenia, with their own Latin translation ? Do 
those types still exist ? and where ? Pray inquire among 
your learned acquaintance. 

" When this Grammar (I mean the one now printing) 
is done, will you have any objection to take forty or fifty 
copies, which will not cost in all above five or ten guineas, 
and try the curiosity of the learned with a sale of them ? 
Say yes or no, as you like. I can assure you that they 
have some very curious books and MSS., chiefly transla- 
tions from Greek originals now lost. They are, besides, 
a much-respected and learned community, and the study 
of their language was taken up with great ardour by some 
literary Frenchmen in Buonaparte's time. 

"I have not done a stitch of poetry since I left Switzer- 
land, and have not at present the estro upon me. The 
truth is, that you are afraid of having a Fourth Canto he- 
fore September, and of another copyright, but I have at 
present no thoughts of resuming that poem, nor of begin- 
ning any other. If I write, I think of trying prose, but I 
dread introducing living people, or applications which might 
be made to living people. Perhaps one day or other I may 
attempt some work of fancy in prose descriptive of Italian 
manners and of human passions; but at present I am pre- 
occupied. As for poesy, mine is the dream of the sleeping 
passions; when they are awake, I cannot speak their lan- 
guage, only in their somnambulism, and just now they are 
not dormant. 

"If Mr. Gifford wants carte blanche as to the Siege of 
Corinth, he has it, and may do as he likes with it. 

" I sent you a letter contradictory of the Cheapside man 
(who invented the story you speak of) the other day. My 
best respects to Mr. Gifford, and such of my friends as 
you may see at your house. I wish you all prosperity 
and new year's gratulation, and am, 

" Yours, &c." 



• S«t Chllde Harold, Cunto Third, Stania 63, and aote. 



LETTER CCCXV 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice,.Tan. 28, 1817. 
"Your letter of the 8th is before me. The remedy for 
your plethora is simple — abstinence. I was obliged to have 
recourse to the like sonie years ago, I mean in point ofdiel, 
and, with the exception of some convivial weeks and days 
(it might be months now and then,) have kept to Pytha- 
goras ever since. For all this, let me hear tliat you are 
better. You must not imlulge in ' filthy beer,' nor in porter, 
nor eat suppers — the last are the devil to those who swal- 
low dinner. 

***** 

" I am truly sorry to hear of your fathor's misfortun«" — 
cruel at any time, but doubly cruel in advanced life. However, 
you will, at least, have the satisfaction o( doing your piirt 
by him, and, depend upon it, it will not bo in vain. Fivrtunr, 
to be sure, Ls a female, but not such a b— h ivs the rest 
(always excepting your wile aiul my sister from such 
sweepnig terms;) for she generally has some justiro in the 
long run. I have no spite agaiiisl her though, between 



104 



LETTERS, 1811 



her and Nemesis, I have had some sore gauntlets to run- 
but then I have done my best to deserve no better. But 
to ymL, she is a good deal in arrear, and she will come 
round— mind if she do n't: you have the vigour of life, of 
independence, of talent, spirit, and character, all with you. 
What you can do for yourselfj you have done and will do ; 
and surely there are some others in the world who would 
not be sorry to be of use, if you would allow them to be 
useful, or at least attempt it. 

« I think of being in England in the spring. If there is 
a row, by the sceptre of King Ludd, but I 'II be one ; and 
if there is none, and only a continuance of 'this meek, 
piping time of peace,' I will take a cottage a hundred yards 
to the south of your abode, and become your neighbour ; 
and we will compose such canticles, and hold such dia- 
logues, as shall be the terror of the times, (including the 
newspaper of that name,) and the wonder, and honour, and 
praise of the Morning Chronicle and posterity. 

" I rejoice to hear of your forthcoming in February — 
though I tremble for the magnificence which you attribute 
to the new Childe Harold. I am glad you like it ; it is a 
fine, indistinct piece of poetical desolation, and my favour- 
ite. I was half mad during the time of its composition, 
between metaphysics, mountains, lakes, love unextinguish- 
able, thoughts unutterable, and the nightmare of my own 
delinquencies. I should, many a good day, have blown my 
brains out, but for the recoHection that it would ha,v-e gi\ tn 
pleasure to my mother-in-law ; and, even then, if I could 
have been certain to haunt her, and fling the shattered 
scalp of my sinciput and occiput in her frightful face — but 
I won't dwell upon these trifling family matters. 

* Venice is in the estro of her Carnival, and I have been 
up these last two nights at the ridotto and the opera, and 
all that kind of thing. Now for an adventure. A few 
days ago a gondolier brought me a billet without a sub- 
scription, intimating a wish on the part of the writer to 
meet me either in gondola, or at the island of San Lazaro, 
or at a third rendezvous indicated in the note. 'I know 
the country's disposition well,' — in Venice 'they do let 
heaven see those tricks they dare not show,' &c. &c. ; so, 
for all response, I said tliat neither of the three places 
suited me ; but that I would either be at home at ten at 
night cdane, or be at the ridotto at midnight, where the 
writer might meet me masked. At ten o'clock I was at 
home and alone, (Marianna was gone with her husband to 
a conversazione,) when the door of my apartment opened, 
and in walked a well-looking and (for an Italian) bionda 
girl of about nineteen, who informed me that she was mar- 
ried to the brother of my amoroso, and wished to have some 
conversation with me. I made a decent reply, and we 
had some talk in Italian and Romaic, (her mother being a 
Greek of Corfu;) when, lo ! ma very few minutes in 
marches, to my very great astonishment, Marianna S * *, 
m propria persona, and, after making a most polite curtsey 
to her sister-in-law and to mc, without a single word, seizes 
her SEud sister-in-law by the hair, and bestows upon her 
some swtcen slaps, which would have made your ear ache 
only to hear their echo. I need not describe the screaming 
which ensued. The luckless visiter took flight. I seized 
Marianna, who, after several vain efforts to get away in 
pursuit of the enemy, fairly went into fits in my arms ; and, 
in spite of reasoning, eau dc Cologne, vinegar, half a pint 
of water, and God knows what other water besides, con- 
tinued so fill past midnight. 

"After damning my servants for letting people in without 
apprizing mc, I found that Marianna in the morning had 
seen her sister-in-law's gondolier on tlie stairs ; and, sus- 
pecting that his apparition boded her no good, had either 
returned of her own accord, or been followed by her maids 
or some other spy of her peo[)le to the conversazione, from 
whence she returned to perpetrate this piece of pugilism. 
I had seen fits before, and also some small scenery of the 
same genus in and out of our island ; but this was not all. 
After about an hour, m comes — who ? why, Signer S * *, 



her lord and husband, and finds me with his wife fainting 
upon a sofa, and all the apparatus of confusion, dishevelled 
hair, hats, handkerchiefs, salts, smelling bottles — and the 
lady as pale as ashes, without sense or motion. His first 
question was, 'What is all this ?' The lady could not reply 
— so I did. I told him the explanation was the easiest 
thing in the world ; but in the mean time, it would be as 
well to recover his wife — at least her senses. This came 
about in due time of suspiration and respiration. 

"You need not be alarmed — jealousy is not the order of 
the day in Venice, and daggers are out of fashion, while 
duels, on love matters, are unknown— at least, with the 
husbands. But, for all this, it was an awkward affair; and 
though he must have known that I made love to Marianna, 
yet I believe he was not, till that evening, aware of the 
extent to which it had gone. It is very well known that 
almost all the married women have a lover ; but it is usual 
to keep up the forms, as in other nations. I did not, there- 
fore, know what the devil to say. I could not out with the 
truth, out of regard to her, and I did not choose to lie for 
my sake ; — besides, the tMng told itself. I thought the best 
way would be to let her explain it as she chose, (a woman 
being never at a loss — the Devil always sticks by them) — 
only determining to protect and carry her of^ in case of 
any ferocity on the part of the Signor. 1 saw that he was 
quite calm. She went to bed, and next day — how they 
settled if, I know not, but settle it they did. Well — then 
I had to explain to Marianna about tliis never to be suffi- 
ciently confounded sister-in-law ; which I did by swearing 
innocence, eternal constancy, &c. &c. * * * 
********* 
But the sister-in-law, very much discomposed with being 
treated in such wise, has (not having her own shame 
before her eyes,) told the affair to half Venice, and the 
servants (who were summoned by the fight and the faint- 
ing,) to the other half. But here, nobody minds such trifles, 
except to be amused by them. I do n't know whether you 
will be so, but I have scrawled a long letter out of these 
follies. "Believe me ever, &C.'' 



I 



LETTER CCCXVIT. 



TO MR. MTTRRAV. 



"Venice, Jan. 24,1817. 

****** 

"I have been requested by the Countess Albrizzi hero 
to present her with 'the Works :' and wish you therefore 
to send me a copy, that I may comply with her requisition. 
You may include the last published, of wliich I have seen 
and know nothbg, but from your letter of the I3th of 
December. 

"Mrs. Leigh tells me that most of her friends prefer the 
first two Cantos. I do not know whether this be the 
general opinion or not, (it is not tiers ;) but it is natural it 
should be so. I, however, think differently, which is na- 
tural also; but who is right, or who is wrong, is of very 
little consequence. 

"Dr. Polidori, as I hear from him by letter from Pisa, is 
about to return to England, to go to the Brazils on a 
medical speculation with the Danish consul. As you are 
in the favour of the powers that be, could you not get liim 
some letters of recommendation from some of your go- 
vernment friends to some of the Portuguese settlers ? he 
understands his profession well, and has no want of general 
talents ; his faults are tlie faults of a pardonable vanity and 
youth. His remaining with me was out of the question : I 
have enough to do to manage my own scrapes ; and as 
precepts without example are not the most gracious homi- 
lies, I thought it better to give him his conge : but I know 
no great harm of him, and some good. He is clever and 
accomplished; knows his profession, by all accounts, well; 
and is honourable in his dealings, and not at all malevolent. 
I tliink, with luck, he will turn out a useful member of 



LETTERS, 1817. 



loa 



society, (from which he will lop the diseased members,) and 
the College of Physicians. If you can be of any use to 
him, or know any one who can, pray be so, as he has his 
fortune to make. He has kept a medical journal under the 
eye of Vacca, (the first surgeon on the continent) at Pisa: 
Vacca has corrected it, and it must contain some valuable 
hints or information on the practice of this country. If you 
can aid him in publishing this also, by your influence with 
your brethren, do; I do not ask you to pubhsh it yourself, 
because that sort of request is too personal and embarrass- 
ing. He has also a tragedy, of which, having seen nothing, 
I say nothing : but the very circumstance of his having 
made these efforts (if they are only efforts,) at one-and- 
twenty, is in his favour, and proves him to have good 
dispositions for his own improvement. So if, in the way 
of commendation or recommendation, you can aid his 
objects with your government friends, I wish you would. 
I should think some of your Admiralty Board might be 
likely to have it in their power." 



LETTER CCC XVIII. 

ro MR. MURRAY. 

«Venice,Feb. 15, 1817. 

" I have received your two letters, but not the parcel you 
mention. As the Waterloo spoils are arrived, I will make 
you a present of them, if you choose to accept of tliem ; 
pray do. 

"1 do not exactly understand from your letter what has 
been omitted, or what not, in the publication ; but I shall 
see probably some day or other. I could not attribute any 
but a good motive to Mr. Gifford or yourself in such omis- 
sion ; but as our poUtics are so very opposite, we should 
probably differ as to the passages. However, if it is only 
a note or notes, or a line or so, it cannot signify. You say 
' a poem ,-' wJiat poem ? You can tell me in your next. 

"Of Mr. Hobhouse's quarrel with the Q,uarterly Review, 
I know very little except * *'s article itself, which was 
certainly harsh enough: but I quite agree that it would 
have been better not to answer — particularly after Mr. 
IV. W. who never more wiU trouble you, trouble you. I 
have been uneasy, because Mr. H. told me that his letter 
or preface was to be addressed to me. Now, he and 1 are 
friends of many years ; I have many obligations to him, and 
he none to me, v/hich have not been cancelled and more 
than repaid: but Mr. Gifford and I are friends also, and 
he has moreover been literally so, through thick and thin, 
in despite of difference of years, morals, habits, and even 
politics ; and therefore T feel in a very awkward situation 
between the two, Mr. Gifford and my friend Hobhouse, and 
can only wish that they had no difference, or that such as 
they have were accommodated. The Answer I have not 
seen, for — it is odd enough for people so intimate — but Mr. 
Hobhouse and I are very sparing of our literary confi- 
dences. For example, tlie other day he wished to have a 
MS. of the Third Canto to read over to his brother, &c. 
which was refused ; — and I have never seen his journals, 
nor he mine — (I only kept the short one of tho n)Ountains 
for my sister) — nor do I think diat hardly ever he or I saw 
any of the other's productions previous to their publication. 

"The article in the Edinburgh Review on Coleridge I 
have not seen; but whether I am attacked in it or not, or 
in any other of the same journal, I shall never think ill of 
Mr. Jeffrey on that account, nor forget that his conduct 
towards me has been certainly most handsome during the 
last four or more years. 

" I forgot to mention to you that a kind of poem in dia- 
logue* (in blank verse) or dram;i, from which 'The In- 
cantation' is aft extract, begun last summer in Switzerland, 
is finished; it is in three acts; but of a very wild, meta- 
physical, and inexplicable kind. Almost all tlie persons — 



Manfred. 

14 



but two or three — are Spirits of the earth and air, or the 
waters ; the scene is in the Alps ; the hero a kind of ma- 
gician, who is tormented by a species of remorse, the cause 
of which is left half unexplained. He wanders about 
invoicing tliese Spirits, which appear to him, and are of no 
use ; he at last goes to the very abode of the Evil Principle, 
in propria persona, to evocate a ghost, which appears, and 
gives him an ambiguous and disagreeable answer ; and in 
the third act he is found by his attendants dying in a tower 
where he had studied his art. You may perceive by tliis 
outline that I have no great opinion of this piece of phan- 
tasy ; but I have at least rendered it quite impossible for the 
stage, for which my intercourse with Drury-lane has given 
me the greatest contempt. 

"I have not even copied it off, and feel too lazy at present 
to attempt the whole ; but when I have, I will send it you, 
and you may either throw it into the fire or not." 



LETTER CCCXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Feb. 25, 1817. 

" I wrote to you the other day in answer to your letter ; 
at present, I would trouble you with a commission, if you 
would be kind enough to undertake it. 

"You perhaps know Mr. Love, the jeweller, of Old 
Bond-street. — In 1813, when in the intention of returning 
to Turkey, I purchased of him, and paid {argent comptant) 
about a dozen snuff-boxes, of more or less value, as presents 
for some of my Mussulman acquaintance. These I have 
now with me. The other day, having occasion to make 
an alteration in the lid of one (to place a portrait in it,) it 
has turned out to be silver-gilt instead of gold, for which 
last it was sold and paid for. This was discovered by the 
workman in trying it, before taking off the hinges and work- 
ing upon the lid. I have of course recalled and preserved 
the box m statu quo. What I wish you to do is, to see the 
said Mr. Love, and inform him of this circumstance, add- 
ing, from me, that I will take care he shall not have done 
this with impunity. 

" If there is no remedy in law, there is at least the equit- 
able one of making known his guilt, — that is, his silver gill, 
and be d — d to him. 

"I shall carefully preserve all the purchases I made of 
him on that occasion for my return, as the plague m Tur- 
key is a barrier to travelling there at present, or rather the 
endless quarantine which would be the consequence before 
one could land in coming back. Pray state the matter to 
him with due ferocity. 

"I sent you the other day some extracts from a kind of 
Drama which 1 had begun in Switzerland and finished 
here ; you will tell me if they are received. They were 
onlyin a letter. I have not yet had energy to copy it out, 
or I would send you the whole in dillerent covers. 

" The carnival closed tliis day last week. 

"Mr. Hobhouse is still at Rome, I believe. I am at 
present a little unwell ; — sitting up too late and some sub- 
sidiary dissipations have lowered my blocxl a goo<l deal ; 
but 1 have at present the quiet and temperance of Lent 
before me. " Believe me, &c.". 

"P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford. — I have not re- 
ceived your parcel or parcels. — Look into 'Moore's (Dr. 
Moore's) View of Italy" for me ; in one of tl\e volumes you 
will finil an account of {\w''l)og.' Valicrc (it ought to bo 
Fulieri) and his conspiracy, or tJie motives of it. Get it 
transcribed for me, and send it in a letter to mo soon. I 
want it, and caqnot find so good an account of that business 
hero ; (Jiough the veiled patriot, and the place where he was 
crowned, and ufierward decapitated, htill exist, and are 
shown. 1 have searched all their histories ; but llie |)olicy 
of the old aristocracy made their writers silent on hw n«o- 
tives, which wore a private gri«'vanco against one of iho 
patricians. 



106 



LETTERS, 1817. 



« I mean to write a tragedy on the subject, which ap- 
pears to me very dramatic : an old man, jealous, and con- 
Bpiring against the state, of which he was the actually 
reigning chief. The last circumstance makes it the most 
remarkable and only fact of the kind in all history of all 
nations." 



LETTER CCCXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice, Feb. 28, 1817. 

"You will, perhaps, complain as much of the frequency 
of my letters now, as you were wont to do of their rarity. 
I tliink this is the fourth within as many moons. I feel 
anxious to hear from, you, even more than usual, because 
your last mdicated that you were unwell. At present, I 
am on the invalid regimen myself. The CarnivaJ — tliat is, 
the latter part of it — and sitting up late o' nights, had knocked 
me up a little. But it is over, — and it is now Lent, with 
all its abstinence and sacred music. 

* The mumming closed with a masked ball at the Fenice, 
where I went, as also to most of the ridottas, &c. &c. ; and, 
though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I find 
* the sword wearuig out the scabbard,' though I have but 
just turned tlie comer of twenty-nine. 

" So we '11 go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 
For the sword outwears its sheath, 

And the soul wears out the breast, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 

And love itself have rest. 
Though the night was made for lortng, 

And the day returns too soon, 
Yet we '11 go no more a roving 

By the light of the moon. 

I have lately had some news of litteraioor, as I heard the 
editor of the Monthly pronounce it once upon a time. I 
heard that W. W. has been publishing and responding to 
the attacks of the duarterly, in the learned Perry's Chro- 
nicle. I read his poesies last autumn, and, among them, 
found an epitaph on his buU-dog, and another on myself. 
But I beg leave to assure him (like the astrologer Partridge) 
that I am not only alive now, but was alive also at the time 
he wrote it. * + + * 

* * ♦ * + 

Hobhouse has (I hear, also) expectorated a letter against 
the Quarterly, addressed to me. I feel awkwardly situated 
between him and Giffbrd, both being my friends. 

"And this is your month of going to press — by the body 
of Diana ! (a Venetian oath,) I feel as anxious — but not 
fearful for you — as if it were myself coming out in a work 
of humour, which would, you know, be the antipodes of all 
my i)revious publications. I do n't think you have any thing 
to dre;ul but your own reputation. You must keep up to 
that. As you never showed me a line of your work, I do 
not even know your measure ; but you must send me a 
copy by Murray forthwith, and then you shall hear what 
I think. I dare say you are in a pucker. Of all authors, 
you arc the only really modest one I ever met with, which 
would soimd oddly enough to those who recollect your 
morals when you were young — that is, when you were 
extremely young — I do n't mean to stigmatize you either 
with years or morality. "" 

" I believe I told you that the Edinburgh Review had 
attacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have not seen 
it) — '£■< tu, Jeffrey ?' — 'there is nothing btt roguery in vil- 
lanous man.' — But I absolve him of all attacks, present and 
future; for I think he had already pushed his clemency in 
my behoof to the utmost, and I shall always think well of 
him. I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domestic 
destruction was a fine opening for all the world, of which 
all, who could, did well to avail themselves. 



" If I live ten years longer, you will see, however, that it 
is not over with me — I do n't mean in literature, for that is 
nothinff ; and it may seem odd enough to say, I do not 
think it my vocation. But you will see that I shall do 
something or other — the times and fortune permitting — 
that ' like the cosmogony, or creation of the world, will puz- 
zle the philosophers of ail ages.' But I doubt whether my 
constitution will hold out. I have, at intervals, exorcised it 
most devilishly. 

"I have not yet fixed a time of return, but I think of the 
spring. 1 shall have been away a year in April next. You 
never mention Rogers, nor Hodgson, your clerical neigh- 
bour, who has lately got a living near you. Has he also 
got a cliild yet? — his desideratum when I saw him last. 
****** 

" Pray let me hear from you, at your time al^d leisure, 
believing me ever and truly and affectionately, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, March 3, 1817. 

"In acknowledging the arrival of the article from the 
' Q,uarterly,'* which I received two days ago, I cannot ex- 
press myself better than in the words of my sister Augusta, 
who (speaking of it) says, that it is written in a spirit ' of 
tlie most feeling and kind nature.' It is. however, some- 
tliing more : it seems to me (as far as tlie subject of it may 
be permitted to judge) to be very well written as a compo- 
sition, and I think will do the journal no discredit, because 
even those who condemn its partiality must praise its 
generosity. The temptations to take another and a less 
favourable view of the question have been so great and 
numerous, that, what with public opinion, politics, &c. he 
must be a gallant as well as a good man, who has ventured 
in that place, and at this time, to write such an article even 
anonymously. Such things are, however, their own reward, 
and I even flatter myself that the writer, whoever he may 
be, (and I have no guess,) will not regret that the perusal 
of this has given me as much gratification as any compo- 
sition of that nature could give, and more than any other 
hois given, — and I have had a good many in my time of 
one kind or the other. It is not the mere praise, but there 
is a tact and a delicacy throughout, not only with regard to 
me, but to others^ which, as it had not been observed else- 
where, 1 had till now doubted whether it could be observed 
any wJwre. 

" Perhaps some day or other you will know or tell me 
the writer's name. Be assured, had the article been a 
harsh one, I should not have asked it. 

" I have lately written to you frequently, with extracts, 
&c. which I hope you have received, or will receive, with 
or before this letter. — Ever since the conclusion of the 
Carnival I have been unwell, (do not mention this, on any 
account, to Mrs. Leigh : for if I grow worse, she will know 
it too soon, and if I get better, there is no occasion that 
she should know it at all,) and have hardly stirred out of 
the house. However, I do n't want a physician, and if I 
did, very lucidly those of Italy are the worst in the world, 
so that I should still have a chance. They have, I believe, 
one famous surgeon, Vacca, who lives at Pisa, who might 
be useful in case of dissection : — but he is some hundred 
miles off. My malady is a sort of lo«ish fever, oriirinating 
from what my ' pastor and master,' Jackson, would caU 
'taking too much out of one's self.' However, I am better 
within this day or two. 

" I missed seeing the new Patriarch's procession to St. 
Mark's the other day, (owing to my indisposition,) with 
six hundred and fifty priests m his rear — a ' goodly army.' 
The admirable government of Vienna, in its edict from 



* An article in number 31 of this Review, written, as Lord Byron aAer- 
watd discovered, by Sir Walter Scott. 



LETTERS, 1817. 



107 



thence, autliorizing his installation, prescribed, as part of 
the pageant, ' a coach and four horses.' To show how very 
' German to the matter' this was, you have only to suppose 
our parliament commanding the Archbishop of Canterbury 
to proceed from Hyde Park Comer to St. Paul's Cathe- 
dral in the Lord Mayor's barge, or the Margate hoy. 
There is but St. Mark's Place in all Venice broad enough 
for a carriage to move, and it is paved with large smooth 
flag stones, so that the chariot and horses of Elijah himself 
would be puzzled to manoeuvre upon it. Those of Pharaoh 
might do better; for the canals, — and particularly the 
Grand Canal, are sufficiently capacious and extensive for 
his whole host. Of course, no coach could be attempted ; 
but the Veneljans who are very naive as well as arch, were 
much amused with the ordinance. 

" The Armenian Grammar is published ; but my Arme- 
nian studies are suspended for the present till my head 
aches a little less. I sent you the other day, in two covers, 
the First Act of ' Manfred,' a drama as mad as Nat. Lee's 
Bedlam tragedy, which was in 23 acts and some odd 
scenes : — mine is but in Three Acts. 

" I find I have begun this letter at the wrong end : never 
mind ; I must end it, then, at the right. 

" Yours ever very truly 

" and obligedly, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, March 9, 1817. 

"In remitting the Third Act* of the sort of dramatic 
poem of which you ynR by this time have received the first 
two, (at least I hope so,) which were sent witliin the last 
three weeks, I have little to observe, except that you must 
not publish it (if it ever is published) without giving me pre- 
vious notice. I have really and truly no notion whether it 
is good or bad ; and as this was not the case with the prin- 
cipal of my former publications, I ani, therefore, inclined to 
rank it very humbly. You will submit it to Mr. Gifl:brd, 
and to whomsoever you please besides. With regard to 
the (juestion of copyright, (if it ever comes to publication,) 
I do not know whether you would think three hwidred 
giiineas an over-estimate; if you do, you may diminish it; 
I do not think it worth more ; so you may see I make some 
dilfurcnce between it and the others, 

" I have received your two Reviews, (but not the ' Tales 
of My Landlord ;') the Quarterly I acknowledged particu- 
larly to you, on its arrival, ten days ago. What you tell 
nie of Perry petrifies me ; it is a rank imposition. In or 
.ibout February or March, 1816, 1 was given to understand 
that Mr. Croker was not only a coadjutor in the attacks 
of the Courier in 1814, but the author of some lines tole- 
rably ferocious, then recently published in a morning paper. 
Upon this I wrote a reprisal. The whole of the lines I 
have forgotten, and even the purport of them I scarcely 
remember; for on your assuring me that he was not, &c. 
&c. 1 put them into the Jire before your face, and there 
never was but that one rough copy. Mr. Davies, the only 
person who ever heard them read, wanted a copy, which I 
refused. If, however, by some impossibilily, which I cannot 
divine, the ghost of these rhymes should walk into (he 
world, I never will deny what I have really written, but 
hold myself personally responsible for satisfaction, though 1 
reserve to myself the right of disavowing all or any f(J>ri- 
cations. To the previous facts you are a witness, and best 
know how far my recapitulation is correct ; and I re(|Uost 
that you will inform Mr. Perry from inc, that 1 wonder lie 
should permit such an abuse of my name in his paper; I 
say an obtuse, because my absence, at least, demands some 
respect, and my presence and positive sanction could alone 
justify him in such a proceeding, oven were the lines mine ; 



See Poenn, p. ■170. 



and if false, there are no words for him. I repeat to you 
that the original was burnt before you on your assurance, 

and there never was a copy, nor even a verbal repetition, 

very much to the discomfort of some zealous Whigs, who 
bored me for them (having heard it bruited by Mr. Davies 
that there were such matters) to no purpose; for, having 
written them solely with the notion that Mr. Croker was 
the aggressor, and for my own and not party reprisals, I 
would not lend me to the zeal of any sect when I w as made 
aware that he was not the writer of the offensive passages. 
You know, if there was such a thing, I would not deny it. 
I mentioned it openly at the time to you, and you will 
remember why and where I destroyed it ; and no power 
nor wheedling on earth should have made, or could make 
me, (if 1 recollected them,) give a copy after that, unless I 
was well assured that Mr. Croker was really the author of 
that which you assured me he was not, 

"I intend for England this spring, where I have some 
affairs to adjust ; but the post hurries me. For this month 
past I have been unwell, but am getting better, and thinking 
of moving homewards towards May, without going to 
Rome, as the unhealthy season comes on soon, and 1 can 
return when I have settled the business I go upon, which 
need not be long. * * * * I should have thought the Assy- 
rian tales very succeedable. 

"I saw, in Mr. W. W.'s poetry, that he had written my 
epitaph ; I would rather have written his. 

" The thing I have sent you, you will see at a glimpse, 
could never be attempted or thought of for the stage ; I 
much doubt it for publication even. It is too much in my 
old style ; but I composed it actually with a horror of the 
stage, and with a view to render the thought of it imprac- 
ticable, knowing the zeal of my friends that I should try 
that for which I have an invincible repugnance, viz. a re- 
presentation. 

"I certainly am a devil of a mannerist, and must leave 
off; but what could I do? Without exertion of some kind, 
I should have sunk under my imagination and reality, INIy 
best respects to Mr. Gifford, to Walter Scott, and to all 
friends. "Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCXXIIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice, Ma-ch 10, 1817. 

"I wrote again to you lately, but I hope you won't be 
sorry to have another epistle. I have been unwell this last 
montli, with a kind of slow and low fever, which fixes upon 
me at night, and goes off in the morning ; but, however, I 
am now better. In spring it is probable we may meet ; at 
least I intend for England, where I have business, and 
hope to meet you in your restored health and additional 
laurels. 

"Murray has sent me the Q,uarterly and the Edinburgh. 
When I tell you that Walter Scott is the author of the 
article in the former, you will agree with me that such an 
article is still more honourable to him than to myself, 1 
am peifectly plcaseil with .Jeffrey's also, which 1 wish you 
to tell him, with my remembrances — not tliat 1 suppose it 
is of any consec|ucnce to him, or ever could have been, 
whether I am pleased or not, — but simply in my ])rivate 
relation to him, as his well-wisher, and it may be one day 
as his ae(|uaintance. I wish you would alsi» add, — >vliat 
you know, — that I was not, and, indeed, am not even iiotit, 
the misanthropical ami gloomy gentleman he takes me for, 
but a facetious companion, well to do with those with 
whom 1 am intimate, and ns KH]uacious aiid luugliing as if 
I were a mucif cleverer fellow. 

"I suppose now I shall never be able to shako off my 
sables in public imagination, more particularly since my 
moral * * clove down my fume. However, nor that, nor 
more than that, has yet <vvlinguislied my spnit, which 
always rises with Uio rebound. 



108 



LETTERS, 1817. 



" At Venice we are in Lent, and I have not lately moved 
out of doors, — my feverishness requiring quiet, and — by 
way of being more quiet — here is the Signora Marianna 
just come in and seated at my elbow. 

"Have you seen * * *'s book of poesy ? and, if you have 
seen it, are you not delighted with it? And have you— I 
really cannot go on. There is a pair of great black eyes 
looking over my shoulder, like the angel leaning over St. 
Matthew's, in tJie old frontispieces to the Evangelists,— so 
that I must tuj-n and answer them instead of you. 

"Ever &c." 



LETTER CCCXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Venice, March 25, 1817. 

"I have at last learned, in default of your ovm ^vriting, 
(or not writing — which should it be? for 1 am not very 
clear as to the application of the word default^) from Mur- 
ray, two particulars of (are belonging to) you ; one, that 
you are removing to Hornsey, which is, I presume, to be 
nearer London; and the other, that your Poem is an- 
nounced by the name of Lalla Rookh. I am glad of it, — 
first, that we are to have it at last, and next, I like a tough 
title myself— witness the Giaour and Childe Harold, which 
choked half the Blues at starting. Besides, it is the tail of 
Alcibiades's dog, — not that I suppose you want either dog 
or tail. Talking of tail, I wish you had not called it a 
^Persian Tale J Say a 'Poem' or 'Romance,' but not 'Tale.' 
I am very sorry that I called some of my own things 
•Tales,' because I think that they are something better. 
Besides, we have had Arabian, and Hindoo, and Turldsh, 
and Assyrian Tales. But after all, this is frivolous in me; 
you won't, however, mind my nonsense. 

"ReaUy and truly, I want you to make a great hit, if 
only out of self-love, because we happen to be old cronies ; 
and I have no doubt you will — I am sure you can. But 
you are, I '11 be sworn, in a devil of a pucker ; and / am vat 
at your elbow, and Rogers is. I envy him ; which is not 
fair, because he does not envy any body. Mind you send 
to me — that is, make Murray send — the moment you are 
forth. 

" I have been very ill with a slow fever, which at last 
took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at 
length, after a week of half-delirium, burning skin, thirst, 
hot headacli, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing 
of barley water, and refusing to see any physician, I reco- 
vered. It is an epidemic of the place, which is annual, and 
visits strangers. Here follow some versicles, which I made 
one sleepless night. 

««I read the ' Christabel;' 

Very well : 
I read the ' Missionary ;' 

Pretty — very : 
I tried at ' Ilderim ;' 

Ahem! 
I read a sheet of Marg'ret ot Anjouj* 

Can you ? 
I turn'd a page of * *'« Waterloo ;' 

Pooh ! Pooh I 
I looked at Wordsworth's milkwhlte ' Rylstone Doe ;' 

Hillo I 
I read ' Glenarvon' too, by * * * *, 

Godd— nl" 

♦ * + *** 

+ + + + ** 

'1 have not the least idea where I am going, nor what I 
am to do. I wished to have gone to Rome ; but at present 
it is pestilent with English, — a parcel of staring boobies, 
who go about gaping and wishing to be at once cheap and 
magnificent. A man is a fool who travels now m France 
or Italy, till this tribe of wretches is swept home again. 
In two or three years ihe first rush will be over, and the 
Continent will be roomy and agreeable, 

"I stayed at Venice cliiefly because it is not one of their 



'dens of thieves;' and here they but pause and pass. In 
Switzerland it was really noxious. Luckily, I was early, 
and had got the prettiest place on all the Lake before they 
were quickened into motion with the rest of reptiles. But 
they crossed me every where. I met a family of children 
and old women half way up the Wengen Alp (by the 
Jungfrau) upon mules, some of them too old and others too 
young to be the least aware of what they saw. 

"By-the-way, I think the Jungfrau, and all that region 
of Alps, which I traversed in September — going to the 
very top of the Wengen, which is not the highest, (the 
Jimgfrau itself is inaccessible,) but the best point of view — 
much finer than Mont Blanc and Chamouni, or the Sim- 
plon. I kept a journal of the whole for my sister Augusta, 
part of which she copied and let Murray see. 

"1 wi-ote a sort of mad Drama, for the sake of intro- 
ducing the Alpine scenery in description ; and this I sent 
lately to Murray. Almost all the dram. pers. are spirits, 
ghosts, or magicians, and the scene is in the Alps and the 
other world ; so you may suppose what a bedlam tragedy - 
it must be: malie him show it you. I sent him all three 
acts piecemeal, by the post, and suppose they have arrived. 

" I have now written to you at least six letters, or letter- 
ed, and all I have received in return is a note about the 
length you used to write from Bury-street to St. James's- 
street, when we used to dine with Rogers, and teilk laxly 
and go to parties, and hear poor Sheridan now and then. 
Do you remember one night he was so tipsy that I was 
forced to put his cocked hat on for him, — for he could not, 
— and I let him down at Brookes's, much as he must since 
have been let down into his grave. Heigh ho ! I wish I 
was drunk — but I have nothing but this d — d barley water 
before me. 

"I am still in love. — which is a dreadful drawback in 
quitting a place, and 1 can't stay at Venice much longer. 
What I shall do on this point I do n't know. The girl 
means to go with me, but I do not like this for her own 
sake. I have had so many conflicts in my own mind on 
tliis subject, that I am not at all sure they did not help me 
to the fever I mentioned above. I am certainly very much 
attached to her, and I have cause to be so, if you knew all. 
But she has a child; and though, like all the 'children of 
the sun,' she consults noticing but pEission, it is necessary I 
should think for both; and it is only the virtuous, like 
* * * *, who can afford to give up husband and child, and 
live happy ever after. 

" The Italian ethics are the most singular ever met with. 
The perversion, not only of action, but of reasoning, is sin- 
gular in the women. It is not that they do not consider 
the thing itself as wrong, and very wrong, but love (the 
sentiment of love) is not merely an excuse for it, but maiies 
it an actual virtue, provided it is disinterested, and not a 
caprice, and is confined to one object. They have awful 
notions of constancy ; for I have seen some ancient figures 
of eighty pointed out as amorosi of forty, fifty, and sixty 
years' standing. I can't say I have ever seen a husband 
and wife so coupled. " Ever, &c. 

"P. S. Marianna, to whom I have just translated what 
I have written on our subject to you, says — ' If you loved 
me thoroughly, you would not make so many fine reflections, 
which are only good forbirsi i scarpi,' — that is, ' to clean 
shoes withal,' — a Venetian proverb of appreciation, which 
is applicable to reasoning of all kinds." 



LETTER CCCXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, March 25, 1817. 
"Your letter and enclosure are safe; but 'English gen- 
tlemen' are very rare — at least in Venice. I doubt whether 
there are at present any save the consul and vice-consul, 
with neither of whom I have the slightest acquaintance. 
The moment I can pounce upon a witness, I will send the 



LETTERS, 1817. 



109 



deed properly signed : but must he necessarily be genteel ? 
Venice is not a place where the English are gregarious ; 
their pigeon-houses are Florence, Naples, Rome, &c. ; 
and to tell you the truth, this was one reason why I stayed 
here till the season of the purgation of Rome from these 
people, which is infected with them at this time, should ar- 
rive. Besides, I abhor the nation and the nation me ; it is 
impossible for me to describe my ovm sensation on that 
point, but it may suffice to say, that, if I met with any of 
the race in the beautiful parts of Switzerland, the most 
distant glimpse or aspect of them poisoned the whole 
scene, and I do not choose to have the Pantheon, and St 
Peter's, and the Capitol, spoiled for me too. This feeling 
may be probably owing to recent events ; but it does not 
exist the less, and while it exists, I shall conceal it as little 
as any other. 

" I have been seriously ill with a fever, but it is gone. I 
believe or suppose it was the indigenous fever of the place, 
which comes every year at this time, and of which the 
physicians change the name annually, to despatch the peo- 
ple sooner. It is a kind of typhus, and kills occasionally. It 
was pretty smart, but nothing particular, and has left me 
some debility and a great appetite. There are a good 
many ill at present, I suppose of the same. 

"I feel sorry for Horner, if tliere was any thing in the 
world to make him like it ; and still more sorry for his 
friends, as there was much to make them regret him. I 
had not heard of his death till by your letter. 

" Some weeks ago I wrote to you my acknowledgments 
of Walter Scott's article. Now I know it to be his, it caa- 
not add to my good opinion of him, but it adds to that of 
myself. He^ and Gifford, and Moore are the only regulars 
I ever knew who had nothing of the garrison about their 
manner: no nonsense, nor affectations, look you ! i\s for 
the rest whom I have known, there was always more or 
less of the author about them — the pen peeping from be- 
hind the ear, and the thumbs a little inky or so. 

"'Lalla Rookh' — you must recollect that in the way of 
title, the ' Giaour'' has never been pronounced to this day ; 
and both it and Childe Harold sounded very facetious to 
the bluc-botdes of wit and humour about town, tiU they 
were taught and startled into a proper deportment; and 
therefore Lalla Rookh, which is very orthodox and oriental, 
is as good a tide as need be, if not better. I could wish 
rather that he had not called it ' a Persian Tale ;' firstly, 
because we have had Turkish Tales, and Hindoo Talcs, 
and Assyrian Tales already ; and tule is a word of which 
it repents me to have nicknamed poesy. 'Fable' would 
be better ; and, secondly, ' Persian Tale' reminds one of 
the lines of Pope on Ambrose Phillips ; though no one can 
say, to be sure, that this tale has been ' turned for half-a- 
crown ;' still it is as well to avoid such clashings. 'Persian 
Story^ — why not? — or Romance? I feel as anxious for 
Moore as I could do for myself] for the soul of me, and I 
would not have him succeed otherwise than splendidly, 
which I trust he will do. 

" With regard to the 'Witch Drama,' I sent all tlie three 
acts by post, week after week, within this last month. I 
repeat that I have not an idea if it is good or bad. If bad, 
it must, on no account, be risked in publication ; if good, it 
is at your service. I value it at iJiree hundred guineas, or 
less, if you like it. Perhaps, if published, tlie best way will 
be to add it to your winter volume, and not publish sepa- 
rately. The price will show you I don't \>U[\\q, myself upon 
it ; so speak out. You may put it in the fire, if you like, and 
Gifford do n't like. 

"The Armenian Grammar is published — that is, one; 
the other is still in MS. My illness has prevented nic 
from moving this month past, and I have done nothing 
more with the Armenian. 

"Of Italian or rather Loml)anl manners, I could tell you 
little or nothing: 1 went two or three times to the governor's 
convcrsa/iiino, (and if you go once, you are free to go 
always,) at which, aa I only saw very plain women, a 



formal circle, in short, a worst sort of rout, I did not go again 
I went to Academic and to Madame Albrizzi's, whore I 
saw pretty much the same thing, with the addition of some 

literati, who are the same blue^* by , all the world over. 

I fell in love the first week with Madame * +, and I have 
continued so ever since, because she is very pretty and 
pleasing, and tdks Venetian, which amuses me, and is 
naive. I have seen all their spectacles and sights ; but I 
do not know any thing very worthy of observation, except 
that the women hiss better than those of any other nation, 
which is notorious, and attributed to the worship of images, 
and the early habit of osculation induced thereby. 

"Very truly, &c. 
"P. S. Pray send the red tooth-powder by a safe hand, 
and speedily. 

+ + =f: * * *| 

" To hook (he reader, you, John Murray, 

Have jjublished ' Anjou's Margaret,' 
Which won't be sold off in a hurry," 

(At least, it has not been as yet ;) 
And then, still farther to bewilder 'em, 
Without remorse you set up ' Ilderim ;' 

So mind you do u't get into debt, 
Because as how, if you should fail, 
These books would be but baddish bail. 

" And mind you do not let escape 

These rhymes to Mornijig Post or Perry, 
Which would he very treacherous — veiy, 
And get me into such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should have to sally, 
All in my little boat, against a Galley ;% 
And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight. 
Have next to combat with the female knight, 
And, prick'd to death, expire upon her needle — 
A sort of end which I should take indeed iU 1 

"You may show these matters to Moore and the sekd^ 
but not to the profane; and tell Moore, that I wonder he 
do n't write to one now and then." 



LETTER CCCXXVL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice, March 31, 1817. 

"You will begin to think my epistolary offerings (to 
whatever altar you please to devote them) rather prodigal. 
But until you answer I shall not abate, because you deserve 
no better. I know you are well, because 1 hear of your 
voyaging to London and the environs, which I rejoice to 
learn, because your note alarmed me by the purgation and 
phlebotomy therein prognosticated. I also hear of your 
being in the press; all which, methinks, might have furnished 
you wilh subject matter for a middle-sized letter, consider- 
ing that I am in foreign parts, and that the last montli's 
advertisements and obituary would be absolute news to nie 
from your Tramontane coimtry. 

"I told you, in my last, I have had a smart fever. There 
is an epidemic in the place; but I suspect, from the symp- 
toms, that mine was a fever of my own, and had nothing 
in common with the low, vulgar typhus, which is at this 
moment decimating Venice, and which has half-un|)eopled 
Milan, if the accounts be true. This malatly has sorely 
discomfited my serving men, who want saiily to be gone 
away, and get mo to remove. But, besides my natural 
|)ervei-sity, 1 was seasoned in Turkey, by the continual 
whispers of (he plague, against apprehcnsitms of contagion. 
Besides which, apprelunsiou would nt)t prevent it: and 
then 1 am still in love, and 'forty thousand' fevers should 
not make me stir before my minute, while muler the in- 
rtuenco of tlmt paramount delirium. Seriously speaking, 



• Whenever a word or pnminKC nccu™, (n* hi Ihii in«tnuc«,> which l.orJ 
I'yn'ti wuuld huve pronounced eniphitlicnily in upenkinK. It »p|>«'nia, til 
hi« liundwiiliiig, ua if written wilh lumrlhliif uf lh« laiite vthf uiciir«.— 
Moore. 

t Hfic follow tlie inmo rhymrn f " I rend the ChriitRbrl," *c.) wlikk 
have nlrriidy l>een s;iven In i«'neof hn lellim In mVMlf.— A/»Hir«, 

; Mr. Uall«y KuikIii, tlu author of " lldei iin.''^ 



no 



LETTERS, 1817. 



there is a malady rife in the city — a dangerous one, they 
say. However, mine did not appear so, though it was not 
pleasant. 

" This is passion-week— 'and twilight — and all the world 
are at vespers. They have an eternal churching, as in all 
Catholic countries, but are not so bigoted as they seemed 
to be in Spain. 

"I do n't know whether to be glad or sorry tliat you are 
leaving Mayfield. Had I ever been at Newstead during 
your stay there, (except during the winter of 1813-14, when 
the roads were impracticable,) we should have been within 
hail, and I should like to have made a giro of the Peak with 
you. I know that country well, having been all over it 
when a boy. Was you ever in Dovedale ? I can assure 
you there are things in Derbysliire as noble as Greece or 
Switzerland. But yoji had aJways a lingering after Lon- 
don, and I do n't wonder at it. I liked it as well as any 
body, myself now and dien. 

" Will you remember me to Rogers ? whom I presume 
to be flourishing, and whom I regard as our poetical papa. 
You are his lawful son, and I the illegitimate. Has he 
begun yet upon Sheridan ? If you see our republican 
friend, Leigh Hunt, pray present my remembrances. I 
saw about nine months ago that he was in a row (like my 
friend Hobhouse,) with the (Quarterly Reviewers. For my 
part I never could understand tlaese quarrels of authors vrith 
critics and with one another. 'For God's sake, gentlemen, 
what do they mean?' 

" What think you of your countryman, Matunn ? I take 
some credit to myself for having done my best to bring out 
Bertram; but I must say my colleagues were quite as 
ready and willing. Walter Scott, however, was the Jirst 
who mentioned him, which he did to me, with great com- 
mendation, in 1815; and it is to this casualty, and two or 
three other accidents, that this very clever fellow owed his 
first and well-merited public success. What a chance is 
fame! 

"Did I tell you that I have translated two Epistles? — a 
correspondence between St. Paul and the Corinthians, not 
to be found in our version, but the Armenian — but which 
seems to me very orthodox, and I have done it into scrip- 
tural prose English.* " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXVH. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Venice, AprU 2, 1817. 

"I sent you the whole of the Drama at three several times, 
act by act, in separate covers. I hope that you have, or 
will receive, some or the whole of it. 

" So Love has a conscience.! By Diana ! I shall make 
him take back die box, though it were Pandora's. The 
discovery of its intrinsic silver occurred on sending it to 
have the lid adapted to admit Marianna's portrait. Of 
course I had the box remitted in statu qiio, and had the 
picture set in another, which suits it (the picture) very 
well. The defaulting box is not touched, hardly, and was 
not in the man's hands above an hour. 

" I am aware of what you say of Otway ; and am a very 
great admirer of his, — all except of that maudlin b — h of 
chaste lewdness and blubbering curiosity, Belvidcra, whom 
1 1 utterly despise, abhor, and detest. But the story of 
Marino Faliero is different, and, I think, so much finer, tliat 
I wish Otway had taken it instead : the head conspiring 
against the b(x]y for refusal of redress fjr a real injury, — 
jealousy, — treason, — with the more fixed and uivetcrate 
passions (mixed with policy,) of an old or elderly njan — 
the Devil liimself could not have a finer subject, and he is 
your only tragic dramatist. ***** 

"There is still, in the Doge's palace, the black veil 
painted over Faliero's picture, and tlie staircase whereon 



See p. 399. 



t See Letter 316, to Mr. Murray. 



I 



he was first crowned Doge, and subsequentiy decapitated.* 
This was the thing that most struck my imagination in 
Venice — more than the Rialto, which I visited for the sake ■ 
of Shylock; and more, too, than Schiller's 'Armenian,^ a I 
novel which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is 1 
also called the 'Ghost Seer,' and I never walked down St. 
Mark's by moonlight without thinking of it, and 'at nine 
o'clock he died !' — But I hate things all fiction ; and there- 
fore the Merchant and Otitello have no great associations 
to me : but Pierre has. There should always be some 
foundation of fact for the most airy fabric, and pure inven> 
tion is but the talent of a liar. 

"Maturin's tragedy. — By your account of him last year 
to me, he seemed a bit of a coxcomb, personally. JPoor 
fellow ! to be sure, he had had a long seasoning of adversity, 
which is not so hard to bear as t' other thing. I hope that 
this won't throw him back into the 'slough of Despond.' 

"You talk of 'marriage;' — ever since my own funeral, 
the word makes me giddy, and throws me into a cold sweat. 
Pray, do n't repeat it. 

" You should close with Madame de Stael. This will 
be her best work, and permanently historical; it is on her 
father, the Revolution, and Buonaparte, &c. Bonstetten 
told me in Switzerland it was very great. 1 have not seen 
it myself but the author often. She was very kind to me 
atCopet. ***** 

" There have been two articles in the Venice papers, 
one a Review of Glenarvon * + * *, and the other a Re- 
view of Childe Harold, in which it proclaims me the most 
rebellious and contumacious admirer of Buonaparte now 
surviving in Europe. Both these articles are translations 
from the Literary Gazette of German Jena. 

****** 

" Tell me that Walter Scott is better. I would not have 
him ill for the world. I suppose it was by sympathy that 
I had my fever at the same time. 

" I joy in the success of your Q-uarterly, but I must still 
stick by the Edinburgh; Jeffrey has done so by me, I must 
say, through every thing, and this is more than I deserved 
from him. — I have more than once acknowledged to you 
by letter the 'Article' (and articles;) say that you have 
received the said letters, as I do not otherwise know what 
letters arrive. — Both Reviews came, but nothing more. 
M.'s play and the extract not yet come, 

****** 

" Write to say whether my Magician has arrived, with 
all his scenes, spells, &c. "Yours ever, &c. 

"It is useless to send to the Foreign-qffke : nothing 
arrives to me by that conveyance. I suppose some zealous 
clerk thinks it a tory duty to prevent it." 



LETTER CCCXX\T:n. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"Venice, April 4, 1817. 

" It is a considerable time since I wrote to you last, and 
I hardly know why I should trouble you now, except that I 
think you will not be sorry to hear from me now and then 
You and I were never correspondents, but always some- 
thing better, which is, very good friends. 

"I saw your friend Sharp in Switzeriand, or rather b 
die German territory^ (which is and is not Switzerland.) 
and he gave Hobhouse and me a very good route for the 
Bernese Alps ; however, we took another from a German, 
and went by Clarens, tlie Dent de Jaman to Montbovon, 
and through Simmenthal to Thoun, and so on to Lauter- 
brounn; except that from thence to the Grindelwald, 
instead of round about, we went right over the Wengen 
Alps' very summit, and being close under the Jungfrau, 
saw it, its glaciers, and heard the avalanches in all their 
glory, having famous weather there/or. We of course went 



See Cbilde Harold, Canto 4, Stanza 18. 



LETTERS, 1817. 



Ill 



from the Grindelwald over the Sheidech to Brientz and its 
lake ; past the Reichenbach and all that mountain road, 
wliich reminded me of Albania, and ^toha, and Greece, 
except that the people here were more civilized and ras- 
cally. I did not think so very much of Chamouni (except 
the source of the Arveron, to which we went up to the teeth 
of the ice, so as to look into and touch the cavity, against 
the warning of tlie guides, only one of whom would go with 
us so close,) as of the Jungfrau, and the Pissevache, and 
Simplon, which are quite out of all mortal competition. 

"I was at Milan about a moon, and saw Monti and 
some other living curiosities, and thence on to Verona, 
where I did not forget your story of the assassination during 
your sojourn there, and brought away with me some frag- 
ments of Juliet's tomb, and a Uvely recollection of the am- 
phitheatre. The Countess Goetz (the governor's wife 
here,) told me that there is still a ruined castle of the 
Montecchi between Verona and Vicenza. I have been 
at Venice since November, but shall proceed to Rome 
shortly. For my deeds here, are they not written in my 
letters to the imreplying Thomas Moore ? to him I refer 
you : he has received them all, and not answered one. 

" Will you remember me to Lord and Lady Holland ? 
I have to thank the former for a book which I have not yet 
received, but expect to reperuse with great pleasure on my 
return, viz. the 2nd edition of Lope de Vega. I have 
heard of Moore's forthcoming poem: he cannot wish him- 
self more success than I wish and augur for him. I have 
also heard great things of ' Tales of my Landlord,' but I 
have not yet received them ; by all accounts they beat even 
Waverley, &c. and are by the same author. Maturin's 
second tragedy has, it seems, failed, for which I should 
think any body would be sorry. My health was very 
victorious till within the last month, when I had a fever. 
There is a typhus in these parts, but I do n't think it was 
tliat. However, I got well without a physician or drugs. 

^ I forgot to tell you tliat, last autumn, I furnished Lewis 
with ' bread and salt' for some days at Diodati, in reward for 
which (besides his conversation,) he translated 'Goethe's 
Faust' to me by word of mouth, and I set him by the ears 
with Madame de Stael about the slave trade. I am 
indebted for many and kind courtesies to our Lady of 
Copet, and I now love her as much as I always did her 
works, of which I was and am a great admirer. When 
are you to begin with Sheridan? what are you doing, and 
how do you do ? " Ever very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



"Venice, April 9, 1817. 

"Your letters of the 18th and 20th are arrived. In my 
own I have given you the rise, progress, decline, and fall 
of my recent malady. It is gone to the devil : I won't pay 
him so bad a compliment as to say it came from him : — he 
is too much of a gentleman. It was nothing but a slow 
fever, which quickened its [)ace towards the end of its 
journey. I had been bored with it some weeks — with 
nocturnal burnings and morning perspirations; but I am 
quite well again, which I attribute to having had neither 
medicine nor doctor therefor. 

"In a few days I set ofl'for Rome: such is my purpose. 
I shall change it very often before Monday next, but do 
you continue to direct and address to Kerttcc,as heretofore. 
If I go, letters will be forwarded: I say '//J' because I 
never know what I shall do till it is done; and as I me;in 
most firmly to set out for Rome, it is not unlikely I may find 
myself at St. Petersburg. 

"You tell me to ' take caro of myself ;' — faith, and I will. 
I won't be posthumous yet, if I can help it. Notwith- 
standing, only think what a 'Life and Adventures,' while I 
am in full scandal, would be worth, together with the 
'membra' of my writing-desk, the si.\teen beiMimiugs of 
poems never to bofinisheil! Do you thiiik I would not 



have shot myself last year, had I not luckily recollected 
that Mrs. Charlmont, and Lady Noel, and all die old 
women in England would have been delighted; — besides 
the agreeable 'Lunacy' of the 'CrowTier's Q,uest,' and the 
regrets of two or three or half a dozen? + ♦ * * * 
Be assured that I would live for two reasons, or more ; — 
there are one or two people whom I have to put out of the 
world, and as many into it, before I can ' depart in peace ;' 
if I do so before, I have not fulfilled my mission. Besides, 
when I turn thirty, I will turn devout; I feel a great voca- 
tion that way in Catholic churches, and when I hear the 
organ. 

" So * * is writing again I Is there no bedlam in Scot- 
land? nor thumb-screw? nor gag? nor handcuff? I went 
upon my knees to him almost some years ago, to prevent 
him from pubUshing a political pamphlet, which would have 
given him a Uvelier idea of ' Habeas Corpus' than the world 
will derive from his present production upon that suspended 
subject, which will doubtless be followed by the suspension 
of other of his majesty's subjects. 

" I condole with Drury-lane and rejoice with * *, — that 
is, in a modest way, — on the tragical end of tlie new 
tragedy. 

" You and Leigh Hunt have quarrelled then, it seems? 
+ + * * J introduce him and his poem to you, in the 
hope that (malgre poUtics,) the union would be beneficial 
to both, and the end is eternal enmity ; and yet I did this 
with the best intentions : I introduce + * *, and * + * runs 
away with your money: my friend Hobhouse quarrels, too, 
widi the duarterly: and (except the last,) I am the inno- 
cent Istmhus (damn the word ! I can 't spell it, though I 
have crossed that of Corinth a dozen times,) of tliese 
enmities. 

"I will tell you something about Chillon. — A Mr. Z)« 
Luc, ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read to him, and is 
pleased with it, — so my sister writes. He said that he was 
with Rousseau at Chillon, and that the description is per- 
fectly correct. But this is not all : I recollected something 
of the name and find the following passage in ' The Con- 
fessions,' vol. 3, page 247, liv. 8. 

"'De tons ces amusemens celui qui me plilt davantage 
fut une promenade autour du Lac, que je fis en bateau 
avec De Luc p^re, sa bru, ses deiix Jils, et ma Therese. 
Nous mimes sept jours a cette tournee par le plus beau 
temps du monde. J'en gardai le vif souvenir des sites qui 
m'avoicnt frappe a I'autre extremite du Lac, et dont jc fis 
la description, quelques annees apr^s, dans la Nouvellc 
Heloise.' 

" This nonagenarian, De Luc, must be one of the 'deux 
fils.' He is in England — infirm, but still in faculty. It is 
odd that he should have lived so long, and not wanting in 
oddness, that he should have made this voyage with Jean 
Jacques, and afterward, at such an interval, read a poem 
by an Englishman (who had made precisely the same 
circumnavigation,) upon the same scenery. 

"As for 'Manfred,' it is of no use sending proo/s; nothing 
of that kind comes. I sent the whole at different times. 
The two first Acts are the best; the third so so; but I was 
blown with the first and second heats. You must call it a 
' Poem,' for it is no Drama, and 1 do not choose to have it 
called by so * * a name — a ' Poem in Dialogue,' or Pan- 
tomime, if you will ; any tiling but a green-room synonyme;. 
and tliis is your motto — 

' There ore more things in lieavon Bin) oHrlii, Ilorulio, 
Than are dreamt of in your [)hilo80|ihy.' 

"Yours over, &c. 
"My love and thanks to Mr. Gifford." 



LETTER CCCXXX. 

TO Mil. ftlOOKF. 

" Veniee, Aprilll, 1817. 
" I shall contijuie to write to you while llie fit is on me,, 
by way of penance upon you for your former complaints 



112 



LETTERS, 1817. 



of long silence. I dare say you would blush, if you could 
for not answering. Next week I set out for Rome. Having 
seen Constantinople, I should like to look at t'otlier feUow 
Besides I want to see the Pope, and shall take care to tell 
him that I vote for the Catholics and no Veto. 

1 sha' n't go to Naples. It is but the second best sea- 
view, and I have seen the first and third, viz. — Constan- 
tinople and Lisbon (by-the-way, the last is but a river- 
view ; however, they reckon it after Stamboul and Naples, 
and before Genoa,) and Vesuvius is silent, and I have 
passed by Etna. So I shall e'en return to Venice in July; 
and if you write, I pray you address to Venice which is 
' my head, or rather my /leori-quarters. 

" My late physician, Dr. Polidori, is here, on his way to 
England, with the present Lord Guilford and the widow 
of the late earl. Doctor Polidori has, just now, no more 
patients, because his patients are no more. He had lately 
three, who are now all dead — one embalmed. Homer and 
a child of Thomas Hope's are interred at Pisa and Rome. 
Lord Guilford died of an inflammation of the bowels : so 
they took them out, and sent them (on account of their 
discrepancies,) separately from the carcass, to England. 
Conceive a man going one way and his intestines another, 
and liis immortal soul a third ! — was there ever such a dis- 
tribution? One certainly has a soul; but how it came to 
allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can 
imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll* have a bit 
of a tustle before I let it get in again to that or any other. 

" And so poor dear Mr. Maturin's second tragedy has 
been neglected by the discerning public. * * will be d — d 
glad of this, and d — d without being glad, if ever his own 
plays come upon ' any stage.' 

" I wrote to Rogers the other day, with a message for 
you. I hope that he flourishes. He is the Tithonus of 
poetry — immortal already. You and I must wait for it. 

•^ I hear nothing — know nothing. You may easily sup- 
pose that the English do n't seek me, and I avoid them. 
To be sure, there are but a few or none here, save pas- 
sengers. Florence and Naples are their Margate and 
Ramsgate, and much the same sort of company too, by all 
accounts, which hurts us among the Italians. 

" I want to hear of Lalla Rookh — are you out ? Death 
and fiends! why don't you tell me where you are, what 
you are, and how you are? I shall go to Bologna by 
Ferrara, instead of Mantua ; because I would rather see 
the cell where they caged Tasso, and where he became 
mad and * *, than his own MSS. at Modena, or the 
Mantuan birthplace of that harmonious plagiary and mis- 
erable flatterer, whose cursed hexameters were drilled mto 
me at Harrow. I saw Verona and Vicenza on my way 
here — Padua too. 

I go alone — but alone, because I mean to return here. 1 
only want to see Rome. I have not the least curiosity about 
Florence, though I must see it for the sake of the Venus, 
&c. &c. ; and I wish also to see the Fall of Terni. 1 tliink 
to return to Venice by Ravenna and Rimini of both of 
which 1 mean to take notes for Leigh Hunt, who will be 
glad to hear of the scenery of his Poem. There was a 
devil of a review of him in the (Quarterly, a year ago, which 
he answered. All answers are imprudent; but, to be 
sure, poetical flesh and blood must have the last word — 
that's certain. I tliought, and think, very highly of his 
Poem , but I warned him of the row his favourite antique 
phraseology would bring him into. 

" You have taken a house at Hornsey ; I had much rather 
you had taken one in the Apenines. If you tliink of 
coming out for a summer, or so, tell me, that I may be upon 
the hover for you. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, April 14, 1817. 
"By the favour of Dr. Polidori, who is here on liis way 



to England, with the present Lord Guilford (the late ear! 
having gone to England, by another road, accompanied by 
his bowels in a separate coffer,) I remit to you, to deliver 
to Mrs. Leigh, two miniatures ; but previously you will have 
the goodness to desire Mr. Love (as a peace-offering be- 
tween him and me) to set them in plain gold, with my arms 
complete, and 'Painted by Prepiani. — Venice, 1817,' on 
the back. I wish also that you would desire Holmes to 
make a copy of each — that is, both — for myselij and that 
you will retain the said copies till my return. One was 
done while I was very unwell ; the other in my health, 
which may account for their dissimilitude. I trust that they 
will reach their destination in safety. 

" I recommend the doctor to your good offices with your 
government friends ; and if you can be of any use to him 
in a literary point of view, pray be so. 

" To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is past midnight, I 
have been up to the batflements of the highest tower in 
Venice, and seen it and its view, in all the glory of a clear 
Italian sky. I also went over the Manfrini Palace famous 
for its pictures. Among them, there is a portrait of ^riosto 
by Titian, surpassing all my anticipation of the power of 
painting or human expression : it is the poetry of portrait, 
and the portrait of poetry. There was also one of some 
learned lady, centuries old, whose name I forget, but whose 
features must always be remembered. I never saw greater 
beauty, or sweetness, or wisdom: — it is the kind of face to 
go mad for, because it cannot walk out of its frame. There 
is also a famous dead Christ and live Apostles, for which 
Buonaparte offered in vain five thousand louis ; and of 
which, though it is a capo d'opera of Titian, as I am no 
connoisseur, I say little, and thought less, except of one 
figure in it. There are ten thousand others, and some 
very fine Giorgiones among them, &c. &c. There is an 
original Laura and Petrarch, very hideous both. Petrarch 
has not only the dress, but the features and air of an old 
woman, and Laura looks by no means like a young one, 
or a pretty one. What struck me most in the general 
collection was the extreme resemblance of the style of the 
female faces in the mass of pictures, so many centuries or 
generations old, to those you see and meet every day 
among the existing Italians. The queen of Cyprus and 
Giorgione's wife,* particularly the latter, are Venetians as 
it were of yesterday; the same eyes and expression, and, 
to my mind, there is none finer. 

" You must recollect, however, that I know nothmg of 
painting; and that I detest it, unless it reminds me of 
something I have seen, or think it possible to see, for which 
reason I spit upon and abhor all the saints and subjects of 
one half the impostures I see in the churches and palaces ; 
and when in Flanders, I never was so disgusted in my life, 
as with Rubens and his eternal wives and infernal glare of 
colours, as they appeared to me; and in Spain I did not 
think much of Murilo and Velasquez. Depend upon it, of 
all the arts, it is the most artificial and unnatural, and that by 
which the nonsense of mankind is most imposed upon. 1 
never yet saw the picture or the statue which came a league 
within my conception or expectation ; but I have seen many 
mountains, and seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three 
women, who went as far beyond it, — besides some horses ; 
and a lion (at Veli Pacha's) in the Morea ; and a tiger 
at supper in Exeter 'Change. 

When you write, continue to address to me at Venice. 



Where do you sujipose the books you sent 



At 



Ttnin ! This comes of the Foreign Office,^ which is foreign 
enough, God knows, for any good it can be of to me, or any 
one else, and be d — d to it, to its last clerk and first char- 
latan, Castlereagh. 

" This makes my hundredth letter at least. 

« Yours, fcc." 



* See Beppo, Stauza 12th. 



LETTERS, 1817. 



113 



LETTER CCCXXXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Venice, April 14, 1817. 
" The present proofs* (of the whole) begins only at the 
17th page ; but as I had corrected and sent back the First 
Act, it does not signify. 

** The Third Act is certainly d d bad, and, like the 

Archbishop of Grenada's homily (which savoured of the 
palsy,) has the dregs of my fever, during which it was 
written. It must on no account be published in its present 
state. I will try and reform it, or re-write it altogether ; 
but the impulse is gone, and I have no chance of making 
any thing out of it. I would not have it published as it is 
on any account. The speech of Manfred to the Sun is 
the only part of this act I thought good myself; the rest is 
certainly as bad as bad can be, and I wonder what the 
devil possessed me. 

" I am very glad indeed that you sent me Mr. Gilford's 
opinion without deduction. Do you suppose me such a 
booby as not to be very much obliged to him ? or that in 
fact I was not, and am not, convinced and convicted in my 
conscience of this same overt act of nonsense ? 

"I shall try at it again: in the mean time lay it upon the 
shelf (the whole Drama, I mean :) but pray correct your 
copies of the First and Second Act from the original MS. 

"I am not coming to England ; but going to Rome in a 
few days. I return to Venice in June; so, pray, address 
all letters, &c. to me hcre^ as usual, that is, to Venice. Dr. 
Polidori this day left this city with Lord Guilford for Eng- 
land. He is charged with some books to your care (from 
me,) and two miniatures also to the same address, botli for 
my sister. 

" Recollect not to publish, upon pain of I know not what, 
until I have tried again at the Third Act. I am not sure 
that I shall try, and still less that I shall succeed, if I do ; 
but I am very sure, that (as it is, it is unfit for publication 
or perusal ; and unless I can make it out to my own satis- 
faction, I won't have any part published. 

"I write in haste, and after having lately written very 
often. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Folingo, April 26, 1817. 
" I wrote to you the other day from Florence, inclosing 
a MS. entitled ' The Lament of Tasso.' It was written in 
consequence of my having been lately at Ferrara. In the 
last section of this MS. hut one (that is, the penultimate,) 
I think that I have omitted a line in the copy sent you from 
Florence, viz. after the line — 

"And woo compassion to a blighted name, 

insert, 

" Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
The context will show you the sense, which is not clear in 
this quotation. Remember, I write this in the supposition 
that you have received my Florentine packet. 

"At Florence I remained but a day, having a hurry for 
Rome, to which I am thus far advanced. However, I 
went to the two galleries, from which one returns drunlc 
with beauty. The Venus is more for admiration than love ; 
but there are sculpture and painting, which for the first 
time at all gave me an idea of what people mean by their 
cant, and what Mr. Braham calls * entusimusy' (i. c. en- 
thusiasm,) about those two most artificial of the arts. 
What struck mc most were, the mistress of Rajihael, a 
portrait ; the mistress of Titian, a portrait ; a Venus of 
Titian in the Medici gallery — the Venus ; Canova's Venus 
also, in the other gallery: Titiiui's mistress is also in tlie 



other gallery (that is, in the Pitti Palace gallery :) the 
Parcae of Michael Angelo, a picture ; and the Antinous, 
the Alexander, and one or two not very decent groups in 
marble ; the Genius of Death, a sleeping figure, &c. &c. 

"I also went to the Medici chapel — fine frippery in great 
slabs of various expensive stones, to commemorate fifty 
rotten and forgotton carcasses. It is unfinished and will 
remain so. 

" The church of Santa Croce' contains much illustrious 
nothing. The tombs* ofMachiavelli, Michael Angelo, Gali- 
leo Galilei, and Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of 
Italy. I did not admire any of these tombs — beyond their 
contents. That of Alfieri is heavy, and all of them seem 
to me overloaded. What is necessary but a bust and 
name ? and perhaps a date ? the last for the unchronologi- 
cal, of whom I am one. But all your allegory and eulogy 
is infernal, and worse than the long wigs of English num- 
skuUs upon Roman bodies in the statuary of the reigns of 
Charles II., William, and Anne. 

" When you write, write to Venice, as usual ; I mean to 
return there in a fortnight. I shall not be England for a 
long time. This afternoon I met Lord and Lady Jersey, 
and saw them for some time: all well ; children grown and 
healthy ; she very pretty, but sunburnt ; he very sick of 
travelling ; bound for Paris. There are not many English 
on the move, and those who are, mostly homewards. I 
shall not return till business makes me, being much better 
where I am in health, &c. &c. 

"For the sake of my personal comfort, I pray you send 
me immediately to Venice — mind, Venice — viz. JVcdtes's 
tooth-powder, red, a quantity; calcined magnesia, of the 
best quality, a quantity ; and all this by safe, sure, and 
speedy means ; and, by the Lord ! do it. 

"I have done nothing at Manfred's Third Act. You 
must wait ; I '11 have at it in a week or two, or so. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Rome, May 5, 1817. 

" By this post (or next at farthest) I send you in two 
other covers, the new Tliird Act of ' Manfred.' I have re- 
written tlie greater part, and returned what is not altered 
in the proof you sent me. The Abbot is become a good 
man, and the Spirits are brought in at the death. You 
will find, I think, some good poetry in this new act, here 
and there ; and if so, print it, without sending me farther 
proofs, under Mr. Giffbrd's correction, if he w ill have tJie 
goodness to overlook it. Address all answers to Venice^ 
as usual ; I mean to return tliere in ten days. 

"'The Lament of Tasso,' which I sent from Florence, 
has, I trust, arrived : I look upon it as a ' tliese be good 
rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy. 
For the two—^\i and the Drama — you will disburse to mc 
{via. Kinnaird) six hundred guineas. You will perhaps 
be surprised tliat I set the same price upon tliis as upon 
the Drama; but, besides that I look upon it as good, I 
won't take less than tliree hiuidred guineas for any thing. 
The two together will make you a larger publication thiui 
the ' Siege' and ' Parisina ;' so you may think yoursrlf lot 
off very easy : that is to say, if these pooms arc good for 
any thing, which I hope and believe. 

" I have been some tlays in Rome the Wonderful. I am 
seeing sights, and have done nothing else, except tlio new 
Third Act for you. I have this morning soon a live Pope 
and a dead Cardinal: Pius VII. has been burying Cardi- 
nal Bracchi, whose body I saw in state at the Cluosa 
Nuova. Rome has delighted me Ix'yond ovory thing, 
since Alliens and Constantinople. But I shall not remain 
long this visit. Address to Venice. 

«Evcr,&c. 



Of Muiifrcd. 

16 



See Childe Htrold, Canto 8, St«nu M. 



114 



LETTERS, 1817. 



" P. S. I have got my saddle-horses here, and have 
ridden, and am riding, all about the country." 



LETTER CCCXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Rome, May 9, 1817. 

" Address all answers to Venice ; for there 1 shall re- 
turn in fifteen days, God willing. 

" I sent you from Florence ' The Lament of Tasso,' and 
from Rome ihe Third Act of Manfred, both of which, I 
trust, will duly arrive. The terms of these two I mentioned 
in my last, and will repeat in this : it is three hundred for 
each, or sb hundred guineas for the two — that is, if you 
like, and they are good for any thing. 

"At last one of the parcels is arrived. In the notes to 
Childe Harold there is a blunder of yours or mine : you talk 
of arrival at St. Gingo, and immediately after, add — ' on 
the height is the Chateau of Clarens.'* This is sad work : 
Clarens is on the other side of the Lake, and it is quite im- 
possible that I should have so bungled. Look at the MS. ; 
and, at any rate, rectify. 

" The ' Tales of my Landlord' I have read with great 
pleasure, and perfectly understand now why my sister and 
aunt are so very positive m the very erroneous persuasion 
that they must havo been written by me. If you knew me 
as well as they do, you would have fallen, perhaps, into the 
same mistake. Some day or other, I will exjJain to you 
wity — when I have time ; at present it does not much mat- 
ter ; but you must have thought this blunder of theirs very 
odd, and so did I, till I had read the book. — Croker's letter 
to you is a very great compliment ; I shall return it to you 
in my next. 

" I perceive you are publishing a life of RaSael d'Urbino : 
it may perhaps interest you to hear that a set of German 
artists here allow their hair to grow, and trim it into his 
fashion, thereby drinking the cummin of the disciples of the 
old philosopher ; if they would cut their hair, convert it into 
brushes, and paint like hinij it would be more ' German to 
the matter.' 

"I'll tell you a story: the other day, a man here — 
an Enghsh — mistaking the statues of Charlemagne and 
Constantine, which are equestrian^ for those of Peter and 
Paul, asked another which was Paul of these same horse- 
men? — to which the reply was — 'I thought, sir, that St. 
Paul had never got on horseback since his accident?* 

"I '11 tell you another: Henry Fox, writing to some one 
from Naples the other day, after an illness, adds — <■ and I 
am so changed that my oldest creditors would hardly know 
me.' 

" I am delighted with Rome — as I would be with a band- 
box, that is, it is a fine thing to see, finer than Greece ; but 
I have not been here long enough to affect it as a residence, 
and I must go back to Lombardy, because I am wretched 
at being aw ay from Marianna. I have been riding my 
saddle-horses every day, and been to Albano, its Lakes, 
and to the top of the Alban Mount, and to Frescati, Aricia, 
&c. &c. with an &c. &c. &c. about the city, and in the 
city: f)r all which — vide Guidebook. As a whole, ancient 
and modem, it beats Greece, Constantinople, everv thing 
— at least that I have ever seen. But I can 't describe, 
because my first impressions are always strong and con- 
fused, and my memory select's and reduces them to order, 
like distance in the landscape, and blends them better, 
although they may be less distinct. There must be a 
sense or two more than we have, us mortals ; for * * + 
* * where there is much to be grasped we are always at 
a loss, and yet feel that we ought to have a higher and 
more extended comprehension. 

" I have had a letter from Moore, who is in some alarm 
about his Poem. I do n't see why. 



Since correcUd, 



"I have had another from my poor dear Augusta, who 
is in a sad fuss about my late iUness ; do, pray, tell her, (the 
truth,) that 1 am better than ever, and in importunate 
health, growing (if not grown) large and ruddy, and con- 
gratulated by impertinent persons on my robustious appear- 
ance, when I ought to be pale and interesting. 

« You tell me that George Byron has got a son, and 
Augusta says, a daughter; which is it? — it is no great 
matter: the father is a good man, an excellent officer, and 
has married a very nice little woman, who will bring him 
more babes tlian income : howbeit she had a handsome 
dowry, and is a very charming girl ; — but he may as well 
get a ship. 

* I have no thoughts of coming among you yet awhile, so 
that I can fight off business. If I could but make a tole- 
rable sale of Newstead, there would be no occasion for my 
return ; and I can assure you very sincerely, that I am 
much happier (or, at least, have been so,) out of your island 
than in it. "Yours ever. 

"P. S. There are few English here, but several of my 
acquaintance ; among others, the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
with whom I dine to-morrow. I met the Jerseys on the 
road at Foligno — all well. 

"Oh — I forgot — the ItaHans have printed Chillon, &c. a 
piracy, — a pretty little edition, prettier than yours — and 
pubhshed, as I found to my great astonishment on arriving 
here ; and what is odd, is, that the English is quite correctly 
printed. Why they did it, or who did it, I know not; hvit 
so it is ; — I suppose, for the English people. I will send 
you a cojpty^ 



LETTER CCCXXXVl. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

«Rome,Mayl2,18I7. ^ 

" I have received your letter here, where I have taken a 
cruise lately ; but I shall return back to Venice in a few 
days, so that if you write again, address there, as usual. I 
am not for returning to England so soon as you imagine ; 
and by no means at all as a residence. If you cross the 
Alps in your projected expedition, you will find me some- 
where in Lombardy, and very glad to see you. Only give 
me a word or two beforehand, for I would really diverge 
some leagues to meet you. 

"Of Rome I say nothing; it is quite indescribable, and 
the Guidebook is as good as any other. I dined yesterday 
with Lord Lansdowne, who is on his return. But there 
are few Engfish here at present : the winter is their time. 
I have been on horseback most of the day,, all days since 
my arrival, and have taken it as I did Constantinople. But 
Rome is the elder sister, and the finer. I went some days 
ago to the top of the Alban Mount, which is superb. As 
for the Coliseum, Pantheon, St. Peter's, the Vatican, Pala- 
tine, &C. &c. — as I said, vide Guidebook. They are quite 
inconceivable, and must be seen. The Apollo Belvidere is 
the image of Lady Adelaide Forbes — ^I think I never saw 
such a likeness. 

"I have seen the Pope alive, and a cardinal dead, — both 
of whom looked very well indeed. The latter was in state 
in the Chiesa Nuova, previous to his interment. 

"Your poetical alarms are groundless; go on and pros- 
per. Here is Hobhouse just come in, and my horses at the 
door, so tliat I must mount and take the fieU in the Campus 
Martius, which, by-the-way, is all built over by modem 
Rome. " Yours very and ever, &c. 

"P. S. Hobhouse presents his remembrances, and is 
eager, with all the world, for your new Poem." 



LETTER CCCXXXVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, May 30, 1817. 
" I returned from Rome two days ago, and have received 



LETTERS, 1817. 



115 



your letter; but no sign nor tidings of the parcel sent 
through Sir C.Stuart, which you mention. After an in- 
terval of months, a packet of ' Tales,' &c. found me at 
Rome ; but this is all, and may be all that ever will find me. 
The post seems to be the only sure conveyance, and thai 
only far letters. From Florence I sent you a poem on 
Tasso, and from Rome the new Third Act of 'Manfred,' 
and by Dr. Polidori two portraits for my sister. I left 
Rome and made a rapid journey home. You will continue 
to direct here as usual. Mr. Hobhouse is gone to Naples : 
I should have run down there too for a week, but for the 
quantity of English whom I heard of there. T prefer hating 
them at a distance \ unless an earthquake, or a good reai 
eruption of Vesuvius, were ensured to reconcile me to their 
vicinity. 

****** 
"The day before I left Rome I saw three robbers guil- 
lotined. The ceremony — Including the masqued priests ; 
the half-naked executioners ; the bandaged criminals ; the 
black Christ and his banner, the scaffold ; the soldiery ; the 
slow procession, and the quick rattle and heavy fall of the 
axe ; the splash of the blood, and the ghastliness of the 
exposed heads — is altogether more impressive than the 
vulgar and ungentlemanly dirty * new drop,' and dog-like 
agony of infliction upon the sufferers of the English sen- 
tence. Two of these men behaved calmly enough, but the 
first of tlie three died with great terror and reluctance. 
What vf3.s very liorriblo, he would not lie down ; then his 
neck was too large for the aperture, and the priest was 
obliged to drown his exclamations by still louder exhorta- 
tions. The head was off before the eye could trace the 
blow ; but from an attempt to draw back the head, notwith- 
standing it was held forward by the hair, the first head was 
cut off close to the ears: the other two were taken off more 
cleanly. It is better than the oriental way, and (I should 
think) than the axe of our ancestors. The pain seems 
little, and yet the effect to the spectator, and the preparation 
to the criminal, is very striking and chilling. The first 
turned me quite hot and thirsty, and made me shake so 
th.it I could hardly hold the opera glass ; (I was close, but 
was determined to see, as one should see every thing, once, 
with attention ;) the second and third, (which shows how 
dreadfully soon things grow indifferent,) I am ashamed to 
say, had no effect on me as a horror, though I would have 
saved them if I could. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Venice, June 4, 1817. 

*I have received the proofs of the 'Lament of Tasso,' 
which makes me hope that you have also received the 
reformed Third Act of Manfred, from Rome, which I sent 
Boon after my arrival there. My date will apprize you of 
my return home within these few days. For me, I have 
received nxme of your packets, except, after long delay, the 
'Tales of my Landlord,' which I before acknowledged. I 
do not at all understand the wJit/ nots, but so it is ; — no 
Manuel, no letters, no tooth-powder, no extract from 
Moore's Italy concerning Marino Faliero, no nothinq — 
as a man hallooed out at one of Burdett's elections, after a 
long ululatus of 'No Bastille! No governoritics ! No — ' 
God knows who or what ; — but his nephis ultra was ' No 
nothing!' — and my receipts of your packages amount to 
about his meaning. I want the extract from Moored Italy 
very much, and the tooth-powdi;r, rind the magnesia ; 1 
don't care so much about the poetry, or the letters, or Mr. 
Maturin's by-Jasus tragedy. Most of the things sent by 
the past have come — I mean proofs and loiters; lliorcforc, 
■end me Marino Faliero by the post, in a lotlt-r. 

** 1 was delighted with Rome, and was on horseback all 
round it many hours daily, besides in it the rest of my time, 
bothering over its marvels. I cxcurscd and skirrcd Iho 



country round to Alba, Tivoli, Frescari, Licenza, &c. &c.; 
besides I visited twice the Fall of Terni, which beats every 
thing.* On my way back, close to the temple by its banks, 
I got some famous trout out of the river Clitumnus — the 
prettiest little stream in all poesy, near the first post from 
Foligno and Spoletto.f — I did not stay at Florence, beini^ 
anxious to get home to Venice, and having already seen 
the galleries and other sights. 1 left my commendatory 
letters the evening before I went ; so I saw nobody. 

" To-day, Pindemonte, the celebrated poet of Verona, 
called on me; he is a little, thin man, with acute and 
pleasing features; his address good and gentle ; his appear- 
ance altogether very philosophical ; his age about sixty, or 
more. He is one of their best going. I gave him ForsytJi^ 
as he speaks, or reads rather, a little English, and will find 
there a favourable account of himself. He inquired after 
his old Cruscan friends, Parsons, Greathead, Mrs. Piozzi, 
and Merry, all of whom he had kno\vn in his youth. I 
gave him as bad an account of them as I could, answering, 
as the false 'Solomon Lob' does to ' Totterton' in the farce, 
' all gone dead,' and damned by a satire more than twenty 
years ago ; that the name of their extinguisher was Gifford ; 
that they were but a sad set of scribes after all, and no 
great things in any other way. He seemed, as was natural, 
very much pleased with this account of his old acquaint- 
ances, and went away greatly gratified with that and Mr. 
ForsyJi's sententious paragraph of applause in his own 
(Pindemonte's) favour. After having been a little liber- 
tine in his youth, he is grown devout, and takes prayers, 
and talks to himselfj to keep off the Devil; but for all that, 
he is a very nice little old gentleman. 

" I am sorry to hear of your row with Hunt ; but suppose 
him to be exasperated by the Quarterly and your refusal 
to deal; and when one is angry and edits a paper, I should 
think the temptation too strong for literary nature, which is 
not always humaru I can't conceive in what, and for 
what, he abuses you: what have you done? you are not an 
author, nor a politician, nor a public character ; I know no 
scrape you have tumbled into. I am the more sorry for 
this because I introduced you to Hunt, and because I 
believe him to be a good man ; but till I know the particu- 
lars, I can give no opinion. 

"Let me know about Lalla Rookh, which must be out 
by this time. 

"I restore the proofs, but tlie punctuation should be 
corrected. I feel too lazy to have at it myself; so bog and 
pray Mr. Gifford for me. — Address to Venice. In a few 
days I go to my xnlleggiatura, in a casino near the Brenta, 
a few miles only on the mainland. I have determined on 
another year, and many years of rosidoncc, if I can com- 
pass them. Marianna is with me, hardly recovered of the 
fever, which has been attacking all Italy last winter, I am 
afraid she is a little hectic ; but I hope the best. 

"Evcr,&c. 

"P. S. Towaltzen has done a bust of me at Rome for 
Mr. Hobhouse, which is reckoned very good. He is their 
best after Canova, and by some preferred to him. 

I have had a letter from Mr. Hodgson. He is very 
happy, has got a living, but not a child : if he had stuck to a 
curacy, babes would have come of course, because he 
could not have maintained them. 

"Remember me to all friends, &c. &c. 

"An Austrian officer, the other day, being in lovo with a 
Venetian, was ordered, with his regiment, into Hungary. 
Distracted between lovo and duty, he punhascd a ileaiUy 
drug, which, dividing with his mistress, both swnllowotL 
The ensuing pains wore terrific, but the pills were purga- 
tive, and not poisonous, by the contrivance of tlio un.sonti- 
inontal apothecary; so that so much suicide was all thrown 
away. You may conceive the previous confusion and the 
final laughter; but the intention was good on all sides." 



• Chililo llamlil, Cnnto IV. ilnnniti 70 to Tl, niut not*. 
1 Child* llarnia, Caiilo IV . •Iniiia 66, and note. 



116 



LETTERS, 1817. 



LETTER CCCXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, June 8, 1817. 

"The present letter will be delivered to you by two 
Armenian friars, on their way, by England, to Madras. 
They will also convey some copies of the Grammar, which 
I think you agreed to take. If you can be of any use to 
them, either a°mong your naval or East Indian acquaint- 
ances, I hope you will so far oblige me, as they and their 
order have been remarkably attentive and friendly towards 
me since my arrival at Venice. Their names are Father 
Sukias Sonialian and Father Sarkis Theodorosian. They 
speak Italian, and probably French, or a little English. 
Repeating earnestly my recommendatory' request, believe 
me very truly yours, " Byron. 

"Perhaps you can help them to their passage, or give 
or get them letters for India." 



LETTER CCCXL. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"La Mira, near Venice, June 14, 1817. 

« I write to you from the banks of the Brenta, a few miles 
from Venice, where I have colonized for six months to 
come. Addi-ess, as usual, to Venice. 

"Three months after date, (17th March,)— like the un- 
neofotiable bill despondingly received by the reluctant tailor, 
— your despatch has arrived, containing the extract from 
Moore's Italy and Mr. Maturin's bankrupt tragedy.* It 
is the absurd work of a clever man. I think it might have 
done upon the stage if he had made Manuel (by some 
trickery, in a mask or visor,) figlit his own battle instead of 
employing Molineux as his champion ; and, after the defeat 
of Torrismond, have made him spare the son of his enemy, 
by some revulsion of feeling, not incompatible v.-ith a cha- 
racter of extravagant and distempered emotions. But as 
it is, what vrith the Justiza, and the ridiculous conduct of 
the whole dram. pers. (for they are all as mad as Manuel, 
who surely must have had more interest with a corrupt 
bench than a distant relation and heir presumptive, some- 
what suspect of homicide.) I do not wonder at its failure. 
As a play, it is impracticable ; as a poem, no great things. 
Who was the ' Greek that grappled with glory naked ?' the 
Olympic wresders ? or Alexander the Great, when he ran 
stark round the tomb of t'other fellow? or the Spartan who 
was fined by the Ephori for fighting without his armour ? 
or who ? And as to ' flaying off life like a garment,' helas ! 
that's in Tom Thumb — see king Arthur's soliloquy: 

' Life *8 a mere rag, not worth a prince's wearing ; 
I'll casl it off.' 

And the stage-directions — ' Staggers among the bodies ;' 
the slain are too numerous, as well as the blackamoor 
knights-penitent being one too many: and De Zelos is such 
a shabby Monmouth-street villain, without any redeeming 
quality — Stap my vitals! Maturin seems to be declinini^ 
into Nat. Lee. But let him try again ; he has talent, but 
not much taste. I 'gin to fear, or to hope, that Sotheby 
after all is to be the jEschylus of the age, unless Mr. Shiel 
be really worthy his success. The more I see of the stawe, 
the less I would wish to have any thing to do with it ; as a 
proof of which, I hope you have received the Third Act of 
Manfred, which wU at least prove that I wish to steer very 
clear of the possibility of being put into scenery. I sent it 
from Rome. 

"I returned the proof of Tasso. By-the-way, have you 
never received a translation of St. Paul, which I sent you, 
not for publication, befijrc 1 went to Rome ? 

" I am at present on the Brenta. Opposite is a Spanish 
marquis, ninety years old ; next his casino is a French- 
man's, — besides the natives; so that, as somebody said the 



other day, we are exactly one of Goldoni's comedies, (La 
Vedova Scaltra,) where a Spaniard, English, and French- 
man are introduced : but we are all very good neighbours, 
Venetians, &c. &c. &c. 

"I am just getting on horseback for my evening ride, and 
a visit to a physician, who has an agreeable family, of a 
wife and four unmarried daughters, all under eighteen, who 
are friends of Signora S * *, and enemies to nobody. 
There are, and are to be, besides, conversaziones and I 
know not what, at a Countess Labbia's and I know not 
whom. The weather is mild ; the thermometer 110 in the 
sun this day, and 80 odd in the shade. 

« Yours, &c. "N." 



LETTER CCCXLL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"La Mira, near Venice, June 17, 1817. 

"It gives me great pleasure to hear of Moore's success, 
and the more so that I never doubted that it would be 
complete. Whatever good you can tell me of him and his 
poem will be most acceptable : I feel very anxious indeed 
to receive it. I hope that he is as happy in his fame and 
reward as I wish him to be •, for I know no one who de- 
serves both more — if any so much. 

"Now to business; ****** i say unto you, 
verily, it is not so ; or, as the foreigner said to the waiter, 
after asking him to bring a glass of water, to which the 
man answered, ' 1 will, sir,' — ' You will I — G — d d — n, — I 
say, you mnish ." And I will submit this to the decision of 
any person or persons to be appointed by both, on a fair 
examination of the circumstances of this as compared with 
tlie preceding publications. So, there's for you. There 
is always some row or other previously to all our publica- 
tions: it should seem that, on approximating, we can never 
quite get over tlie natural antipathy of author and book- 
seller, and tliat more particularly tlie ferine nature of the 
latter must break forth. 

'■You are out about the Third Canto: I have not done, 
nor designed, a line of continuation to that poem. I was 
too short a time at Rome for it, and have no thought of 
recommencing. * * * 

" I cannot well explain to you by letter what I conceive 
to be the origin of Mrs. Leigh's notion about ' Tales of My 
Landlord ;' but it is some points of the characters of Sir E. 
Manley and Burley, as well as one or two of the jocular 
portions, on which it is founded, probably. 

" If you have received Dr. Polidori, as well as a parcel 
of books, and you can be of use to him, be so. I never was 
much more disgusted with any human production than 
with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, 
and ill humour, and vanity of that young person; but he has 
some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions 
of amendment, in which he has been aided by a littie sub- 
sequent experience, and may turn out well. Therefore, 
use your government interest for him, for he is improved 
and improvable. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXLIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"La Mira, near Venice, June 18, 1817. 
"Enclosed is a letter to Dr. Holland from Pindemonte. 
Not kno\%ing the doctor's address, I am desired to mquire 
and perhaps, being a literary man, you will know or dis- 
cover his haunt near some populous churchyard. I have 
written to you a scolding letter — I believe, upon a misap- 
prehended passage in your letter — but never mind : it will 
do for next time, and you will surely deserve it. Talking 
of doctors reminds me once more to recommend to you ono 
who will not reroninicnd himself, — the Doctor Polidori. 
If you can help him to a publisher, do; or, if you have any 



LETTERS, 1817. 



117 



sick relafion, I would advise his advice: all the patients he 
had in Italy are dead — Mr. * *'s son, Mr. Horner, and 
Lord Guildford, whom he embowelled w)th great success at 
Pisa. * + * * 

« Remember me to Moore, whom I congratulate. How 
is Rogers? and what is become of Campbell and all 
t 'other fellows of the Druid order? I got Maturin's Bed- 
lam at last, but no other parcel ; I am in fits for the tooth- 
powder, and the magnesia. I want some of Burkitt's Soda 
powders. Will you tell Mr. Kuinaird that I have written 
him two letters on pressing business, (about Newstead, 
&c.) to which I humbly solicit his attendance. I am just 
returned from a gallop along the banks of die Brenta — 
time, sunset. " Yours, « B." 



LETTER CCCXLm. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"LaMira, near Venice, July 1, 1817. 

" Since my former letter, I have been working up my 
impressions into a Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, of which 
I have roughened off about rather better than thirty 
stanzas, and mean to go on ; and probably to make this 
'Fytte' the concluding one of tlie poem, so that you may 
propose against the autumn to draw out the conscription 
for 1818. You must provide moneys, as this new resump- 
tion bodes you certain disbursements. Somewhere about 
the end of September or October I propose to be under 
way, (i. e. in the press ;) but 1 have no idea yet of the 
probable length or calibre of the Canto, or what it will be 
good for ; but I mean to be as mercenary as possible, an 
example (I do not mean of any individual in particular, and 
least of all any person or persons of our mutual acquaint- 
ance,) which I should have followed in my youth, and I 
might still have been a prosperous gentleman. 

"No tooth-powder, no letters, no recent tidings of you. 

" Mr. Lewis is at Venice, and I am going up to stay a 
week with him there — as it is one of his enthusiasms also 
to like the city. 

" I stood in Venice on the ' Bridge of Sighs,' &c. &c. 

" The ' Bridge of Sighs' (i. e. Ponte de'i Sospiri,) is that 
which divides, or rather joins, the palace of the IDoge to the 
prison of the state. It has two passages : the criminal 
went by the one to judgment, and returned by the other to 
death, being strangled in a chamber adjoining, where there 
was a mechanical process for the purpose. 

" This is the first stanza of our new Canto : and now for 
a line of the second : 

" In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rowslhe songlesa gondolier, 
Her palaces, &c. &c. 

"You know that formerly the gondoliers sung always, 
and Tasso's Gierusalcmme was their ballad. Venice is 
built on seventy-two islands. 

" There ! there 's a brick of your new Babel ! and now, 
sirrah ! what say you to the sample ? « Yours, &c. 

"P. S. I shall write again by-and-by.'' 



LETTER CCCXLIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"La Mira, near Venice, July 8, 1817. 
"If you can convey the enclosed letter to its a-ltlress, or 
discover the person to whom it is directed, you w ill confer 
a favour upon tho Venetian creditor of a dccoasi^d JOn{;lish- 
man. This epistle is a dun to his executor, for house-rent. 
The name of iIk; insolv«!nt defunct i;^ or was, PoiUr Vultcr, 
according to the account of tlio plainliH', \\\\'u:\\ I rather 
suspect ought to be Walter Porter^ acconlint; to our mode 
of collocation. If you are acquainted willi any dead man 



of the like name a good deal in debt, pray dig him up, and 
tell him that 'a pound of his fair flesh' or the ducats are 
required, and that 'if you deny them, fie upon your law!' 

"I hear nothing more from you about Moore's poem, 
Rogers, or other literary phenomena ; but to-morrow, being 
post-day, will bring perhaps some tidings. I write to you 
with people talking Venetian all about, so Uiat you must 
not expect this letter to be all English. 

" The other day, I had a squabble on the highway as 
follows : I was riding pretty quickly from Dolo home about 
eight in the evening, when I passed a party of people in a 
hired carriage, one of whom, poking his head out of the 
window, began bawling to nie in an inarticulate but insolent 
manner. I wheeled my horse round, and overtaking, 
stopped the coach, and said, ' Signer, have you any com- 
mands for me ?' He replied, impudently as to manner, 
' No.' I then asked him what he meant by that unseemly 
noise, to the discomfiture of the passers-by. He replied 
by some piece of impertinence, to which I answered by 
giving him a violent slap in the face. I then dismounted, 
(for this passed at the window, I being on horseback still,) 
and opening the door, desired him to walk out, or I would 
give him another. But the first had settled him except aa 
to words, of which he poured forth a profusion in blasphe- 
mies, swearing that he would go to the police and avouch 
a battery sans provocation. I said he lied, and was a * *, 
and, if he did not hold his tongue, should be dragged out 
and beaten anew. He then held his tongue. I of course 
told him my name and residence, and defied him to the 
death, if he were a gentleman, or not a gentleman, and 
had the inclination to be genteel in the way of combat. 
He went to the police, but there having been bystanders 
in the road, — particularly a soldier who had seen tho 
business, — as well as my servant, notwithstanding the 
oaths of the coachman and five insides besides the plain- 
tiff, and a good deal of paying on all sides, his complaint 
was dismissed, he having been the aggressor ; — and I was 
subsequently informed that, had I not given him a blow, 
he might have been had into durance. 

" So set down this, — ' that in Aleppo once' 1 ' beat a Ve- 
netian -,' but I assure you that he deserved it, for I am a 
quiet man, like Candide, th^gh with somewhat of his for- 
tune in being forced to forego my natural meekness every 
now and then. 

"Yours, &c. «B." 



LETTER CCCXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, .July 9, 1817. 

"I have got the sketch and extracts from Lalla Rookh 
— which I humbly suspect will knock up + *, and show 
young gentlemen that something more than having been 
across a camel's hump is necessary to write a good oriental 
tale. The jilan, as well as the extracts I have seen, please 
me very much indeed, and I feel impatient for the whole. 

"AVilh regard to the critique on 'Manfred,' you havo 
been in such a devil of a hurry tliat you havo only sent mo 
tho half: it breaks off at page 294. Send nio the rest ; 
and also page 270, where there is 'an account of the su[>- 
po.^ed origin of ihi^ dreadful story,' — in which, bv-thc-\vay, 
whatever it n>ay be, the rcmjorturor Is out, and knows no- 
thing of tho matter. I hail a better origin tJian ho can 
devise or divine, for the soul of him. 

"You say nothing of Manfred's luck in the world; auil 
1 care not. He is one of the best of my misbegotten, say 
what they will. 

" I got at lust an extract, but no parcels. They will romo, 
I suppose, soini' lime or otlior. 1 am come up to Venice 
for a day or two to bathe, and am just going to take a 
swim in the Adriatic; so, gool cveniu'; — the post wails. 
" Yours, &c. " D. 



I 



118 



LETTERS, 1817. 



"P. S. Pray, was Manfred's speech to the Sun still 
retained in Act Third ? I hope so : it was one of the best 
in the thing, and better than the Colosseum. I have done 
Jifty-six of Canto Fourth, Childe Harold ; so down with 
your ducats," 



LETTER CCCXLVI. 

TO MK. MOORE. 

«La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817. 

" Murray, the Mokanna of booksellers, has contrived to 
send me extracts from Lalla Rookh by the post. They 
are taken from some magazine, and contain a short outline 
and quotations from the first two Poems. I am very much 
delighted with what is before me, and very thirsty for the 
rest. You have caught the colours as if you had been in 
the rainbow, and the tone of the East is perfectly preserv- 
ed ; so that * + * and its author must be somewhat in 
the back-ground, and learn that it requires something more 
than to have been upon the haunch of a dromedary to com- 
pose a good oriental story. I am glad you have changed 
the title from 'Persian Tale.' * * * 

" I suspect you have written a devilish fine composition, 
and I rejoice in it from my heart ; because ' the Douglas 
and the Percy both together are confident against a world 
in arms.' I hope you won't be affronted at my looking on 
us as ' birds of a feather;' though on whatever subject you 
had written, I should have been very happy in your success. 

" There is a simile of an orange tree's ' flowers and 
fruits,' which I should have liked better, if I did not believe 
it to be a reflection on 

*** + + ♦ 

"Do you remember Thurlovv^s poem to Sam,**f^/ien 
Rogers ;' and that d — d supper of Rancliffe's that ought to 
have been a dinner? 'Ah, Master Shallow, we have 
beard the chimes at midnight,' — But 

" My boat is on the shore, &c.t 

" This should have been written fifteen moons ago — the 
first stanza was. I am just come out from an houPs swim 
in the Adriatic; and I write to you with a black-eyed 
Venetian girl before me, reading Boccacio. * * 

"Last week I had a row on the road (I came up to 
Venice from ray cas'mo, a few miles on the Paduan road, 
this blessed day, to bathe) with a fellow in a carriage, who 
was impudent to my horse. I gave him a swinging box on 
the ear, which sent him to the police, who dismissed his 
complaint, and said, that if I had not thumped him, they 
would have trounced him for being impertinent. Witnesses 
had seen the transaction. He first shouted, in an unseemly 
way, to frighten my palfrey. I wheeled round, rode up to 
the window, and asked him what he meant. He grinned, 
and said some foolery, which produced him an immediate 
slap in the face, to his utter discomfiture. Much blasphemy 
ensued, and some menace, which I stopped by dismountino 
and opening the carriage-door, and intimating an intention 
of mending the road with his immediate remains, if he did 
not hold his tongue. He held it. 

• The fellow went sneakingly to the police ; but a soldier, 
who had seen the matter, and thought me right, went and 
counter-oathed him ; so that he had to retire — and cheap 
too : — I wish I haw! hit him harder. 

" Monk Lewis is here — ' how pleasant !'J He is a very 
good fellow, and very much yours. So is Sam — so is 
every body — and, among the number, 

" Yours ever, « B. 

"P. S. What think you of Manfred? * + + 

"If ever you sec + * *, ask him what he means by 
telling me, ' Oh, my friend, inveni portum ?' — What ' por- 



• See Poem«, p. 478. f See PoemB, p. 484. 

J All allmion (such a» often occurs in these letters) to aii anecdote wiiti 
which he bad been amused. 



turn ?' Port wine, I suppose — ^the only port he ever sought 
or found, since I knew him." 



LETTER CCCXLVn. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" La Mira, near Venice, July 15, 1817. 

"I have finished (that is, written — the file comes after- 
ward) ninety and eight stanzas of the Fourth Canto, which 
I mean to be the concluding one. It will probably be about 
the same length as the Third, being already of the dimen- 
sions of the first or second Cantos. I look upon parts of 
It as very good, that is, if the three former are good, but 
this we shall see ; and at any rate, good or not, it is rather 
a different style from the last — less metaphysical — which, 
at any rate, will be a variety. I sent you the shaft of the 
column as a specimen the other day, i. e. the first stanza. 
So you may be thinking of its arrival towards autumn, 
whose winds will not be the only ones to be raised, if so ie 
as how that it is ready by that time. 

" I lent Lewis, who is at Venice (in or on the Canal- 
accio, the Grand Canal,) your extracts from Lalla Rookh 
and Manuel, and, out of contradiction, it may be, he likes the 
last, and is not much taken with the first, of these perfoiTO- 
ances. Of Manuel I think, with the exception of a few 
capers, it is as heavy a nightmare as was ever bestrode by 
indigestion. 

"Of the extracts I can but judge as extracts, and I prefer 
the 'Peri' to the ' Silver Veil.' He seems not so much at 
home in his versification of the ' Silver Veil,' and a little 
embarrassed with his horrors ; but the conception of the 
character of the impostor is fine, and the plan of great scope 
for his genius, — and I doubt not that, as a whole, it will be 
very Arabesque and beautiful. 

"Your late epistle is not the most abundant in informa- 
tion, and has not yet been succeeded by any other ; so that 
I know nothing of your own concerns, or of any concerns, 
and as I never hear from any body but yourself who 
does not tell me something as disagreeable as possible, I 
should not be sorry to hear from you: and as it is not very 
probable, — if I can, by any device or possible arrangement 
with regard to my personal eiffairs, so arrange it, — that I 
shall return soon, or reside ever in England, all that you 
tell me will be all I shall know or inquire after, as to our 
beloved realm of Grub-street, and the black brethren and 
blue sisterhood of that extensive suburb of Babylon. Have 
you had no new babe of literature sprung up to replace the 
dead, the distant, the tired, and the retired ? no prose, no 
verse, no nothing ."?" 

* * ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 



LETTER CCCXLVin. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, July 20, 1817. 
" I write to give you notice that I have completed tho 
fourth and ultimate Canto of Childe Harold. It consists 
of 126 stanzas, and is consequently the longest of the four. 
It is yet to be copied and polished ; and the notes are to 
come, of which it will require more than the third Canto, as 
it necessarily treats more of works of art than of nature. 
It shall be sent towards autumn ; — and now for our barter. 
What do you bid ? eh ? you shall have samples, an' it so 
please you : but I wish to know what I am to expect (as 
the saying is) in these hard times, when poetry does not 
let for half its value. If you are disposed to do what Mrs. 
Winifred Jenkins calls ' the handsome thing,' I may perhaps 
throw you some odd matters to the lot, — translations, or 
slight originals ; there is no saying what may be on the 
anvil between this and tlie booking season. Recollect that 
it is the last Canto, and completes the work ; whether as 
good as the others, I cannot judge, in course — least of all 
as yet, but it shall be as little worse as I can help. I may, 



LETTERS, 1817. 



119 



perhaps, give some little gossip in the notes as to the pre- 
sent state of Italian literati and literature, being acquainted 
with some of their capi — men as well as books ; — but this 
depends upon my humour at the time. So, now, pro- 
nounce: 1 say nothing. 

" When you have got the whole/our Cantos, I think you 
might venture on an edition of the whole poem in quarto, 
with spare copies of the last two for the purchasers of the 
old edition of the first two. There is a hint for you, 
worthy of the Row; and now, perpend — pronounce. 

* I have not received a word from you of the fate of 
• Manfred' or ' Tasso,' which seems to me odd, whether 
they have failed or succeeded. 

" As this is a scrawl of business, and I have lately writ- 
ten at length and often on other subjects, I will only add 
that I am, &c." 



LETTER CCCXLIX. 

TO MR. MtTRRAY. 

"La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 7, 1817. 

" Your letter of the 18th, and, what will please you, as it 
did me, the parcel sent by the good-natured aid and abet- 
ment of Mr. Croker, are arrived. — Messrs. Lewis and 
Hobhouse are here: the former in the same house, the 
latter a few hundred yards distant. 

"You say nothing of Manfred, from which its failure may 
be inferred ; but I think it odd you should not say so at 
once. I know nothing, and hear absolutely nothing, of any 
body or any thing in England ; and there are no English 
papers, so that all you say will be news — of any person, 
or thing, or things. I am at present very anxious about 
Newstead, and sorry that Kinnaird is leaving England at 
this minute, though I do not tell him so, and would rather 
he should have his pleasure, although it may not in this 
mstance tend to my profit. 

" If I understand rightly, you have paid into Morland's 
15O0 pounds: as the agreement in the paper is two thou- 
sand guineas, there will remain therefore six hundred 
pounds, and not five hundred, the odd hundred being the 
extra to make up the specie. Six hundred and thirty 
pounds will bring it to the like for Manfred and Tasso, 
making a total of twelve hundred and thirty, I believe, for 
I am not a good calculator. I do not wish to press you, 
but I tell you fairly that it will be a convenience to me to 
have it psdd as soon as it can be made convenient to your- 
self. 

" The new and last Canto is 130 stanzas in length ; and 
may be made more or less. I have fixed no price, even in 
idea, and have no notion of what it may be good for. 
There are no metaphysics in it ; at least, I think not. Mr. 
Hobhouse has promised me a copy of Tasso's Will, for 
notes ; and I have some curious things to say about Fer- 
rara, and Parisina's story, and perhaps a farthing candle's 
worth of light upon the present state of Italian literature. 
I shall hardly be ready by October ; but that do n't matter. 
I have all to copy and correct, and the notes to write. 

"Ido not know whether Scott will like it; but I have 
called him the 'Ariosto of the North' in my text.* If he 
should not, say so in time. 

" Lewis, Hobhouse, and I went the other day to the cir- 
cumcision of a sucking Shylock. 1 have seen three men's 
heads and a child's foreskin cut off in Italy. The cere- 
monies are very moving, but too long for detail in this 
weather. 

"An Italian translation of 'Glenarvon' came lately to be 
printed at Venice. The censor (Sr. Petrotini) refused to 
sanction the publication till he had seen me on the subject. 
I told him that I did not recognise the slightest relation 
between that book and myself; but that, whatever opinions 
might be upon that subject, / would never prevent or oppose 



' Cuto IV. lUnM 40th. 



the publication of any book, in any language, on my owti 
private account ; and desired him (against his inclination) 
to permit the poor translator to publish his labours. It is 
going forward in consequence. You may say this, with 
my compliments, to the author. « Yours." 



LETTER CCCL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Aug. 12, 1817. 

"I have been very sorry to hear of the death of Madame 
de Stael, not only because she had been very kind to me at 
Copet, but because now I can never requite her. In a 
general point of view, she will leave a great gap in society 
and literature. 

" With regard to death, I doubt that we have any right 
to pity the dead for their ovra sakes. 

" The copies of Manfred and Tasso are arrived, thanks 
to Mr. Croker's cover. You have destroyed the whole 
effect and moral of the poem by omitting the last line of 
Manfred's speaking ; and why this was done, I know not. 
Why you persist in saying nothing of the thing itselfj I am 
equally at a loss to conjecture. If it is for fear of telling 
me something disagreeable, you are wrong; because 
sooner or later I must know it, and I am not so new, nor 
so raw, nor so inexperienced, as not to be able to bear, not 
the mere paltry, petty disappointments of authorship, Lut 
things more serious, — at least, I hope so, and that what you 
may think irritabihty is merely mechanical, and only acts 
like galvanism on a dead body, or the muscular motion 
which survives sensation. 

" If it is that you are out of humour, because I vvrote to 
you a sharp letter, recollect that it was partly from a mis- 
conception of your letter, and partly because you did a 
thing you had no right to do without consulting me. 

" I have, however, heard good of Manfred from two other 
quarters, and from men who would not be scrupulous in 
saying what they thought, or what was said; and so 
'good-morrow to you, good Master Lieutenant.' 

"I wrote to you twice about the 4th Canto, which you 
will answer at your pleasure. Mr. Hobhouse and I have 
come up for a day to the city ; Mr. Lewis is gone to Eng- 
land ; and I am " Yours." 



LETTER CCCLL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 21, 1817. 

" I take you at your word about Mr. Hanson, and will 
feel obliged if you will go to him, and request Mr. Davies 
also to visit him by my desire, and repeat that I trust that 
neither Mr. Kinnaird's absence nor mine will prevent his 
taking all proper steps to accelerate and promote the sale 
of Newstead and Rochdale, upon which the whole of my 
future personal comfort depends. It is impossible for me 
to express how much any delays upon these points would 
inconvenience me ; and I do not know a greater obligation 
that can be conferred upon me than tlie pressing these 
things upon Hanson, and making him act according to my 
wishes. I wish you would speak out, at least to me, and 
tell me what you allude to by your cold way of mentioning 
him. All mysteries at such a distance are not merely 
tormenting but mischievous, and may be prejudicial to my 
interests ; so pray expound, that I may consult with Mr. 
Kinnaird when he arrives ; and romcmber that I prefer tho 
most disagreeable certainties to hints and inuendcx's. The 
devil take every body ; I never can get any person to l>o 
explicit about any tiling or any bo<ly, and my whole life is 
passed in conjectures of what j)ix)pIo mean: you all talk 
in tlio stylo of Caroline Lamb's novels. 

" It is not Mr. St. Jolin, but Mr. St. Aubyn, son of Sir 
John St. Aubyn. Polidori knows him, and introduced him 



120 

to me. He is of Oxford, and has got my parcel. The 
doctor will ferret him out, or ought. The parcel contains 
many letters, some of Madame de Staels, and other peo- 
ple's, besides MSS., &c. By , if I find the gentleman, 

and he don't find the parcel, I will say something he won't 
like to hear. 

" You want a ' civil and delicate declension' for the me- 
dical tragedy ? Take it — 

" Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
Whicii is a good one in its way ; 
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shalter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
Whicli your catastrophe convulses. 

" I like your moral and machinery ; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ! 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concoction full of art ; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see : 
And for a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion, 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible, 
But — and I grieve to speak it — plays 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a.days. 
I had a heavy loss by ' Manuel,' — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
And Sotheby, with his ' Orestes.' 
(Which, by-the-by, the author's best is,) ^ 
Has lain so very long on hand 
That I despair of all demand. 
I 've advertised, but see my books, 
Or only watch my shopman's looks ; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

" There 's Byron, too, who once did better, 
Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
A sort of — it 's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama ; 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he 's lost his wits at Venice. 

In short, sir, what with one and t' other, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches through the street so thunder 1 
My room 's so full— we 've Gifford here 
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

" The (Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review ! — 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 

Short compass what but, to resume : 

As I was saying, sir, the room — 
The room 's so full of wits and bards, 
Crabbcs, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 
And others, neither bards nor wits ; — 
My humble tenement admits 
All persons in the dress of gent.. 
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 
" A party dines with me to-day, 
All clever men, who make their way ; 
They 're at this moment in discussion 
Oo poor De Stafil's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! 



LETTERS, 1817. 



" Thus run our time and tongues away.— 
But, to return, sir, t3 your play : 
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, 
Unless 'I were acted by O'Neill. 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
T 'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
And 80. with endless truth and hurry. 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

" JOHN MURRAY. 

"P. S. I've done the fourth and last Canto, which 
amounts to 133 stanzas. I desire you to name a price ; 
if you do n'r, / will ; so I advise you in time. 

" Yours, &c. 

* There will be a good many notes." 



LETTER CCCLIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Sept. 4, 1817. 

" Your letter of the 15th has conveyed with its contents 
the impression of a seal, to which the ' Saracen's Head' is 
a seraph, and the ' Bull and Mouth' a delicate device. I 
knew that calumny had sufficiently blackened me of later 
days, but not that it had given the features as well as com- 
plexion of a negro. Poor Augusta is not less, but rather 
more, shocked than myself, and says, ' people seem to have 
lost their recollection strangely' when they engraved such 
a 'blackamoor.' Pray don't seal (at least to me) with such 
a caricature of the human numskull altogether ] and if you 
do n't break the seal-cutter's head, at least crack his hbel 
(or likeness, if it should be a likeness) of mine. 

"Mr. I&inaird is not yet arrived, but expected. He has 
lost by the way all the tooth-powder, as a letter from Spa 
informs me. 

" By Mr. Rose I received safely, though tardily, mag;ne- 
sia and tooth-powder, and * * * *. Why do you 
send me such trash — worse than trash, the Sublime of 
Mediocrity? Thanks for Lalla, however, which is good; 
and thanks for the Edmburgh and duarterly, botli very 
amusing and well-written. Paris in 1815, &c. — good. 
Modem Greece "^ — good for nothing; written by some one 
who has never been there, and not being able to manage the 
Spenser stanza, has invented a thing of its o\vn, consisting 
of two elegiac stanzas, a heroic line, and an Alexandrine, 
twisted on a string. Besides, why 'modern?^ You may 
say modem Greeks, but surely Greece itself is rather more 
ancient than ever it was. — Now for business. 

"You offer 1500 guineas for the new Canto: I won't 
take it. I ask two thousand five hundred guineas for it, 
which you wU either give or not, as you think proper. It 
concludes the poem, and consists of 144 stanzas. The 
notes are numerous, and chiefly written by Mr. Hobhouse, 
whose researches have been indefatigable, and who, I will 
venture to say, has more real knowledge of Rome and its 
environs than any Englishman who has been there since 
Gibbon. By-the-way, to prevent any mistakes, I think it 
necessary to state the fact that he, Mr. Hobhouse, has no 
interest whatever in the price or profit to be derived from 
the copyright of either poem or notes directly or indirectly; 
so that you are not to suppose that it is b)', for, or tlirough 
him, that I require more for this Canto than the preceding. 
— No : but if Mr. Eustace was to have had two thousand 
for a Poem on Education ; if Mr. Moore is to have three 
thousand for Lalla, &c. ; if Mr. Campbell is to have three 
thousand for his prose on poetry — I do n't mean to dispa- 
rage these gentlemen in their labours — but I ask the afore- 
said price for mine. You will tell me that their productions 
are considerably longer : very true, and when they shorten 
them, I will lengtlien mine, and ask less. You shall submit 
the MS. to Mr. Gifford, and any other two gentlemen to 
be named by you (Mr. Frere, or Mr. Croker,or whomever 
you please, except such fellows as your * * s and * * s,) 
and if they pronounce this Canto to be inferior as a whole 
to the preceding, I will not appeal from their award, but 
burn the manuscript, and leave things as they are. 

"Yours very truly. 

" P. S. In answer to a former letter, I sent you a short 
statement of what I thought the state of our present copy- 
right account, viz. six hundred pounds still (or lately) due 
on Childe Harold, and six hundred guineas, Manfred and 
Tasso, making a total of twelve hundred and tliirty pounds. 
If we agree about the new poem, I shall take the liberty to 
reserve the choice of tlie nianner in which it should be pul>- 
lished, viz. a quarto, certes." + + * ♦ 

* + * 



• By Mrs. Heraaus. 



LETTERS, 1817. 



121 



LETTER CCCLIII. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

«LaMira,Sept. 12,1817. 

" I set out yesterday morning with the intention of paying 
my respects, and availing myself of your permission to 
walk over the premises.* On arriving at Padua, I found 
that the march of the Austrian troops had engrossed so 
many horses, that those I could procure were hardly able 
to crawl ; and their weakness, together with the prospect 
of finding none at all at the post-house of Monselice, and 
consequently either not arriving that day at Este, or so 
late as to be unable to return home the same evening, in- 
duced me to turn aside in a second visit to Arqua, instead 
of proceeding onwards; and even thus I hardly got back 
in time. 

" Next week I shall be obliged to be in Venice to meet 
Lord Kinnaird and his brother, who are expected in a few 
days. And this interruption, together with that occasioned 
by the continued march of the Austrians for the next few 
days, will not allow me to fix any precise period for avail- 
ing myself of your kindness, though I should wish to take 
the earliest opportunity. Perhaps, if absent, you will have 
the goodness to permit one of your servants to show me 
the grounds and house, or as much of either as may be 
convenient; at any rate, I shall take the first occasion 
possible to go over, and regret very much that I was 
on yesterday prevented. 

" I have the honour to be your obliged, &c." 



LETTER CCCLIV- 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Sept. 15, 1817. 

* I enclose a sheet for correction, if ever you get to an- 
other edition. You will observe that the blunder in printing 
makes it appear as if the Chateau was over St. Gingo, 
instead of being on the opposite shore of the Lake, over 
Clarens. So, separate the paragraphs, otherwise my 
topography will seem as inaccurate as your <?/pography 
on this occasion. 

" The other day I wrote to convey my proposition with 
regard to the fourth and concluding Canto. I have gone 
over and extended it to one hundred and fifty stanzas, 
which is almost as long as the first two were originally, 
and longer by itself than any of the smaller poems except 
the ' Corsair.' Mr. Hobhouse has made some very valu- 
able and accurate notes, of considerable length, and you 
may be sure that I will do for the text all that I can to 
finish with decency. I look upon Childc Harold as my 
best ; and as I begun, I think of concluding with it. But 
[ make no resolutions on that head, as I broke my former 
intention with regard to the ' Corsair.' However, I fear 
that I shall never do better ; and yet, not being thirty years 
of age, for some moons to come, one ought to be progres- 
sive, as far as intellect goes, for niany a good year. But I 
have had a devilish deal of tear and wear of mind and 
body in my time, besides having published too often and 
much already. God grant mo some judgment to do what 
may be most fitting in that and every thing else, for I doubt 
my own exceedingly. 

"I have read ' Lalla Rookh,' but not with sufficient at- 
tention yet, for 1 ride about, and lounge, and ponder, and 
— two or throe other things ; so that my reading is very 
desultory, and not so attentive as it used to hv.. I am very 
ghid to hear of its popularity, for Moore is a very noble 
fellow in all respects, and will enjoy it without any of the 
bad feelings which success — good or evil — sometimes en- 
genders in the men of rhyme. Of the Poem itself, I will 
tell you my opinion when I have mastered it: I say of the 



• A oomilry-hoyso nn Iho F.ii|;i\neon hills, ncnr V,nte, wliicli Mr. Ilupp- 
nor, who wnti then Iho FlnKlish consiil-fjenrriil nt Vi'iiicc, hn«l for lomc 
time occupictl, and which Lord Uyroii ivllerwaid rciUcdolliiin, buliiBVcr 
re*idcd luil. 

16 



Poem, for I do n't like the prose at all, at all : and m the 
meantime, the 'Fire-worshippers' is the best, and the 
' Veiled Prophet' the worst, of the volume. 

"With regard to poetry in general,* I am convinced 
the more I think of it, that he and all of us. — Scott, Sou- 
they, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I, — are all in the 
wrong, one as much as another ; that we are upon a wrong 
revolutionary poetical system, or systems, not worth a 
damn in itself, and from which none but Rogers and Crabbe 
are free ; and that the present and next generations will 
finally be of this opinion. I am the more confirmed in 
this by having lately gone over some of our classics, par- 
ticularly Pope, whom I tried in this way .•—If took Moore's 
poems and my own and some others, and went over thera 
side by side with Pope's, and I was really astonished (I 
ought not to have been so) and mortified at the ineffable 
distance in point of sense, learning, effect, and even imagi- 
nation, passion, and invention, between the little dueen 
Anne's man, and us of the Lower Empire. Depend upon 
it, it is all Horace then, and Claudian now among us ; and 
if I had to begin again, I would mould myself accordingly. 
Crabbe 's the man, but he has got a coarse and impracti- 
cable subject, and Rogers is retired upon half-pay, and 
has done enough, unless he were to do aa he did formerly," 



LETTER CCCLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Sept. 17, 1817. 

•(c >fc 4: >|c >t: 4c 

♦ + + * ♦ 

" Mr. Hobhouse purposes being in England in Novem- 
ber ; he will bring the Fourth Canto with him, notes and 
all : the text contains one hundred and fifty stanzas, which 
is long for that measure. 

" With regard to the ' Ariosto of the North'J surely their 
themes, chivalry, war, and love, were as like as can be ; 
and as to the compliment, if you knew what the Italians 
think of Ariosto, you would not hesitate about that. But 
as to tlieir ' measures,' you forget that Ariosto's is an oc- 
tave stanza, and Scott's any thing but a stanza. If you 
think Scott will dislike it, say so, and I will ex'punge. I do 
not call him the ' Scotch Ariosto,' which would be sad pro- 
vincial eulogy, but the ' Ariosto of the North^ meaning of 
all countries that are not the South. 

***** 

" As I have recently troubled you rather frequendy, I 
will conclude, repeating that I am 

" Yours ever, &c.* 



LETTER CCCLVL 

TO .MR. MURRAY. 

"Oct. 12, 1817. 

"Mr. Kinnaird and his brother, Lord Kinnaird, have 
been here, and arc now gone again. All your missives 
came, except the tooth-powder, of which I request farther 
supplies, at all convenient opportunities; as also of mag- 
nesia and soda-powders, Iwth great luxuries here, and 
neither to bo had gooil, or indeed hardly at all, of iho 
natives, 

+ ♦ * H. ♦ * 

" In Coleridge's Tiifo I porceivo an attack upon tlie tlion 
Committee of D. I.. Theatre for acting Bertram, and nn 
attack uiw)u Maturin's Bertram for being acted. Con- 
sidering all things, this is not very gratefiil iior graceful 



• On tidi pnrnunxnh, in tho MS. fopv cf Ihp nboTo Irlli-r. ? And Iha 
folluwiiiK nolo, la Ihe h(»nd»ritlii|f of Mr! liilTonl : " Thur 1« nior* food 
■anac, iiiitl ft'i'iinfi, aiul )ii<lKnu><i( in thin |MtuAgo, than in nnv oihte I «vw 
rnad, or I.onl llyron \vrnle."—Mi>nrt. 

t Ki'c li'ih'i'H fiir Ilowica und ISIucKwoixl. 



122 



LETTERS, 1817. 



on the part of the worthy autobiographer ; and I would 
answer, if I had not obliged liirn. Putting ray oAvn pains 
to forward the views of Coleridge out of the question, I 
know that there was every disposition, on the part of the 
Sub-Committee, to bring forward any production of his, 
were it feasible. The play he offered, though poetical, did 
not appear at all practicable, and Bertram did; — and 
hence this long tirade, which is the last chapter of his 
vagabond life. 

*As for Bertram, Maturin may defend his own be- 
gotten, if he bkes it well enough; I leave the Irish clergy- 
man and the new orator Henley to battle it out between 
them, satisfied to have done the best I could for both. I 
may say this to you, who know it, 

****** 

" Mr. Coleridge may console himself with the fervour,-— 
the almost religious fervour of his and Wordsworth's dis- 
ciples, as he calls it. If he means that as any proof of 
their merits, I will find him as much ' fervour' in behalf of 
Richard Brothers and Joanna Southcote as ever gathered 
over his pages or round his fireside. * * + 

" My answer to your proposition about the Fourth Canto 
you will have received, and I av.ait yours ; — perhaps we 
may not agree. I have since written a Poem* (of 84 
octave stanzas,) humorous, in or after the excellent manner 
of Mr. Whistlccraft (whom I take to be Frere,) on a 
Venetian anecdote which amused me : — but till I have 
your answer, I can say nothing more about it. 

"Mr. Hobhouse does not return to England in Novem- 
ber, as he intended, but will winter here ; and as he is to 
convey the poem, or poems, — for there may perhaps be more 
than the two mentioned (which, by-the-w^ay, I shall not 
perhaps include in the same publication or agreement) — 
1 shall not be able to publish so soon as expected ; but I 
suppose there is no harm in the delay. 

•' I have signed and sent your former copyrights by Mr. 
Kinnaird, but not the receipt^ because the money is not yet 
paid. Mr. Kinnaird has a power of attorney to sign for 
me, and will, when necessary. 

"Many thanks for the Edinburgh Review, which is very 
kind about Manfred, and defends its originality, which I 
did not know that any body had attacked, I never read^ 
and do not know that I ever saw the ' Faustus of Marlovv,' 
and had, and have, no dramatic works by me in English, 
except the recent things you sent me; but I heard Mr. 
Lewis translate verbally some scenes of Goethe's Faust 
(which were, some good and some bad) last summer — 
which is all I know of the history of that magical person- 
age ; and as to the germs of Manfred, they may be found 
in the Journal vi'hich I sent to Mrs. Leigh (part of which 
you saw) when I went over first the Dent de Jaman, and 
then the Wengen or Wengeberg Alp and Sheideck, and 
made the giro of the Jungfrau, Shreckhorn, &c, &c. 
shortly before I left Switzerland. I have the whole scene 
of Manfred before me as if it was but yesterday, and could 
point it out, spot by spot, torrent and all. 

" Of the Prometheus of iEschylus I was passionately 
fond as a boy (it was one of the Greek plays we read 
thrice a year at Harrow;) indeed that and the 'Medea' 
were tJic only ones, except the 'Seven before Thebes,' 
which ever much [)lcased me. As to the ' Faustus of 
Marlow,' I never read, never saw, nor heard of it — at least, 
thought of it, except that I think Mr. Gifford mentioned^ 
in a note of his which you sent me, something about the 
eatastrophe ; but not as having any thing to do with mine 
which may or may not resemble it, for any thing I know. 

" Tho Prometheus, if not exactly in my plan, has always 
been so much in my head, that I can easily conceive its 
influence over all or any tiling that I have written ; — but I 
deny Marlow and his progeny, and beg that you will do 
the same. 



' Beppo. 



" If you can send me the paper in question,* which the 
Edinburgh Review mentions, do. The Review in the 
magazine you say was written by Wilson? it had all the air 
of b°eing a poet's, and was a very good one. The Edinburgh 
Review I take to be Jeffrey's own by its friendliness. I 
wonder they thought it worth while to do so, so soon after 
the former ; but it was evidently with a good motive. 

"I saw Hoppner the other day, whose country-house at 
Este I have taken for two years. If you come out next 
summer, let me know in time. Love to Gifford. 

" Yours ever truly, 

'■' Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 

These two lines are omitted in your letter to the doctor, 
after — 

" All clever men who make their way." 



LETTER CCCLVn. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Oct. 23, 1817. 

" Your two letters are before me, and our bargain is so 
far concluded. How sorry 1 am to hear that Gifford is 
unwell ! Pray tell me he is better ; I hope it is nothing but 
cold. As you say his illness originates in cold, I trust it 
will get no farther. 

"Mr. Whistlecraft has no greater admirer than myself: 
I have written a story in 89 stanzas, in imitation d" him, 
called Beppo (the short name for Giuseppe, that is, the 
Joe of the Italian Joseph,) which I shall throw you into the 
balance of the Fourth Canto, to help you round to your 
money ; but you perhaps had better publish it anonymously: 
but this we will see to by-and-by. 

"In the Notes to Canto Fourth, Mr. Hobhouse has 
pointed out several errors of Gibbon. You may depend 
upon H.'s research and accuracy. You may print it in 
what shape you please. 

" With regard to a future large Edition, you may print 
all, or any thing, except 'English Bards,' to the republica- 
tion of which at no time will I consent. I would not reprint 
them on any consideration. I don't think them good for 
much, even in point of poetry ; and as to other things, you 
are to recollect that I gave up the publication on account 
of the Hollands, and I do not think that any time or cir- 
cumstances can neutralize the suppression. Add to which, 
that, after being on terms with almost aU the bards and 
critics of the day, it would be savage at any time, but vrcsst 
of all now, to revive this foolish Lampoon. 

****** 
****** 

"The review of Manfred came very safely, and I am 
much pleased with it. It is odd that they should say (that 
is, somebody in a magazine whom the Edinburgh contro- 
verts,) that it was taken from Marlow's Faust, which I 
never read nor saw. An American, who came the other 
day from Germany, told Mr. Hobhouse that Manfred was 
taken from Goethe's Faust. The devil may take both the 
Faustuses, German and English — I have taken neither. 

"Will you send to Hanson, and say that he has not 
written since 9th September? — at least I have had no letter 
since, to my great surprise. 

"Will you desire Messrs. Morland to send out whatever 
additional sums have or may be paid in credit immediately, 
and always, to their Venice correspondents? It is two 
months ago that they sent me out an additional credit for 
one thousand pounds. 1 was very glad of it, but I do n't 
know how the devil it came ; for I can only make out 500 



* A paper in the Edinburgh Magazine, in which it was suggested that 
the general conception of Manfred, and much of what is excellent in the 
nianner of its execution, had been borrowed from " The Tragical History 
of Dr. Faustus," of Marlow 

t See Letter 348. 



LETTERS, 1817. 



123 



of Hanson's payment, and I had thought the other 500 
came from you ; but it did not, it seems, as, by yours of the 
7th instant, you have only just paid the 1230Z. balance. 

"Mr. Kinnaird is on his way home with the assignments. 
I ca« fix no time for the arrival of Canto Fourth, which 
depends on the journey of Mr. Hobhouse home ; and I do 
not think that this will be immediate. 

" Yours, in great haste and very truly, " B. 

"P. S. Morlands have not yet written to my bankers 
apprising the payment of your balances: pray desire them 
to do so. 

"Ask them about the previous thousand — of which I 
know 500 came from Hanson's — and make out the other 
500 — tlxat is, whence it came." 



LETTER CCCLVm. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Nov. 15, 1817. 

^'Mr. Kinnaird has probably returned to England by this 
time, and will have conveyed to you any tidings you may 
wish to have of us and ours. I have come back to Venice 
for the winter. Mr. Hobhouse will probably set off in 
December, but what day or week, I know not. He is my 
opposite neighbour at present. 

"I wrote yesterday in some perplexity, and no very good 
humour, to Mr. Kinnaird, to inform me about Newstead 
and the Hansons, of which and whom I hear nothing since 
his departure from this place, except in a few unintelligible 
words from an unintelligible woman. 

" I am as sorry to hear of Dr. Polidori's accident as one 
can be for a person for whom one has a dishke, and some- 
thing of contempt. When he gets well, tell me, and how 
he gets on in the sick line. Poor fellow ! how came he to 
fix there? 

" I fear the doctor's skill at Norwich 
Will hardly salt the doctor's porridge. 

Methought he was going to the Brazils, to give the Portu- 
guese physic (of wliich they are fond to desperation,) with 
the Danish consul. 

****** 

"Your new Canto has expanded to one hundred and 
sixty-seven stanzas. It will be long, you see ; and as for 
the notes by Hobhouse, I suspect they will be of the heroic 
fiize. You must keep Mr. * * in good humour, for he is 
devilish touchy yet about your Review and all which it 
inlierits, including the editor, the Admiralty, and its book- 
seller. I used to think that / was a good deal of an author 
in amour propre and noli me tangei-e; but these prose fellows 
are worst, after all, about their little comforts. 

*Do you remember my mentioning, some months ago, 
the Marquis Moncada — a Spaniard of distinction and 
fourscore years, my summer neighbour at La Mira? Well, 
about six weeks ago, he fell in love with a Venetian girl 
of family, and no fortune or character ; took her into his 
mansion ; quarrelled with all his former friends for giving 
him advice (except me who gave him none,) and installed 
her present concubine and future wife and mistress of him- 
self and furniture. At the end of a month, in which she 
demeaned herself as ill as possible, he found out a cor- 
respondence between tier and some f )rmer keeper, and 
after nearly strangling, turned her out of the house, to the 
great scandal of the keeping part of the town, and with a 
prodigious eclat, wluch has occupied all the canals and 
coflee-houses in Venice. Ho said .she wanted to poison 
him; and she says — God knows what; but between them 
they have made a great deal of noise. I know a little of 
both the parlies: Moncada seemed a very sensible olil man, 
a character which ho has not (juite kept up on this occa- 
sion ; and tlio woman is rather showy than pretty. For 
the honour of religion, she was bred in a convent, and for 
the credit of Great Britain, taught by an ICnglishwoman 

" Yours, Stc." 



LETTER CCCLIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Dec. 3, 1817. 

"A Venetian lady, learned and somewhat stricken in 
years, having, in her intervals of love and devotion, taken 
upon her to translate the Letters and write the Life of 
Lady Mary Wortlcy Montague, — to which undertaking 
there are two obstacles, firstly, ignorance of English, and, 
secondly, a total dearth of information on the subject of her 
projected biography, — has appUed to me for facts or falsi- 
ties upon this promising project. Lady Montague lived 
the last twenty or more years of her life in or near Venice, 
I believe ; but here they know nothing, and remember 
nothing, for the story of to-day is succeeded by the scandal 
of to-morrow; and the wit, and beauty, and gallantry, 
which might render your countrywoman notorious in her 
own country, must have been here no great distinction — 
because the first is in no request, and the two latter are 
conmion to all women, or at least the last of them. If yoa 
can tlierefore tell me any thing, or get any thing told, of 
Lady Wortley Montague, I shall talce it as a favour, and 
will transfer and translate it to the ' Dama' in question. 
And I pray you besides to send me, by some quick and 
safe voyager, the edition of her Letters, and the stupid Life, 
by Ih. Dcdlaway, published by her proud and foolish family. 

" The death of the Princess Charlotte has been a shock 
even here, and must liave been an earthquake at home.* 
The Courier's list of some three hundred heirs to the crown 
(including the house of Wirtemberg, with that + * *, 

P , of disreputable memory, whom I remember seeing 

at various balls during the visit of the Muscovites, &c. in 
1814,) must be very consolatory to all true lieges, as well 
as foreigners, except Signor Travis, a rich Jew merchant 
of this city, who complains grievously of the lengtli of 
British mourning, wliich has countermanded all the silks 
which he was on the point of transmitting, for a year to 
come. The death of tliis poor girl is melancholy in every 
respect, dying at twenty or so, in childbed — of a boy too, a 
present princess and future queen, and just as she began to 
be happy, and to enjoy herself and the hopes which sho 
inspired. ******* 

'• I think, as far as I can recollect, she is the first royal 
defunct in childbed upon record in our history. I feel sorry 
in every respect — for tlio loss of a female reign, and a 
woman hitherto harmless; and all the lost rejoicings, and 
addresses, and drunkenness, and disbursements of John 
Bull on the occasion. ****** 

" The Prince will marry again, after divorcing his wife, 
and Mr. Southcy will write an elegy now, and an ode tlien ; 
the Quarterly will have an article against llie press, and 
the Edinburgh an article, half and half] about reform and 
right of divorce • * * * + the British will give you Dr. 
Chalmers's funeral sermon much commended, with a place 
in the stars for deceased royalty ; and the Morning Post 
will have already yelled fortli its 'syllables of dolour.' 
' Wo, wo, Ncalliiiy ! — the young NcuUiny 1' 

" It is some time since I have heard from you : are you 
in bad humour? I suppose so. I have been so mvselfj 
and it is your turn now, and by-and-by mine will como 
round again. "Yours truly, "B. 

" P. S. Countess Albrizzi, como back from Paiis, haa 
brought mo a medal of lumselfj a present from Donon to 
me, and a likeness of Mr. Rogers (belonging to her,) by 
Denon also." 



LETTER CCCLX. 

TO MR. IlOrPNEH. 

"Venice, Dec. 15, 1817. 
" I should Irnvo thanked you before, for your favour a 
few days ago, had I not been in the intention of paying my 



Sott Chllde Ilai-oUl, Cauto 4. lUou ITT. 



124 



LETTERS, 1818. 



respects, personally, this evening, from wliich I am deterred 
by the recollection that you will probably be at the Count 
Goess's this evening, which has made me postpone my 
intrusion. 

"I think your Elegy a remarkably good one, not only as 
a composition, but both the politics and poetry contain a 
far greater portion of truth and generosity than belongs to 
the times, or to the professors of these opposite pursuits, 
which usually agree only in one point, as extremes meet. 
I do not know whether you wished me to retain the copy, 
but I shall retain it till you tell me otherwise; and am very 
much obliged by the perusal. 

"My own sentiments on Venice, &c. such as they are, 
I had already thrown into verse last summer, in the Fourth 
Canto of Childe Harold, now in preparation for the press; 
and I think much more highly of them for being in coin- 
cidence with yours. "Believe me yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Venice,Jan. 8, 1818. 

' My dear Mr. Murray, 
You 're in a damn'd hufry 

To set up this ultimate Canto ; 
But (if they don't rob ub,) 
Yon '11 see Mr. Hobhouse 
•. Will bring it safe in hi* portmanteatt. 

2. 

' For the Journal yon hint of, 
As ready to print off, 

No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
But as yet I have writ off 
The devil a bit of 
Our ' Beppo ;'— when copied, I 'llsend it. 



' Then you 've * * * 's Tour,— 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
For the pompous rascallion 
^ho do n't speak Italian 
Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work. 



' You can make any loss up 
With ' Spence' and his gossip, 

A work which must surely succeed ; 
Then Q,ueen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
With the new ' Fytle' of ' Whistlecraft,' 

Must make people purchase and read. 

8. 
' Then you 've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on. 

To serve with a Muscovite master, 
And help him to polish 
A nation 80 owlish, 
They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 

9. 

' For the man, 'poor and shrewd," 
With whom you M conclude 

A compact without more delay. 
Perhaps some such pen is 
Still extant in Venice ; 

But please sir, to mention your pay." 



LETTER CCCLXn. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 



«Venice,Jan. 19, 1818. 
" I send you tlio storyf in three other separate covers. 
It won't do for your Journal, being full of political allusions. 
Prirti al(me, imthout name ; alter nothing ; get a scholar to 
Bee that the Italian phrases arc correctly published (your 
printing, by-the-way, always makes mo ill with its eternal 



"« Vide your letter." t Beppo. 



blunders, which are incessant,) and God speed you. Hob- 
house left Venice a fortnight ago, saving two days. I have 
heard nothing of or from him. 

" Yours, &c. 
" He has the whole of the MSS. ; so put up prayers in 
your back shop, or in the printer's ' Chapel.' " 



LETTER CCCLXm. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Jan. 27, 1818. 

" My father — ^that is, my Armenian father. Padre Pas- 
quali — in the name of all the other fathers of our Convent, 
sends you the enclosed, greeting. 

"Inasmuch as it has pleased the translators of the long- 
lost and lately-found portions of the text of Eusebius to 
put forth the enclosed prospectus, of which I send six 
copies, you are hereby implored to obtain subscribers in 
the two Universities, and among the learned, and the un- 
learned, who would unlearn their ignorance. — This they 
(the Convent) request, / request, and do you request. 

" I sent you Beppo some weeks agone. You must pub-» 
lish it alone ; it has politics and ferocity, and won't do for 
your isthmus of a Journal. 

" Mr. Hobhouse, if the Alps have not broken his neck, 
is, or ought to be, swimming with my commentaries and 
his owTi coat of mail in his teeth and right hand, in a cork 
jacket, between Calais and Dover. 

"It is the height of the Carnival, and I am in tlie extreme 
and agonies of a new intrigue with T do n't exactly know 
whom or what, except that she is insatiate of love, and 
won't take money, and has light hair and blue eyes, which 
are not common here, and tliat I met her at the Masque, 
and that when her mask is offj I am as wise as ever. I 
shall make what I can of the remamder of my youth." ♦ 
+ * * * * 



LETTER CCCLXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Venice, Feb. 2,1818. 

" Your letter of Dec. 8, arrived but this day, by some 
delay, common but inexplicable. Your domestic calamity 
is very grievous, and I feel with you as much as I dare feel 
at all. Throughout life, your loss must be my loss, and 
your gain my gain ; and, though my heart may ebb, there 
will always be a drop for you among the dregs.* 

"I know how to feel with you, because (selfishness being 
always the substratum of our damnable clay) I am quite 
wrapt up in my own children. Besiiles my little legiti- 
mate, I have made unto myself an i/legitimate since (to 
say nothing of one before.)| and I look forward to one of 
these as the pillar of my old age, supposing tliat I ever 
reach — which I hope I never shall — that desolating period. 
I have a great love for my little Ada, though perhaps she 
may torture me, like ***** 
* * * * 

"Your offered address will be as acceptable as you can 
wish. I do n't much care what the wretches of the world 
think of me — all thai 's past. But I care a good deal what 
you think of me, and so, say what you like, ifou knmv that 
I am not sullen ; and, as to being savage^ such things depend 
on circumstances. However, as to being in good humour 
in your society, there is no great merit in that, because it 
would be an effort, or an insanitj', to be otherwise. 

" I do n't know what Murray may have been saying or 
quoting. I called Crabbe and Sam the fathers of present 
Poesy ; and said, that I thought — except tliern — aU of ' us 
youtK were on a wrong tack. But I never said that we 
did not sail well. Our fame will be hurt by admiration and 
imitation. When I say our, 1 mean all (Lakers included,) 



' See Lines to Mr. Moore, p. 



t See Peoms, p. 474. 



'^^' 



LETTERS, 1818. 



i2d 



except the postscript of the Augustans. The next gene- 
ration (from the quantity and facility of imitation) will 
tumble and break their necks off our Pegasus, who runs 
away with us ; but we keep the saddle, because we broke 
the rascal and can ride. But though easy to mount, he 
is the devil to guide ; and the next fellows must go back to 
the riding-school and the manage, and learn to ride the 
'great horse.' 

" Talking of horses, by-the-way, I have transported my 
own, four in number, to the Lido (beach, in English,) a 
strip of some ten miles along the Adriatic, a mile or two 
from the city ; so that I not only get a row in my gondola, 
but a spanking gallop of some miles daily along a firm and 
solitary beach, from the fortress to Malamocco. the which 
contributes considerably to my health and spirits. 

" 1 have hardly had a vv'ink of sleep this week past. We 
are in the agonies of the Carnival's last days, and I must 
be up all night again, as well as to-morrow. I have had 
some curious masking adventures this Carnival, but, as they 
are not yet over, 1 shall not say on. I will work the mine 
of my youth to the last veins of the ore, and then — good 
night. I have lived, and am content. 

"Hobhouse went away before the Carnival began, so 
that he had little or no fun. Besides, it requires some 
time to be thoroughgoing with the Venetians ; but of all 
this anon, in some other letter. -+ + * 

***** 

" I must dress for the evening. There is an opera and 
ridotta, and 1 know not what, besides balls ; and sO; ever 
and ever yours, " B. 

"P. S. I send this without revision, so excuse errors. I 
delight in the fame and fortune of Lalla, and again congratu- 
late you on your well-merited success.'' 



LETTER CCCLXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Feb. 20, 1818. 

"I have to thank Mr. Croker for the arrival, and you 
for the contents, of the parcel which came last week, much 
quicker than any before, owing to Mr. Croker's kind at- 
tention and the official exterior of the bags ; and all safe 
except much friction among the magnesia, of which only 
two bottles came entire; but it is all very well, and 1 am 
exceedingly obliged to you. 

" The books I have read, or rather am reading. Pray, 
who may be the Sexagenarian, whose gossip is very amus- 
ing? Many of his sketches I recognize, particularly Gif- 
ford. Mackintosh, Drummond, Dutens, H. Walpole, Mrs. 
Inchbald, Opie, &c. with the Scotts, Loughborough, and 
most of the divines and lawyers, besides a few shorter hints 
of authors, and a few lines about a certain ' noble author,^ 
characterized as malignant and sceptical, according to the 
good old story, ' as it was in the beginning, is now, but not 
always shall be :' do you know such a person, Master Mur- 
ray? eh? — And pray, of the boolvsellers, which bo i/oii? 
the dry, the dirty, the honest, the opulent, the finical, tlie 
splendid, or the coxcomb bookseller ? Sta[) my vitals, but 
the author grows scurrilous in his grand climacteric. 

" I remember to have seen Person at Cambridge, in (ho 
hall of our college, and in private |)arties, but not frcqu(!nlly ; 
and I never can recollect him except as drunk or brutal, 
and generally both: I mean in an evening, for in llio hall, 
he dined at the Dean's table, and I at the Vicemaster's, 
80 that 1 was not near him ; and ho then and ihoro ap- 
peared sober in his demeanour, nor did I ever hear of ex- 
cess or outrage on his part in public, — commons, rollcgo, 
or chapel ; but I have seen him in a private parly of iiiider- 
graduates, many of tliem freshmen and strangers, fake up 
a pok(!r to one of them, and hcaril hiin us(i lungiiago as 
blackguard as his action, i have seen Sln-rickui drunk, 
too, with all the work! ; but his intoxication was that of 
Bacchus, antl Person's that of Silcnus. Of all iho disgust- 



ing brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was the 
most bestial, as far as the few times that I saw him went, 
which were only at William Bankes's (the Nubian dis- 
coverers) rooms. I saw })im once go away in a rage, 
because nobody knew the name of the ' Cobbler of Messi- 
na,' insultuig their ignorance with the most vulgar terms 
of reprobation. He was tolerated in this state amono' tlie 
young men for his talents, as the Turks think a madman 
inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite or ratlier 
vomit pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek hke 
a Helot ; and certainly Sparta never shocked her children 
with a grosser exliibxtion than this man's intoxication. 

" I perceive, in the book you sent me, a long account of 
him, vvliich is very savage. I cannot judge, as I never 
saw him sober, except in hall or combination-room ; and 
then I was never near enough to hear, and hardly to see 
him. Of his drunken deportment, I can be sure, because 
I saw it. 

" With the Reviews, I have been much entertained. It 
requires to be as far from England as I am to relish a 
periodical paper properly: it is like soda-water in an 
Italian summer. But what cruel work you make with 
Lady Morgan ! You should recollect that she is a woman ; 
though to be sure, they are now and then very provoking ; 
still, as authoresses they can do no great harm ; and I think 
it is a pity so much good invective should have been laid 
out upon her, when there is such a fine field of us. Jacobin 
gentlemen, for you to work upon. It is, perhaps, as bitter 
a critique as ever was written, and enough to make sad 
work for Dr. Morgan, both as husband and apothecary ; — 
unless she should say, as Pope did of some attack upon 
hiiB, ' That it is as good for her as a dose oniartshornJ 

"I heard from Moore lately, and was sorry to be 
made aware of his domestic loss. Thus it is — 'medio de 
fonte leporum' — in the acme of his fame and Ids happiness 
comes a drawback as usual. 

****** 

"Mr. Hoppner, whom I saw this morning, has been 
made the father of a very fine boy.* — Mother and child 
doing very well indeed. By this time Hobhouse should 
be with you, and also certain packets, letters, &c. of mine, 
sent since his departure. I am not at all well in health 
within this last eight days. My remembrances to Gifford 
and all friends. "Yours, &c. "B. 

" P. S. In the course of a month or two, Hanson will 
have probably to send ott'a clerk with conveyances to sign 
(Newstead being sold in November last for ninetv-^Tour 
thousand five hundred pounds,) in which case I supplicate 
supplies of articles as usual, for which, desire Mr. Ivin- 
naird to settle from funds in tlicir bank, and deduct from 
my account with him. 

"P. S. To-morrow night I am going to see ' OtcUo,' an 
opera from our ' Othello,' and one of Rassini's best, it is 
said. It will be curious to see in Venice the Venetian 
story itself represented, besides to discover what they will 
make of Shakspeare in music." 



LETTER CCCLXVL 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Venice, Fob. 28, isiS. 
"mv DKAU sill, 
"Our friend, il Conic M., tlirew mo into a cold sweat 
last niiiht, bv telling nie of a menaced version of Manfred 



* On the liii-ll) nf tills cliiM, wlio win rliriklriictl John Willinm KI»o, 
Lord Hyioii wmlf the I'mir l",illi)wiii); liiii-H, wliich mo in iunitlii'riv»pecl 
iViniii'l<iil)U> thnii lli.il. Ihry \\>t'i' (hixiKhl wnrlhy (>l'l>rhi|| mctHtnlly trans* 
liu.'il iiitii III! h"<!i lliiiii tin (hllnrni h<iism>Kr>'« ; nium-lv, lirci-k,' Lnlin, 
Itiihiiii, (nho ill thi- V''ii.'liMn .hiilicl.) (M-iinun, Krvnkii, SjMUiiih, Illjr- 
I'iiin, llt'brt'W, Ariiii'iiiaii, ami SHniiiril:iii : — 

" HIn fiilhci-'i nfnii', liiii m<>lhpr'» kiiic« 

III him, I hope, will iilwnyi fit ao ; 

With (alill III Kc(*|i him in r<ii»I cute,) 

Tho heitltli niul apprUto uf ItiMO." 

Th<> oi i^liinl linn, with the (lilToirnt vf ralon» nhoT» mentioned, Wtr» 

pi iiitcil m u iiimll voliiiuu, iu Uio tieiniiiaiy of iWun,— Afvur«. 



126 



LETTERS, 1818. 



(in Venetian, I hope, to complete the thing,) by some 
Italian, who had sent it to you for correction, which is the 
reason why I take the liberty of troubling you on the sub- 
ject. If you have any means of communication with the 
man, would you permit me to convey to him the offer of 
any price he may obtain, or think to obtain, for his project, 
provided he wilf throw his translation into the fire, and 
promise not to undertake any other of that or any other of 
my things: I will send him his money mimediately on this 
condition. 

"As I did not write to the Italians, nor far the Italians, 
nor of the Italians, (except in a poem not yet published, 
where I have said all the good I know or do not know of 
them, and none of the harm,) I confess I wish that they 
would let me alone, and not drag me into their arena as 
one of the gladiators, in a silly contest which I neither 
understand nor have ever interfered with, having kept clear 
of all their literary parties, both here and at Milan, and 
elsewhere.— I came into Italy to feel the climate and be 
quiet, if possible. Mossi's translation I would have pre- 
vented if I had known it, or could have done so ; and I trust 
that I shall yet be in time to stop this new gentleman, of 
whom 1 heard yesterday for the first time. He will only 
hurt himself; and do no good to his party, for in -partij the 
whole thin2 originates. Our modes of tliinking and writing 
are so unutterably dirferent, that I can conceive no greater 
absurdity than attempting to make any approach between 
the English and Italian poetry of the present day. I like 
the people very much, and tlieir literature very much, but 
I am not the least ambitious of being the subject of their 
discussions literary and personal, (which appear to be 
pretty much the same thing, as is tlie case in most coun- 
tries ;) and if you can aid me in impeding this publication, 
you will add to much kindness already received from you 
by yours, " Ever and truly, 

"Byron. 

" P. S. How is the son, and mamma? Well, I dare say." 



LETTER CCCLXVn. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

« Venice, March 3, 1818. 

"I have not, as you say, 'taken to wife the Adriatic' I 
heard of Moore's loss from himself in a letter which was 
delayed upon the road three months. I was sincerely 
sorry for it, but in such cases what are words ? 

" The villa you speak of is one at Este, which Mr. Hopp- 
ner (Consul-general here,) has transferred to me. I have 
taken it for two years as a place of Villeggiatura. The 
situation is very beautiful indeed, among the Euganean 
hills, and the house very fair. The vines are luxuriant to 
a great degree, and all the fruits of the earth abundant. It 
is close to the old castle of the Estes, or Guelphs, and 
within a few miles of Arqua, which I have visited twice, 
and hope to visit often. 

"Last summer (except an excursion to Rome,) I passed 
upon the Brenta. In Venice I winter, transporting my 
horses to the Lido, bordering the Adriatic, (where the fort 
is,) so that I get a gallop of some miles daily along the strip 
of beach which reaches to Malamocco, when in health ; 
but with'm these few weeks I have been unwell. At pre- 
sent I am getting better. Tiie Carnival was short, but a 
good one, I do n't go out much, except during the time 
of masks ; but there arc one or two conversazioni, where I 
go regularly, just to keep up the system; as I had letters 
to their givers ; and they arc particular on such points ; and 
now and then, though very rarely, to the Governor's. 

"It is a very good place for women. I like the dialect 
and their manner very much. There is a naivete about 
them which is very winning, and the romance of the place 
is a mighty adjunct ; the bel sangue is not, however, now 
among the dame or higher orders ; but all under ifazzioli, 
oi kerchiefs, (a wliite kind of veil which the lower orders 



wear upon their heads ;) — the vesta zendale, or old national 
female costume, is no more. The city, however, is decay- 
ing daily, and does not gain in population. However, I 
prefer it to any other in Italy ; and here have I pitched my 
staff; and here do I purpose to reside for tlie remainder of 
my hfe, unless events, connected with business not to be 
transacted out of England compel me to return for that 
purpose ; otlierwise I have few regrets^ and no desires to 
visit it again for its own sake. I shall probably be obliged 
to do so, to sign papers for my affairs and a proxy for the 
Whigs, and to see Mr. Waite, for I can 't find a good 
dentist here, and every two or three years one ought to 
consult one. About seeing my children, I must take my 
chance. One I shall have sent here; and I shall be very 
happy to see the legitimate one when God pleases, which 
he perhaps will some day or other. As for my mathe- 
matical wife, I am as well without her. 

"Your account of your visit to Fonthill is very striking; 
could you beg of him for me a copy in MS. of the remaining 
Tales ?* I think I deserve them, as a strenuous and pubUc 
admirer of the first one. I will return it when read, and 
make no ill use of the copy, if granted. Murray would 
send me out any thing safely. If ever I return to England, 
I should hke very much to see the author, with his per- 
mission. In the mean time, you could not obUge me more 
than by obtaining me the perusal I request, in French or 
English, — all's one for that, though I prefer ItaUan to 
either. I have a French copy of Vathek, which I bought 
at Lausanne. I can read French with great pleasure and 
facility, though I neitlier speak nor write it. Now Italian 
I can speak with some fluency, and write sufficiently for 
my purposes, but I do n't like their modem prose at all ; it 
is very heavy, and so different from MachiaveUi. 

" They say Francis is Junius ; — I tlnnk it looks like it. 
I remember meeting him at Earl Grey's at dinner. Has 
not he lately married a young woman ; and was not he 
Madame Talleyrand's cavcdiere servente in India years ago? 

"I read my death in the papers, which was not true. I 
see they arc marrying the remaining singleness of the royal 
family. They have brought out Fazio with great and 
deserved success at Covent-garden ; that 's a good sign. I 
tried, during the directory, to have it done at Drury-lane, 
but was overruled . If you thmk of comin g into tliis coimtry, 
you will let me know perhaps beforehand. I suppose 
Moore won't move. Rose is here. I saw him the other 
night at Madame Albrizzi's ; he talks of returning in May. 
My love to the Hollands. "Ever, &c. 

"P. S. They have been crucifying Othello into an opera, 
{Otello, by Rossini;) the music good, but lugubrious ; but 
as for the words, all the real scenes with lago cut out, and 
the greatest nonsense mstead; tlie handkerchief turned 
into a billet-doux, and the first suiger would not black his 
face, for some exquisite reasons assigned in the preface. 
Singing, dresses, and music, very good." 



LETTER CCCLXVm. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Venice, March 16. 1818. 

"my DEAR TOM, 

" Since my last, which I hope that you have received, I 
have had a letter from our friend Samuel.f He talks of 
Italy this summer — won't you come with him? I don't 
know whether you would like our Italian way of life or not 
+ *** + *** + * 
****** 

" They are an odd people. The other day I was telling 
a girl, ' you must not come to-morrow, because Marguerita 
is coming at such a time,' — (they are both about five feet 
ten inches high, with great black eyes and fine fingers — ^fit 
to breed gladiators from — and I had some difficulty to 



A continuation of Vathek, liy Mr. Beckford. 



LETTERS, 1818. 



127 



prevent a battle upon a rencontre once before,) — 'unless 
you promise to be friends, and' — the answer was an inter 
ruption, by a declaration of war against the other, which 
she said would be a 'Guerra di Candia.' Is it not odd, 
that the lower order of Venetians should still allude pro- 
verbially to that famous contest, so glorious and so fatal to 
the Republic? 

" They have singular expressions, like all the Italians. 
For example, ' Viscere' — as we would say, 'my love,' or 
' my heart,' as an expression of tenderness. Also, ' I would 
go for you in the midst of a hundred knives.^ — ^ Mazza ben,' 
excessive attachment, — literally, ' I wish you well even to 
killing.' Then they say, (instead of our way, 'do you think 
I would do you so much harm?') 'do you think I would 
assassinate you in such a manner?' — ' Tempo per/?rfe,' bad 
weather; 'Strade perfide^ bad roads — Avith a thousand 
other allusions and metaphors, taken from the state of 
society and habits in the middle ages. 

"I am not so sure about mazza, whether it don't mean 
massa, i. e. a great deal, a mass, instead of the interpretation 
I have given it. But of the other phrases I am sure. 

" Three o' th' clock — I must ' to bed, to bed, to bed,' as 
mother Siddons (that tragical friend of the matliematical 

wife) says, * * + 4: + :f: + 

+ * * + +^ 

"Have you ever seen — I forget what or whom — no 
matter. They tell me Lady Melbourne is very unwell. 
I shall be so sorry. She was my greatest friend, of the 
feminine gender : — when I say 'friend,' I mean not mistress, 
for that's the antipodes. Tell me all about you and every 
body — how Sam is — how you like your neighbours, the 
Marquis and Marchesa, &c. &c. "Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, March 25, 1818. 
"I have your letter, with the account of 'Beppo,' for 
which I sent you four new stanzas a fortnight ago, in case 
you print, or reprint. 

+ * + + + *** 

"Croker's is a good guess; but the style is not English, 
it is Italian \ — Berni is the original of aU. Whistlecraft 
was TTiy immediate model; Rose's ' Animali' I never saw 
till a few days ago, — they are excellent. But (as I said 
above,) Bcmi is the father of that kind of writing, which 1 
think suits our language, too, very well 5 — we shall see by 
the experiment. If it does, I shall send you a volume in a 
year or two, for I know the Italian way of life well, and in 
time may know it yet better ; and as for the verse and tlie 
passions, I have them still in tolerable vigour. 

" If you think that it will do you and the work, or works, 
any good, you may put my name to it ; but first consult, the 
knowing ones. It will, at any rate, show them that I can 
write cheerfully, and repel the charge of monotony and 
mannerism. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXX. 



TO MR. MDRRAY. 



"Venice, April 11, 1818. 
" Will you send me by letter, packet, or parcel, half a 
dozen of the coloured prints from Holmes's miniature, (the 
latter done shortly before I left your country, and the prints 
about a year ago;) I shall be obliged to you, as some people 
here have asked me for tlie like. It is a picture of my 
upright self, done for Scropc B. 13avics, ICstj. 

♦ ♦♦*♦♦ 

"Why have you not sent mo an answer, and lists of 
subscribers to tlie translation of the Armenian Eusrhius/ 
of wliicli I sent you printed copies of the prttspoclus (in 



French,) two moons ago. Have you had the letter? — I 
shall send you another: — you must not neglect my Arme- 
nians. Tooth-powder, magnesia, tincture of myrrh, tooth- 
brushes, diachylon plaster, Peruvian bark, are my personal 
demands. 

" Strahan, Tonson, Lin tot of the times, 
Patron and publisher of rhymes, 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
My Mun ay. 

" To thee, with liope and terror.durab, 
The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
Thou printest all— and sellest some — 
My Murray. 

" Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new duarterly is seen 5 
But where is thy new Magazine, 
My Murray ? 

" Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine 
The works thou deemest most divine— 
The ' Art of Cookery,' and mine, 
My Murray. 

" Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist. 
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist ; 
And then thou hast the ' Navy List,' 
My MuiTay. 

" And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without the ' Board of Longitude,' 
Altliough Ibis narrow paper would, 
My Murray \" 



LETTER CCCLXXL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 12,1818. 

"This letter will be delivered by Signer Gioe. Bata. 
Missiaglia, proprietor of the Apollo library, and the prin- 
cipal publisher and bookseller now in Venice. He sets 
out for London with a view to business and correspondence 
with the English booksellers : and it is in the hope that it 
may be for your mutual advantage that I furnish him with 
this letter of introduction to you. If you can be of use to 
him, either by recommendation to others, or by any per- 
sonal attention on your own part, you will oblige him, and 
gratify me. You may also perhaps both be able to derive 
advantage, or establish some mode of literary communica- 
tion, pleasing to the public, and bcnclicial to one another. 

"At any rate, be civil to him for my sake, as well as for 
he honour and glory of publishers and authors now and to 
come for evermore. 

With him I also consign a great number of MS. letters 
written in English, French, and Italian, by various Englisii 
established in Italy during the last century: — the names 
of the writers, Lord Hervey, Lady M. W. Montague, (hers 
are but few — some billets-doux in French to Algarotti, and 
one letter in English, Italian, and all sorts of jargon, to the 
same,) Gray, the poet, (one letter,) Mason, (two or three,) 
Garrick, Lord Chatham, David Hume, and manv of less 
note, — all addressed to Count Algarotti. Out of tliese, I 
tliink, with discretion, an amusing miscellanoous volume of 
letters might be extracted, provided some good editor wore 
disposed to undertake the selection, and preface, and a few 
notes, &c. 

" The proprietor of tiiese is a friend of mine, Dr. AgUelHy 

a great name in Italy, — and if you are ilis])Osed to pul>- 
lish, it will be for his bcnrfd, and it is to and ft)r him that 
you will name a price, if you take upon you the work. ] 
would edit it myselJ*, but am too liir o(i; and tiH) la/v toi 
undertake it ; but I wish that it could be done. The lcltar» 
of Lord Hervey, in IVlr. Rose's opinion and mine, are 
good; and the sliort French love-letters r«-/fun/v are Lady 
M. W. Montague's — {\w Frrnrh not o»mhI, but llie .•»cnti- 
ments-bentitiful. Gray's letter gotni; nn<l Mason's tolera- 
ble. The whole corri'spomlenc*" must be u\U UHnitd; but 
this being don*^ a small and proliy poptilar vohimo might 
l)« ma«l>- ofit.— 'i'luro are many niinibter-s' letters— Gray, 



128 



LETTERS, 18ia. 



the ambassador at Naples, Horace Mann, and others of 
the same kind of animal. 

"I thought of a preface, defending Lord Hervey against 
Pope's attack, but Pope — quoad Pope, the poet — against 
all the world, in the unjustitiable attempts begun by War- 
ion, and carried on at this day by the new school of critics 
and scribblers, who think themselves poets because they do 
not write like Pope. I have no patience with such cursed 
humbug and bad taste ; your whole generation are not 
worth a Canto of the Rape of the Lock, or the Essay on 
Man, or the Dunciad, or ' any thing that is his.' — But it is 
three in the matin, and I must go to bed. 

" Yours alway, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Venice,Aprill7, 1818. 

"A few days ago, I wrote to you a letter requesting you 
to desire Hanson to desire his messenger to come on from 
Geneva to Venice, because 1 won't go from Venice to 
Geneva ; and if this is not done, the messenger may be 
damned, with him who mis-sent him. Pray reiterate my 
request. 

" With the proofs returned, I sent two additional stanzas 
for Canto Fourth : did they arrive 7 

" Your monthly reviewer has made a mistake : davalierc 
alone is well enough ; ' Cavalier' servente' has always the e 
mute in conversation, and omitted in writing ; so that it is 
not for the sake of metre ; and pray let Griffiths know this, 
with my compliments. I humbly conjecture that I know 
as much of Italian society and language as any of his peo- 
ple ; but to make assurance doubly sure, I asked, at the 
Countess Benzona's, last night, the question of more than 
one person iii tlie office; and of these 'cavalieri serventi' (in 
the plural, recollect,) I found that they all accorded in pro- 
nouncing for ' cavaher servente in the singular number. I 
wish Mr. * * + * (qj. whoever Griffith's scribbler may be) 
would not talk of what he do n't understand. Such fellows 
are not fit to be intrusted with Italian, even in a quotation. 
** + * + + 

" Did you receive two additional stanzas, to be inserted 
towards the close of Canto Fourth? Respond, that (if 
not) they may be sent. 

" Tell Mr. * * and Mr. Hanson, that they may as well 
expect Geneva to come to me, as that I should go to Ge- 
neva. The messenger may go or return, as he pleases ; I 
won't stir ; and I look upon it as a piece of singular absurdity 
in those who know me, imagining that I should — not to say 
malice, in attempting unnecessary torture. If, on the occa- 
sion, my interests should suffer, it is their neglect that is to 

blame ; and they may all be d d together 

+ * + * + * 

" It is ten o'clock, and time to dress. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXUI. 

TO MR. MURRAV. 

"April 23, 1818. 

"The time is past in which I could feel for the dead, — 
or I should feel for the death of Lady Melbourne, the best, 
and kindest, and ablest female I ever knew, old or youn'f. 
But 'I have supped full of horrors;' and events of tiiis kind 
have only a kind of numbness worse than pain, like a vio- 
lent blow on the elbow or the head. There is one link less 
between England and myself 

"Now to business. I presented you with Beppo, as 
part of the contract for Canto Fourth, — considering the 
price you are to pay for the same, and intending to eke 
you out in case of public caprice or my own poetical failure. 
If you choose to suppress it entirely, at Mr. + * + +'g sug- 



gestion, you may do as you please. But recollect it is not 
to be published in a garbled or mutilated state. I reserve 
to my friends and myself the right of correcting the press ; 
— if the publication continue, it is to continue in its present 

form. 

* + **** 

"As Mr. * * says that he did not write tliis letter, &c., 
I am ready to beheve him ; but for the firmness of my for- 
mer persuasion, I refer to Mr. + * * *j who can inform 
you how sincerely I erred on this point. He has also the 
note — or, at least, had it, for I gave it to him with my verbal 
comments thereupon. As to 'Beppo,' I will not alter or 
suppress a syllable for any man's pleasure but my own. 

" You may tell them this ; and add, that nothing but force 
or necessity shall stir me one step towards the places to 
which they would wring me. 

****** 

"If your literary matters prosper, let me know. If 
' Beppo' pleases, you shall have more in a year or two in 
the same mood. And so, ' Good morrow to you, good 
Master Lieutenant.' "Yours, &c." 



.1 



LETTER CCCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Palazzo Mocenigo, Canal Grande, 
" Venice, June 1, 1818. 

" Your letter is almost the only news, as yet, of Canto 
4th, and it has by no means settled its fate, — at least, does 
not tell me how the 'Poeshie' has been received by the 
pubhc. But I suspect, no great things, — firstly, from Mur- 
ray's ' horrid stillness ;' secondly, from what you say about 
the stanzas running into each other,* which I take not to 
he yours, but a notion you have binned with among the 
Blues. The fact is, that the terza rima of the Italians, 
which always runs on and in, may have led me into expe- 
riments, and carelessness into conceit — or conceit into care- 
lessness — in either of which events failure will be probable 
and my fair woman, ' supeme,' end in a fish ; so that Childe 
Harold will be like the mermaid, my family crest, with tlie 
Fourth Canto for a tail thereunto. I won't quarrel with 
the public, however, for the ' Bulgars' are generally right ; 
and if I miss now, I may hit another time : — and so ' the 
gods give us joy.' 

"You like Beppo; that's right. * + * + I have 

not had the Fudges yet, but live in hopes. I need not say 

that your successes are mine. By-the-way, Lydia White 

is here, and has just borrowed my copy of ' Lalla Rookh.' 

* + * * * * 

"Hunt's letter is probably tlie exact piece of vulgar cox- 
combry you might expect from his situation. He is a good 
man, with some poetical elements in his chaos ; but spoiled 
by the Christ-Church Hospital and a Sunday newspaper, 
— to say nothing of the Surry Jail, which conceited him 
into a martyr. But he is a good man. When I saw 
' Rimini' in MSS., I told him that I deemed it good poetry 
at bottom, disfigured only by a strange style. His answer 
was, that his style was a system, or upon system, or some 
such cant ; ancl, when a man talks of >ysten^ his case is 
hopeless : so I said no more to him, and very little to any 
one else. 

"He believes his trash of vulgar phrases tortured into 
compound barbarisms to be old English ; and we may say 
of it as Aimwell says of Captain Gibbet's regiment, when 
the Captain calls it an ' old corps,' — ' the oldest in Europe 
if I may judge by your imiforrn.' He sent out his ' Foliage 
by Percy Shelley, and, of all the ineffiible Centaurs that 
were ever begotten by Self-love upon a Night mare, I think 
tliis monstrous Sagittary the most prodigious. He (Leigh 
H.)is an honest Charlatan, who has persuaded himself 



♦ Mr. Moore had said, In his letter to liim, that Ouspractice of carryinfl 
on^ stanza into another, was " somclliiiig like taking on horaes MOtha- 



LETTERS, 1818. 



129 



into a belief of his own impostures, and talks Punch in pure 
simplicity of heart, taking himself (as poor Fitzgerald said 
of himself in the Morning Post) for Vates in both senses, 
or nonsenses, of the word. Did you look at the transla- 
tions of his own which he prefers to Pope and Cowper, and 
says so ? — Did you read his skimble-skamble about * * 
being at the head of his own profession in the eyes of those 
who followed it? I thought that poetry was an art, or an 
attribute, and not a.profession; — but be it one, is, that * * + 

* * * at the head oiyour profession in your eyes 1 I '11 
be cursed if he is of mine, or ever shall be. He is the only 
one of us (but of us he is not) whose coronation I would 
oppose. Let them take Scott, Campbell, Crabbe, or you 
or me, or any of tlie living, and throne him ; — but not this 
new Jacob Behmen, this * * * + 

* * * whose pride might have kept 
him true, even had his principles turned as perverted as his 
soi-disant poetry. 

" But Leigh Hunt is a good man, and a good father — 
see his Odes to all the Masters Hunt ; — a good husband — 
see his Sonnet to Mrs. Hunt; — a good friend — see his 
Epistles to different people ; — and a great coxcomb, and a 
very vulgar person in every thing about him. But that 's 
not his fault, but of circumstances. 

***** 
***** 

"I do not know any good model for a life of Sheridan 
but that of Savage. Recollect, however, that the life of 
such a man may be made far more amusing than if he had 
been a Wiiberforce ; — and this without offending the living, 
or insulting the dead. The Whigs abuse him ; however, 
he never left them, and such blunderers deserve neitlier 
credit nor compassion. As for his creditors, — remember, 
Sheridan never had a shilling, and was thrown, with great 
powers and passions, into the thick of the world, and placed 
upon the pinnacle of success, with no other external means 
to support him in his elevation. Did Fox * * * pay his 
debts ? — or did Sheridan take a subscription ? Was the 
Duke of Norfolk's drunkenness more excusable than his? 
Were his intrigues more notorious than those of all his 
contemporaries? and is his memory to be blasted, and 
theirs res|)ected ? Do n't let yourself be led away by 
clamour, but compare him with the coalitioner Fox, and 
the pensioner Burke, as a man of principle, and with ten 
hundred thousand in personal views, and with none in 
talent, for he beat them all out and out. Without moans, 
without connexion, without character (which might be false 
at first, and made him mad afterward from des[)eration,) he 
beat them all, in all he ever attempted. But alas, poor 
human nature! Good night — or, rather, morning. It is 
four, and the dawn gleams over the Grand Canal, and un- 
shadows the Rialto. I must to bed ; up all night — but, as 
George Philpot says, ' it's life, though, damme, it's life !' 
" Ever yours, " B. 

" Excuse errors — no time for revision. The post goes 
out at noon, and I sha' n't be up then. 1 will write again 
soon about your plan for a publication." 



LETTER CCCLXXV. 

'J'Q ***** 

"Since you desire the story of Margarita Cogni, you 
shall be told il, though it may be lengthy. 

"Her face is the fine Venetian cast of tlie old time; her 
figure, though perhajjs too tall, is not less fine — and taken 
allogother in the national dross. 

" In the summer of 1817, + * * * and myself were saun- 
tering on horseback along the Brenta one evening, wlion, 
among a group of poasants, wo remarked two girls as lln- 
pretliosl wc had seen for aomo time. About this period 
there had been great distress in the country, ami I had a 
little relieved somo of tho pco|)Io. Generosity mukoa a 
great figure at very liltlo cost ui Venetian livrcs, and niiao 
17 



had probably been exaggerated as an Englishman's. 
Whether they remarked us looking at them or no, I know 
not; but one of them called out to me in Venetian, 'Why 
do not you, who relieve others, think of us also ?' I turned 
round and answered her — 'Cara, tu sei troppo bella e 
giovane per aver' bisogna del' soccorso mio.' She an- 
swered, ' If you saw my hut and my food, you would not 
say so.' All this passed half jestingly, and I saw no more 
of her for some days. 

"A few evenings after, we met with these two girls 
again, and they addressed us more seriously, assuring us 
of the truth of their statement. They were cousins ; Mar- 
garita married, the other single. As I doubted still of the 
circumstances, I took the business in a different light, and 
made an appointment with them for the next evening. 

* * *** + !(: 

* * In short, in a few evenings we arranged our 
affairs, and for a long space of time she was the only one 
who preserved over me an ascendancy which was often 
disputed, and never impaired. 

'■ The reasons for this were, firstly, her person ; — very 
dark, tall, the Venetian face, very fine black eyes. She 
was tvvo-and-twenty years old, * * * 

* * *. She was besides a thorough Vene- 
tian in her dialect, in her thoughts, in her countenance, in 
every thing, with all their naivet and pantaloon humour. 
Besides, she could neither read nor write, and could not 
plague me with letters, — except twice that she paid six- 
pence to a public scribe, under the piazza, to make a letter 
for her, upon some occasion when I was ill and could not 
see her. In other respects, she was somewhat fierce and 
' prepotentc.' that is overbearing, and used to walk in when- 
ever it suited her, with no very great regard to time, place, 
nor persons : and if she found any women in her way, she 
knocked them down. 

" W^hen I first knew her, I was in ' relazione' (liaison) 
with la Signora * *, who was silly enough one evening at 
Dolo, accompanied by some ofher female friends, to threaten 
her; for the gossips of the Villeggiatura had already found 
out, by the neighing of my horse one evening, that 1 used to 
' ride late in the night' to meet the Fornarina. Margarita 
threw back her veil (fazziolo,) and replied in very explicit 
Venetian : ' You are 7iot his wife : I am not his wife : you 
are his Donna, and / am his Donna : your husband is a 
bccco, and mine is another. For the rest, what right have 
you to re[)roach me ? If he prefers me to you, is it my 
fault? If you wish to secure him, tie him to your petticoat- 
string. But do not think to speak to me without a reply, 
because you happen to be richer than I am.' Having de- 
livered this pretty piece of clotiuouce (which I translate 
as it was translated to me by a bystander,) she went on 
her way, leaving a numerous audience, with Madame ♦ *, 
to ponder at her leisure on the dialogue between them. 

" "When I came to Venice for the winter she followed ; 
and as she found herself out to be a favourite, she came to 
me pretty often. But she had inordinate self-love, and was 
not tolerant of other women. At tho 'Cavalrhina,' the 
masked ball on the last night of the C/arnival, wliero all the 
world goes, she snatched oif th(> mask of Mailamo Con- 
tarini, a lady noble by birth, and decont in conduct, for no 
other reason but because she happened to bo leaning on 
my arm. You may suppose what a cursed noise this made ; 
but this is only one ofher pranks. 

"At last she quarrelled with hor husband, anil one even- 
ing ran away to my house. I told hor this would not do: 
sho said she would lie in the street, but not go back to him ; 
that lie boat her, (iho gonllo tigress!) spout her niomv, and 
scandalously neglected her. As it was midnight, I lot hor 
stay, and ne.\t day tin to was no m )ving hor at ail. Hor 
husband oamo rearing and crying, and entreating her to 
come bark — Tu>t she ! He thou a|)pHpd to tho polioo, and 
they applied to mn : I told thorn and In r hn.sl)uiid to /«i/co 
hor; 1 ilid n>)t want hor ; slio 'lad come, niid I »iHild not 
lljng her out of llie window ; but tliey mijjht conduct h«r 



13( 



LETTERS, 1818. 



through that or the door if they chose it. She went before 
the commissary, but was obliged to return with that ' becco 
ettico,' as she called the poor man, who had a phthisic. In 
a few days she ran away again. After a precious piece 
of work, she fixed herself in my house, really and truly 
without my consent ; but, owing to my indolence, and not 
being able to keep my countenance— for if I began in a 
rage, she always finished by making me laugh with some 
Venetian pantaloonery or another ; and the gipsy knew 
this well enough, as well as her other powers of persuasion, 
and exerted them with the usual tact and success of all 
she-things ; — high and low, they are all alike for that. 

"Madame Benzoni also took her under her protection, 
and then her head turned. She was always in extremes, 
either crying or laughing, and so fierce when angered, that 
she was the terror of men, women, and children— for she 
had the strength of an Amazon, with the temper of Medea. 
She was a fine animal, but quite untameable. / was the 
only person that could at all keep her in any order, and 
when she saw me really angry (which they tell me is a 
savage sight,) she subsided. But she had a thousand 
fooleries. In her fazziolo, the dress of the lower orders, 
she looked beautiful ; but, alas ! she longed for a hat and 
feathers; and all I could say or do (and I said much) 
could not prevent this travestie. I put the first into the 
fire ; but I got tired of burning tliem before she did of buy- 
ing them, so that she made herself a figure— for they did 
not at all become her. 

" Then she would have her gowns with a tail — ^like a 
lady, forsooth ; nothing would serve her but ' Tabita colla 
coua,^ or cua (that is the Venetian for ' la cola,' the tail or 
train,) and as her cursed pronunciation of the word made 
me laugh, there was an end of all controversy, and she 
dragged this diabolical tail after her every where. 

" In the mean tune, she beat the women and stopped my 
letters. I found her one day pondering over one. She 
used to try to find out by their shape whether they were 
feminine or no ; and she used to lament her ignorance, and 
actually studied her alphabet, on purpose (as she declared) 
to open all letters addressed to me. and read their contents. 

" I must not omit to do justice to her housekeeping quali- 
ties. After slie came into my house as ' donna di governo,' 
the expenses were reduced to less than half, and every 
body did their duty better — the apartments were kept 
in order, and every thing and every body else, except 
herself. 

" That she had a sufficient regard for me in her wild 
way, I had many reasons to believe. I will mention one. 
In the autumn, one day going to the Lido with my gon- 
doliers, we were overtaken by a heavy squall, and the 
gondola put in peril — hats blown away, boat filling, oar 
lost, tumbling sea, thunder, rain in torrents, night coming, 
and wind unceasing. On our return, after a tight struggle, 
I found her on the open steps of the Mocenigo palace, on 
the Grand Canal, with her great black eyes flashing 
through her tearis, and tlie long dark hair, which was 
streaming, drenched with rain, over her brows and breast. 
She was perfectly exposed to the storm ; and the wind 
blowing her hair and dress about her thin tall figure, and 
the lightning flashing around her, and the waves rolling at 
her feet, made her look like Medea alighted from her 
chariot, or the Sibyl of the tempest that was rolling around 
her, the only living thing within hail at that moment except 
ourselves. On seeing me safe, she did not wait to greet 
me, as might have been expected, but calling out to me — 
'Ah ! can' della Madonna, xe esto il tempo por andar' al' 
Lido?* (Ah! dog of the Virgin, is this a time to go to 
Lido?) ran into the house, and solaced herself with scold- 
ing the boatmen for not foreseeing the ' temporale.' I am 
told by the servants that she had only been prevented from 
coming in a boat to look after me, by the refusal of all the 
gondoliers of the canal to put out into the harbour in such 
a moment ; and that then she sat down on the steps in all 
the thickest of the squall, and would neither be removed 
nor ccnnforted. Her joy at seeing me again was mode- 



rately mixed vvith ferocity, and gave me the idea of a tigress 
over her recovered cubs. 

" But her reign drew near a close. She became quite 
ungovernable some months after, and a concurrence of 
complaints, some true, and many false — ^ a favourite has 
no friends' — determined me to part with her. I told her 
quietly that she must return home, (she had acquired a 
sufficient provision for herself and mother, &c. in my 
service,) and she refused, to quit the house. I was firm, 
and she went threatening knives and revenge. I told her 
that I had seen knives drawn before her time, and that if 
she chose to begin, tliere was a knife, and fork also, at her 
service on the table, and that intimidation would not do. 
The next day, while I was at dinner, she walked in, (having 
broken open a glass door that led from the hall below to 
the staircase, by way of prologue,) and advancing straight 
up to the table, snatched the knife from my hand, cutting 
me shghtly in the thumb in the operation. Whether she 
meant to use this against herself or me, I know not — 
probably against neither — but Fletcher seized her by the 
arms, and disarmed her. I then called my boatmen, and 
desired them to get the gondola ready, and conduct her to 
her own house again, seeing carefully tliat she did herself 
no mischief by the way. She seemed quite quiet, and 
walked down stairs. I resumed my dinner. 

" We heard a great noise, and went out, and met them 
on the staircase, carrying her up stairs. She had thrown 
herself into the canal. That she intended to destroy 
herself, I do not believe: but when we consider the fear 
women and men who can 't swim have of deep or even of 
shallow water, (and the Venetians in particular, though 
they live on the vvaves.) and that it was also night, and 
dark, and very cold, it shows that she had a devilish spirit 
of some sort within her. They had got her out without 
much difficulty or damage, excepting the salt water she 
had swallowed, and the wetting she had undergone. 

"I foresaw her intention to refix herself, and sent for a 
surgeon, inquiring how many hours it would require to 
restore her from her agitation ; and he named the lime. I 
then said, 'I give you that time, and more if you require it; 
but at the expiration of this prescribed period, if she does 
not leave the house, / will.' 

"All my people were consternated. They had always 
been frightened at her, and were now paralyzed: they 
wanted me to apply to the police, to guard myself, &c. &c. 
like a pack of snivelling servile boobies, as they were. I 
did nothing of tlie kind, thinking that I might as well end 
that way as another ; besides, I had been used to savage 
women, and knew tlieir ways. 

"I had her sent home quietly after her recovery, and 
never saw her since, except twice at the opera, at a distance 
among the audience. She made many attempts to return, 
but no more violent ones. — And this is the story of Mar- 
garita Cogn, as far as it relates to me. 

" 1 forgot to mention that she was very devout, and would 
cross herself if she heard the prayer time strike. * * 
+ + + * + * 

"She was quick in reply; as, for instance — One day 
when she had made me very angry with beating somebody 
or other, I called her a cow, (a cou), in Italian, is a sad 
affi-ont.) I called her ' Vacca.' She turned round, curt- 
sied, and answered, ' Vacca ttm, 'celenza,' (i. e. eccellenza.) 
' Your cow, please your Excellency.' In short, she was, as 
I said before, a very fine animal, of considerable beauty 
and energy, with many good and several amusing qualities, 
but wild as a witch and fierce as a demon. She used to 
boast pubUcly of her ascendency over me, contrasting it 
with that of other women, and assigning for it sundry 
reasons, + * *. True it was, that they all tried to get her 
away, and no one succeeded till her own absurdity helped 
them. 

" I omitted to tell you her answer, when I reproached her 
for snatching Madame Contarini's mask at the Cavalchina. 
I represented to her that she was a lady of high birth, ' una 
Dama,' &c. She answered, 'Se ella 6 damami {io) son 



LETTERS, 1818. 



131 



Veneziana :' — ^ if she is a lady, I am a Venetian.' This 
would have been fine a hundred years ago, the pride of the 
nation rising up against the pride of aristocracy ;* but, alas ! 
Venice, and her people, and her nobles, are alike returning 
fast to the ocean: and where there is no independence, 
there can be no real self-respect. I believe that I mistook 
or misstated one of her phrases in my letter ; it should 
have been — 'Can' della Madonna, cosa vus' tu? esto non 
e tempo per andar* a Lido ?' " 



LETTER CCCLXXVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, June 18,1818. 

"Business and the utter and inexplicable silence of all 
my correspondents renders me impatient and troublesome. 
I wrote to Mr. Hanson for a balance which is (or ought to 
be) in his hands ; — no answer. I expected the messenger 
with the Newstead papers two months ago, and instead of 
him, I received a requisition to proceed to Geneva, which 
(from * *, who knows my wishes and opinions about 
approaclung England) could only be irony or insult. 

" I must, therefore, trouble you to pay into my bankers' 
immediately whatever sum or sums you can make it con- 
venient to do on our agreement; otherwise, I shall be put 
to the severest and most immediate inconvenience; and 
this at a time when, by every rational prospect and calcu- 
lation, I ought to be in the receipt of considerable sums. 
JPray do not neglect this ; you have no idea to what incon- 
venience you wall otherwise put me. * * had some absurd 
notion about the disposal ofthis money in annuity, (or God 
knows what,) which I merely listened to when he was 
here to avoid squabbles and sermons; but 1 have occasion 
for the principal, and had never any serious idea of 
appropriating it otherwise than to answer my personal 
expenses, Hobhouse's wish is, if possible, to force me 
back to England : he will not succeed ; and if he did, I 
would not stay. I hate the country, and hke this ; and all 
foolish opposition, of course, merely adds to the feehng 
Your silence makes me doubt the success of Canto Fourth. 
If it has failed, I will make such deduction as you think 
proper and fair from the original agreement ; but I could 
wish whatever is to be paid were remitted to me, without 
delay, through the usual channel, by course of post. 

"When I tell you that I have not heard a word from 
England since very early in May, 1 have made the eulo- 
gium of my friends, or the persons who call themselves so, 
since I have written so often and in the greatest anxiety. 
Thank God, the longer I am absent, the less cause I see 
for regretting the country or its living contents. 

"I am yours, &c. 

"P. S. TeU Mr. * * * that * + * * 

+ * + + + s< * 

and that I will never forgive him, (or any body,) the atrocity 
of their late silence at a time when I wished particularly 
to hear, for every reason, from my friends." 



LETTER CCCLXXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAV. '' 

"Venice, July 10, 1818 
*'I have received your letter and the credit from M 
lands, &c. for whom I have also drawn upon you at sixty 
days' sight for the remainder, according to your i)roi>()sition 
" I am still waiting in Venice, in cxpeclancy of llw arrival 
of Hanson's clerk. What can dclain him, F do not ktu 
but I trust that Mr. Hohhouse and Mr. Kiiuiainl, when 
their political fit is abated, will take the trouliie to imiuire 



• Chllde Harold, Canto IV. ilanrA 13: 
whence iharoee." 



and expedite him, as I have nearly a hundred thousand 
pounds depending upon the completion of the sale and the 
signature of the papers. 

The draft on you is drawn up by Siri and Willhalm. 
I hope that the form is correct. 1 signed it two or three 
days ago, desiring them to forward it to Messrs. Morland 
and Ransom. 

' Your projected editions for November had better be 
postponed, as I have some things in project, or preparation, 
that may be of use to you, though not very important in 
themselves. I have completed an Ode on Venice,* and 
have two Stories, one serious and one ludicrous, (a la 
Beppo,) not yet finished, and in no hurry to be so. 

"You talk of the letter to Hobhouse being much admired, 
and speak of prose. f I think of writing (for your full 
edition) some Memoirs of my life, to prefix to them, upon 
the same model (though far enough, I fear, from reaching 
it,) of GifTord, Hume, &c. ; and this without any intention 
of making disclosures, or remarks upon living people, which 
would be unpleasant to them : but I think it might be done, 
and well done. However, this is to be considered. I have 
materials in plenty, but the greater part of them could not 
be used by me, nor for these hundred years to come. 
However, there is enough without these, and merely as a 
literary man, to make a preface for such an edition as you 
meditate. But this is by-the-way : I have not made up my 
mind. 

" I enclose you a note on the subject o{'Parisina,^l which 
Hobhouse can dress for you. It is an extract of particu- 
lars from a history of Ferrara. 

" I trust you have been attentive to Missiaglia, for the 
English have the character of neglecting the Italians at 
present, which 1 hope you will redeem. 

"Yours in haste, " B." 



LETTER CCCLXXVItl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Venice,July 17, 1818. ■ 
" I suppose that Aglietti will take whatever you offer, but 
till his return from Vienna I can make him no proposal ; 
nor, indeed, have you authorized me to do so. The three 
French notes arc by Lady Mary; also another half- 
English-French-Italian. They are very pretty and pas- 
sionate ; it is a pity that a piece of one of them is lost. 
Algarotti seems to have treated her ill ; but she was much 
his senior, and all women are used ill — or say so, whether 
they are or not. 

***** 

" I shall be glad of your books and powders. I am still 
in waiting for Hanson's clerk, but luckily not at Geneva. 
All my good friends wrote to me to hasten tJierc to meet 
him, but not one had the good sense, or tlie good nature, to 
write afterward to tell me that it woukl be time and a 
journey thrown away, as he could not set off for some 
months after the period appointed. If 1 had taken the 
journey on the general suggestion, I never would have 
spoken again to one of you as long as I existed. I have 
written to request Mr. Kinnaird, when the foam of his 
politics is wiped away, to extract a |)ositive answer from 
that * * ♦ *, and not to keep me in a slate of suspense 
upon the subject. I hope that Kinnaird, who has my 
power of attorney, keeps a lot)k-out upon the gentleman, 
which is the more necessary, as 1 have a great dislike to 
the idea of coming over to look after him myself. 

" 1 have several things begun, vers(> and prose, but none 
in nuieh fi>rwar(lness. 1 have written some six or seven 
sheets of a Life, which I mean to eontiniie, and send you 
when finished. It may perhaps serve for your proj«>eted 
editions. If you would tell me exactly (for I know nothing 



• Sre pi\ge "204. Tlir two Stnrlfi w»r« MiMppa and Don J* 

t Drilitntioii of lhi> 4tli Cniuo ulChiMe Harold. 
i Stt IVriiirm, Not* ikl. 



132 



LETTERS, 1818. 



and have no correspondents, except on business) the state 
of the reception of our late publications, and the feeling 
upon them, without consulting any delicacies, (I am too 
seasoned to require them,) I should know how and in what 
manner to proceed. 1 should not like to give them too 
much, which may probably have been the case already; 
but, as I tell you, 1 know nothing. 

"I once wrote from the fulm.'ss of my mind and the love 
of fame, (not as an e"(/, but as a means, to obtain that 
influence over men's minds which is power in itself and in 
its consequences,) and now from habit and from avarice ; 
so that the eflect may probably be as different as the 
inspiration. I have the same facility and indeed necessity, 
of composition, to avoid idleness, (though idleness in a hot 
country is a pleasure,) but a much gi-eater indifference to 
what is to become of it, after it has served my immediate 
purpose. However, I should on no account liliie to 



but I won't go on, like the archbishop of Granada, as I am 
very sure that you dread the fate of Gil Bias, and with 
good reason. "Yours, &c. 

"P. S. I have written some very savage letters to Mr. 
Hobhouse, Kinnaird, to you, and to Hanson, because the 
silence of so long a time made me tear off my remaining 
rags of patience. I have seen one or tv.o late English 
publications which are no great things, except Rob Roy. 
I shall be glad of Whistlecraft." 



easily found ; I forget the number, but am probably the 
only person in Venice who do n't know it. There is no 
comparison between him and any of the other medical 
people here. I regret very much to hear of your indispo- 
sition, and shall do myself the honour of waiting upon you 
the moment I am up. I write this in bed, and have only 
just received the letter and note. I beg you to beheve 
that nothing but the extreme lateness of my hours could 
have prevented me from replying immediately, or coming 
in person. I have not been called a minute.— I have the 
honour to be, very truly, 

"Your most obedient servant, 

« Byron." 



LETTER CCCLXXXI. 

TO MK. MOORE. 



LETTER CCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Aug. 26, 1818. 

"You may go on with your edition, without calculating 
on the Memoir, which I shall not publish at present. It is 
nearly finished, but will be too long ; and there are so many 
things, which, out of regard to the living, cannot be men- 
tioned, that I have written with too much detail of that 
which interested me least; so that my autobiographical 
Essay would resemble the tragedy of Hamlet at the 
country theatre, recited ' with the part of Hamlet left 
out by particular desire.' I shall keep it among my 
papers ; it will be a kind of guide-post in case of death, 
and prevent some of the lies which would otherwise be 
told, and destroy some which have been told already. 

" The Tales also are in an unfinished state, and I can 
fix no time for their completion : they are also not in the 
best manner. You must not, therefore, calculate upon any 
thing in time for this edition. The Memoir is already 
above forty-four sheets of very large, long paper, and will 
be about fifty or sixty ; but I wish to go on leisurely ; and 
when finished, although it might do a good deal for you at 
the time, I am not sure that it would serve any good pur- 
pose in the end either, as it is full of many passions and 
prejudices, of which it has been impossible for me to keep 
clear: — I have not the patience. 

" Enclosed is a list of books which Dr. Aglietti would 
be glad to receive by way of price for his MS. letters, if 
you are disposed to purchase at the rate of fifty pounds 
sterling. These he will be glad to have as part, and the 
rest / will give him in money, and you may carry it to 
the account of books, &c. which is in balance against me, 
deducting it accordingly. So that the letters are yours, if 
you like them, at this rate; and he and I are going to 
hunt for more Lady Montague letters, which he thinks of 
finding. I write in haste. Thanks for the article, and 
believe me, « Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXX. 

TO CAPT. BASIL HALL. 

"Venice, Aug. 31, 1818. 

" DEAR SIR, 

" Dr. Aglietti is the best physician, not only in Venice, 
but in Italy: his residence is on the Grand Canal, and 



"Venice, Sept. 19,1818. 
An English newspaper here would be a prodigy, and 
an opposition one a monster ; and, except some extracts 
from extracts in the vile, garbled Paris gazettes, nothing 
of the kind reaches the Veneto-Lombard public, who are 
perhaps the most oppressed in Europe. My correspond- 
ences with England are mostly on business, and chiefly 
with my SoUcitor, Mr. Hanson, who has no very exalted 
notion, or extensive conception, of an author's attributes ; 
for he once took up an Edinburgh Review, and, looking at 
it a minute, said to me, ' So, I see you have got into the 
magazine,' — ^vhich is the only sentence I ever heard him 
utter upon Uterary matters, or the men thereof. 

" My first news of your Irish apotheosis has, conse- 
quendy, been from yourself. But, as it will not be forgotten 
in a hurry, either by your friends or your enemies, I hope 
to have it more in detail from some of the former, and, in 
the mean time, I wish you joy with all my heart. Such a 
moment must have been a good deal better than West- 
minster-Abbey, — besides being an assurance of that one 
day (many years hence, I trust) into the bargain. 

" I am sorry to perceive, however, by the close of your 
letter, that even you have not escaped the ' surgit amari,' 
&c. and that your damned deputy has been gathering such 
' dew from the still vext Bermoothes' — or rather vexatious. 
Pray, give me some items of tlie affair, as you say it is a 
serious one ; and, if it grows more so, you should make a 
trip over here for a few months, to see how things turn 
out. I suppose you are a violent admirer of England by 
your staying so long in it. For my own part, I have passed 
between the age of one -and- twenty and thirty, half the in- 
tervenient years out of it without regretting any thing, ex- 
cept that I ever returned to it at all, and the gloomy pros- 
pect before me of business and parentage obliging me, one 
day, to return again,— at least, for the transaction of affairs, 
the signing of papers, and inspecting of children. 

"I have here my natural daughter, by name Allegra, — a 
pretty little girl enough, and reckoned like papa. Her 
mamma is English, — ^but it is a long story, and — there's an 
end. She is about twenty months old. * * + 

"I have finished the First Canto, (a long one, of about 
180 octaves,) of a poem in the style and manner of 'Beppo, 
encouraged by the good success of the same. It is called 
'Don Juaqi,' and is meant to be a little quietly facetious 
upon every thing. But I doubt whether it is not— at least, 
as far as it has yet gone — too free for these very modest 
days. However, I shall try the experiment, anonymously, 
and if it do n't take, it will be discontinued. It is dedicated 
to Southey in good, simple, savage verse, upon the * * * *'s 
politics,* and the way he got them. But the bore of 
copying it out is intolerable ; and if I had an amanuensis he 
would be of no use, as my writing is so difficult to decipher. 

" My poem 's Epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books, each book containing, 



* The dedication to Southey was luppressed. 



LETTERS, 1819. 



133 



With love and war, a heavy gale al sea — 

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning — 
New characters, &c. &c. 

The above are two stanzas, which I send you as a brick 
of my Babel, and by which you can judge of the texture of 
the structure, 

"In writing the life of Sheridan, never mmd the angry 
lies of the humbug Whigs. Recollect that he was an 
Irishman and a clever fellow, and that we have had some 
very pleasant days with him. Do n't forget that he was at 
school at Harrow, where, in my time, we used to show his 
name — R. B. Sheridan, 1765 — as an honour to the walls. 
Remember + + + *** 

******* 
Depend upon it that there were worse folks going, of that 
gang, than ever Sheridan was. 

"What did Parr mean by 'haughtiness and coldness ?' 
I listened to him with admiring ignorance, and respectful 
silence. What more could a talker for fame have? — they 
don't like to be answered. It was at Payne Knight's I 
met him, where he gave me more Greek than I could carry 
away. But I certainly meant to (and did) treat him with 
the most respectful deference. 

"I wish you good night with a Venetian benediction, 
'Benedetto te, e la terra che ti fara 1' — 'May you be blessed, 
and the earth which you will make' — is it not pretty ? You 
would think it still prettier if you had heard it, as I did two 
hours ago, from the lips of a Venetian girl, with large black 
eyes, a face like Faustina's, and the figure of a Juno — tall 
and energetic as a Pythoness, with eyes flashing, and her 
dark hair streaming in the moonlight — one of those women 
who may be made any thing. I am sure if I put a poniard 
into the hind of this one, she would plunge it where I (old 
her, — and into me, if I offended her. I like this kind of 
animal, and am sure that I should have preferred Medea 
to any woman that ever breathed. You may, perhaps, 
wonder that I do n't in that case * * * 

******* 

I could have forgiven the dagger or the bowl, any thing, but 
the deliberate desolation piled upon me, when I stood alone 
upon my hearth, with my household gods shivered around 
me.* * * * * + *_ 

Do you suppose I have forgotten or forgiven it ? It has 
comparatively swallowed up in me every other feeling, and 
I am only a spectator upon earth, till a tenfold opportunity 
offers. It may come yet. There are others more to be 
blamed than ♦ * *^ and it is on these that my 
eyes are fixed unceasingly." 



LETTER CCCLXXXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Sept. 24, 1818. 
"In the one hundred and thirty-second stanza of Canto 
4th, the stanza runs in the manuscri[)t 

" And thou, who never yet of human wron? 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 

and not 'lost^ which is nonsense, as what losing a scale 
means, I know not; but leaving an unbalanctsd scale, or a 
scale unbalanced, is intelligiblc.f Correct this, I pray,— not 
for the public, or the poetry, but I do not choose to have 
blunders made in addressing any of the deities so seriously 
as this is addressed. " Yours, &,c. 

" P. S. In tlie translation from the Spanish, alter 

" In increasing squadrons Hew, 

to— 

" To a mighty squadron grew. 

"What does 'thy waters irwtvd them' mean (in tlu^ 
Canto?) T%itianotme.\ Consult tlie MS. a/u'oi'.*. 



* Don Juan, Canto I. 36.— Mnrinn Fnliiro, An 3, Scene 'I. 

t Corrected iu IhU ediUoo. J Thie pauage remaini uncorrected. 



"I have written the first Canto (180 octave stanzas) of 
a poem* in the style of Beppo, and have Mazeppa to finish 
besides. 

"In referring to the mistake in stanza 132, I take the 
opportunity to desire that in future, in all parts of my 
writings referring to religion, you will be more careful, and 
not forget that it is possible that in addressbg the Deity a 
blunder may become a bletsphemy ; and I do not choose to 
suffer such infamous perversions of my words or of my 
intentions. 

"I saw the Canto by accident." 



LETTER CCCLXXXm. 

TO MR, MURRAY. 

''Venice, Jan. 20, 1819. 

* * • * ♦ * + 

" The opinions which I have asked of Mr. Hobhouse 
and others were with regard to the poetical merit, and not 
as to what they may think due to the cant of the day, which 
still reads the Bath Guide, Little's Poems, Prior, and 
Chaucer, to say nothing of Fielding and Smollet. If 
published, pubhsh entire, with the above-mentioned ex- 
ceptions; or you may publish anonymously, or not a.t all. 
In the latter event, print 50 on my account, for private 
distribution. "Yours, &c. 

"I have written to Messrs. Kinnaird and Hobhouse, to 
desire that they will not erase more than I have stated. 

"The Second Canto of Don Juan is finished in 206 
stanzas." 



LETTER CCCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Jan. 25, 1819. 

"You will do me the favour to print privately (for private 
distribution) fifty copies of 'Don Juan.' The list of the 
men to whom I wish it to be presented, I will send here- 
after. The other two poems had best be added to the 
collective edition : I do not approve of their being published 
separately. Print Don Juan entire, omitting, of course, the 
lines on Castlereagh, as I am not on the spot to meet him. 
I have a Second Canto ready, which will be sent by-and- 
by. By this post, I have written to Mr. Hobiiouse, 
addressed to your care. "Yours, &c. 

"P. S. I have acquiesced in the request and repre- 
sentation; and having done so, it is idle to detail my 
arguments in favour of my own self-love and ' Poeshie ;' 
but I protest. If the poem has poetry, it would stand; if 
not, fall ; (he rest is ' leather and prunella,' and has never 
yet affected any human production 'pro or con.' Dulness 
is the only annihilator in such cases. As to the cant of 
the day, I despise it, as I have ever done all its other finical 
fashions, which become you as paint became the ancient 
Britons. If you admit this prudor}', you must omit lialf 
Ariosto, La Fontaine, Shakspeare, Beaumont, FletcluT, 
Massinger, Ford, all the Ciiarles Second writers ;t in short, 
Mmctliing of most who have written before Pope and are 
wortli reading, and much of Pope himself. Read him — 
most of you donH — but do — and I will forgive you; tliourfh 
the inevitable conse(]uence would be that you would burn 
all I have ever written, ami all your other wretched 
('laudians of the day (except Scott and Crabbe) into the 
bargain. I wrong Cluudian, who wyw a poet, by naming 
him with such follows; but he was the 'ultinuis Koumn- 
oriiin,' the tail of the comet, and these persons are the tail 
of an old gown cut into a waistcoat for Jackey; but being 
both tailn, I have compared (he one with the other, (hough 
very unlike, like all similes. J I write in a passion and a 



' Don JuRn, Cnnlo tV. slnnf* 18. 
Nre Hon Juun, Cnnto IV. stRiiM 18. 
: S«i Letltra to Uuwlc* aud iUackvraod. 



134 



LETTERS, 1819. 



sirocco, and I was up till six this morning at the Carnival ; 
but I protest, as I did in my former letter." 



LETTER CCCLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Venice, Feb. 1,1819. 
"After one of the concluding stanzas of the First Canto 
of 'Don Juan,' which ends with (I forget the number)— 

" To have, 

. . . when the origina) is dust, 
A book, a d— d bad picture, and woise bust,* 

insert the following stanza : — 

" What are the hopes of man, &c. 

«I have written to you several letters, some wdth addi- 
tions, and some upon the subject of the poem itself, which 
my cursed puritanical committee have protested against 
publishing. But we will circumvent them on that point. 
I have no" yet begun to copy out the Second Canto, which 
is finished, from natural laziness, and the discouragement 
of the milk and water they have thrown upon the First. 
I say all this to them as to you, that is, for you to say to 
them, for I will have nothmg underhand. If they had told 
me the poetry was bad, I would have acquiesced; but they 
say the contrary, and then talk to me about morality— the 
first time I ever heard the word from any body who was 
not a rascal that used it for a purpose. I maintain that it 
is the most moral of poems ; but if people won't discover 
the moral, that is their fault, not mine. I have already 
written to beg that in any case you will print Jifiy for 
private distribution. I will send you Qie list of persons to 
whom it is to be sent afterward. 

" Within this last fortnight I have been rather mdisposed 
with a rebellion of stomach, which would retain nothing, 
(liver, I suppose,) and an inability, or fantasy, not to be 
able to eat of any thing with relish but a kind of Adriatic 
fish called 'scampi,' which happens to be the most indi- 
gestible of marine viands. However, within these last two 
days, I am better, and very truly yours." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVl. 

TO MR. MURRAV, 

"Venice, April 6, 1819. 

"The Second Canto of Don Juan was sent, on Saturday 
last, by post, in four packets, two of four, and two of three 
sheets each, containing in all two hundred and seventeen 
stanzas, octave measure. But I will permit no curtail- 
ments, except those mentioned about Castlereagh and * 
* * * * +. You sha'n't make canticles 
of my cantos. The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is 
stupid, it will fail : but I will have none of your damned 
cutting and slashing. If you please, you may publish 
anonymously ; it will, perhaps, be better ; but 1 will battle 
my way against them all, like a porcupine. 

" So you and Mr. Foscolo, &c. want me to undertake 
what you call a 'great work?' an Epic Poem, I suppose, 
or some such pyramid. I'll try no such thing; I hate 
tasks. And then 'seven or eight years!' God send us all 
well this day three months, let alone years. If one's years 
can 't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man 
had better be a ditcher. And works, too! — is Childe 
Harold notliing? You have so many 'dimyie' poems, is it 
nothing to have written a human one? without any of your 
worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could have spun the 
thoughts of the Four Cantos of that poem into twenty, had 
I wanted to book-make, and its passion into as many 
modern tragedies. Since you v.ant Implh, you shall have 
enough oi Juan, for I'll make Fifty Cantos.f 



* In the printed version " a wretched picture, 
t See Don Juan, Canto XII. stanza 55. 



"And Foscolo, too! Why does he not do something 
more than the Letters of Ortis, and a tragedy, and pam- 
phlets ? He has good fifteen years more at his command 
than I have: what has he done all that time? — proved his 
genius, doubtless, but not fixed its fame, nor done his 
utmost. 

" Besides, I mean to write my best work in Italian, and 
it will take me nine years more thoroughly to master the 
language ; and then if my fancy exists, and I exist too, I 
will try what I can do reaUy. As to the estimation of the 
English which you talk of, let them calculate what it is 
worth, before they insult me with their insolent conde- 
scension. 

"I have not written for their pleasure. If they are 
pleased, it is that they chose to be so ; I have never flat- 
tered their opinions, nor their pride ; nor will T. Neither 
will I make 'Ladies' books' 'al dilettar le femine e la 
plebe.'* I have written from the fuhiess of my mind, from 
passion, from impulse, from many motives, but not for their 
' sweet voices.' 

" 1 know the precise worth of popular applause, for few 
scribblers have had more of it ; and if I chose to swerve 
into their paths. I could retain it, or resume it. But I 
neither love ye, nor fear ye ; and though I buy with ye and 
sell with ye, I will neither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor 
pray with ye. They made me, without my search, a 
species of popular idol ; they, without reason or judgment, 
beyond the caprice of their good pleasure, threw down the 
image from its pedestal : it was not broken with the fall, 
and they would, it seems, again replace it, — but they shall 
not. 

"You ask about my health: about the beginning of the 
year I was in a state of great exhaustion, attended by such 
debility of stomach that nothing remained upon it ; and I 
was obliged to reform my 'way of life,' which was conduct- 
ing me from the 'yellow leaf to the ground, with all 
deliberate speed. I am better in health and morals, and 
very much yours, &c. 

"P. S. I have read Hodgson's 'Friends.' * ♦ * * 
He is right in defending Pope against the bastard pelicans 
of the poetical winter day, who add insult to their parricide, 
by sucking the blood of the parent of English real poetry- 
poetry without fault — and then spurning the bosom which 
fed them." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVII. 



TO THE EDITOR OF GALIGNANI S MESSENGER. 



"Venice, April 27, 1819. 



'sir, 



" In various numbers of your journal, I have seen men- 
tioned a work entitled ' the Vampire,' with the addition of 
my name as that of the author. I am not the author, and 
never heard of the work in question until now. In a more 
recent paper I perceive a formal annunciation of 'the 
Vampire,' with the addition of an account of my 'residence 
in the Island of Mitylene,' an island which 1 have occa- 
sionally sailed by in the course of travelling some years 
ago through the Levant — and where I should have no 
objection to reside, but where I have never yet resided. 
Neither of these performances are mine, and I presume 
that it is neither unjust nor ungracious to request that you 
will favour me by contradicting the advertisement to which 
I allude. If the book is clever, it would be base to deprive 
the real writer, whoever he may be, of his honours; and if 
stupid, I desire the responsibility of nobody's dulness but 
my own. You will excuse the trouble I give you, the 
imputation is of no great importance, and as long as it was 
confined to surmises and reports, I should have received 
it, as I have received many others, in silence. But tho 



Childe Harold, Canto III. stanza 113. 



LETTERS, 1819. 



135 



formality of a public advertisement,of a book I never wrote, 
and a residence where I never resided, is a little too much ; 
particularly as I have no notion of the contents of the one, 
nor the incidents of the other. I have besides, a personal 
dislike to ' Vampires,' and the little acquaintance I have 
with them would by no means induce me to divulge their 
secrets. You did me a much less injury by your para- 
graphs about ' my devotion' and ' abandonment of society 
for the sake of religion,' which appeared in your Messenger 
during last Lent, all of which are not founded on fact, but 
you see I do not contradict them, because they are merely 
personal, whereas the others in some degree concern the 
reader. You will oblige me by complying with my request 
of contradiction — I assure you that I know nothing of the 
work or works in question, and have the honour to be (as 
the correspondents to Magazines say) ' your constant 
reader,' and very " Obt. humble servt. 

" Byron." 



• LETTER CCCLXXXVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, May 15, 1819. 
+ ***** 

•* I have got your extract, and the ' Vampire.'* 1 need 
not say it is not mine. There is a rule to go by: you are 
my publisher, (till we quarrel,) and what is not published 
by you is not written by me. 

* * * + + + 

" Next week I set out for Romagna — at least in all 
probability. You had better go on with the publications, 
without waiting to hear farther, for I have other things in 
my head. * Mazeppa' and the ' Ode' separate ? — what 
think you ? Juan anonymous., without the Dedication ; for 
I won't be shabby, and attack Southey under cloud of 
night. " Yours, &c." 



In another letter on the 
the following particulars. 



subject of the Vampire, are 



LETTER CCCLXXXIX. 

TO MR, MURRAY. 

" The story of Shelley's agitation is true.f I can't tell 
what seized him for he don't want courage. He was once 
with me in a gale of wind, in a small boat, right under the 
rocks between Meilleric and St. Gingo. We were five in 
the boat — a servant, two boatmen, and ourselves. The 
sail was mismanaged, and the boat was filling fast. He 
can't swim. I stripped off my coat, made him strip off 
his, and take hold of an oar, telling him that I thought 
(being myself an expert swimmer) I could save him, if he 
would not struggle when I took hold of him — unless we 
got smashed against the rocks, which were high and sharp, 
with an awkward surf on them at that minute. We were 
then about a hundred yards from shore, and the boat in 
peril. He answered me, with the greatest coolness, ' that 
he had no notion of being saved, and that I would have 
enough to do to save myself,and bngcred not to trouble me.' 
Luckily ,the boat righted, and, bailing, we got round a point 



• By Doctor Pi)li(lori. 

tThi« story, as nivcii in the Preface to the "Vnmpire," igas foUnwii:— 
" It appear*, that one evcnimt l.orrl H. Mr. P. II. .Shelley, two ladleii, 
an.-l Die ecntlemnn before alliidecl to, after having perused a Germnii work 
called Phantaimai;orin, began relnliiiK k^ooI Htni'iex, when hi^ lordithip 
hnvini? recited the benlniiinK of Christahcl, then inipiiMUhed, the whole 
took iio«trongB hold of Mr. Shelley's mind, lliat he Huddenlv marled np, 
and ran out of ihe room. The phynician antl f.ord Byron ('olio we<l, and 
discovered him leaning axainsl a mnntel-piere, with cold drops of per- 
spiration iricklioK down his face. After having given liini Bumrllilng to 
refresh him, upon inquiring into the canse of his alarm, tlicv f.iMnil that 
his wild imagination having pictured to him the hosom of onrof th.' I.ulirs 
with eyes, (which wan reported of a lady in the nelghhourlinod wlit-re he 
lived,) he wai obliged to leave th« room In order to destroy the Im- 
presiion." 



into St. Gingo where the inhabitants came down and 
embraced the boatmen on their escape, the wind having 
been high enough to tear up some huge trees from the 
Alps above us, as we saw next day. 

"And yet the same Shelley, who was as cool as it was 
possible to be in such circumstances, (of which I am no 
judge myself, as the chance of swimming naturally gives 
self-possession when near shore,) certainly had the fit of 
fantasy which Polidori describes, though not exactly as he 
describes it. 

" The story of the agreement to write the ghost-books 
is true ; but the ladies are not sisters. * * * * 
+ ** + ** + * ** 

Mary Godwin (now Mrs. Shelley) wrote Frankenstein, 
which you have reviewed, thinking it Shelley's. Methinks 
it is a wonderful book for a girl of nineteen, not nineteen 
indeed, at that time. I enclose you the beginning of mine,* 
by which you will see how far it resembles Mr. Colburn's 
publication. If you choose to publish it, you may, stating 
why, and with such explanatory proem as you please. I 
never went on with it, as you will perceive by the date. 
I began it in an old account-book of Miss Milbanke's, 
which I kept because it contained the word ' Household,' 
written by her twice on the inside blank page of the co- 
vers, being the only two scraps I have in the world in her 
writing, except her name to the Deed of Separation. Her 
letters I sent back, except those of the quarrelling corre- 
spondence, and those, being documents, are placed in the 
hands of a third person, with copies of several of my 
own ; so that I have no kind of memorial whatever of 
her, but these two words, — and her actions. I have torn 
the leaves containing the part of the Tale out of the 
book, and enclose them with this sheet. 

* + * * * * 

"What do you mean? First you seem hurt by my 
letter, and then, in your next, you talk of its ' power,' 
and so forth. 'This is a d — d blind story. Jack; but 
never mind, go on.' You may be sure I said nothing on 
jjurpose to plague yoti, but if you will put me ' in aphrensy, 
I will never call you Jack again.' I remember nothing 
of the epistle at present. 

" What do you mean by Polidori's Diary 7 Why, I defy 
him to say any thing about me but he is welcome. I have 
nothing to reproach me with on his score, and I am much 
mistaken if that is not his own opinion. But why publish 
the name of the two girls? and in such a manner? — what 
a blundering piece of exculpation ! He asked Pictet, &c. 
to dinner, and of course was left to entertain them. I went 
into society solely to present him, (as I told him,) that he 
might return into good company if he chose ; it was the 
best thing for his youth and circumstances : for myself, I 
had done with society, and, having presented him, with- 
drew to my own * way of life.' It is true that I returned 
without entering Lady Dalrymple Hamilton's, because I 
saw it full. It is true that Mrs. Hervey (she wriics novels) 
fainted at my entrance into Co[)et, and then came back 
again. On her fainting, the Duchesse de Broglic e.x- 
claimed, * This is too much at sixty-Jive ycurs of age !' — I 
never gave ' the English' an opportunity of avoiding me ; 
but I trust that if ever I do, they will seize it. With re- 
gard to Mazeppa and the Ode, you may join or separate 
them, as you please, from the two Cantos. 

" Don't suppose I want to put you out of humour. I 
have a groat respect for your good and gentlemanly quali- 
ties, and return your personal friendship towards me ; and 
although I think you a little spoiled by ' villainous com- 
pany,' — wits, persons of ht>nour about town, authors, and 
fashionablsis, together with your ' I am just goin<j to call at 
Carlton House, are you walking that way ?' — I sav, not- 
withstanding ' pictures, taste, Shakspoaro, and the musi> 
cal glasses,' you deserve and possess the esteem of lhiv?o 
whose esteem is worth having, and of none more (how- 
ever useless it may be) than yours very truly, &c. 



Sm Frt|intiit, pm* 9T8. 



136 



LETTERS. 1819. 



" P. S. Make my respects to Mr. Giflbrd. I am per- 
fectly aware that ' Don Juan' must set us all by the ears, 
but that is my concern, and my beginning. There will 
be the ' Edinburgh,' and all, too, against it, so that, like 
* Rob Roy,' I shall have my hands full." 



LETTER CCCXC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, May 25, 1819. 
" I have received no proofs by the last post, and shall 
probably have quitted Venice before the arrival of the 
next. There wanted a few stanzas to the termination of 
Canto First in the last proof: the next will, I presume, 
contain them, and the whole or a portion of Canto Second; 
but it will be idle to wait for farther answers from me, as I 
have directed that my letters wait for my return, (perhaps 
in a month, and probably so;) therefore do not wait for 
farther advice from me. You may as well talk to the wind, 
and better — for it will at least convey your accents a little 
farther than they would otherwise have gone ; whereas / 
shall neither echo nor acquiesce in your 'exquisite reasons.' 
You may omit the note of reference to Hobhouse's travels, 
in Canto Second, and you will put as motto to the whole — 

' Difficile esl proprie communia dicere.' — Horace. 

" A few days ago I sent you ail I knov/ of Polidori's 
Vampire. He may do, say, or write what he pleases, but 
I wish he would not attribute to me his own compositions. 
If he has any thing of mine in his possession, the manu- 
script will put it beyond controversy ; but I scarcely thinlc 
that any one who knows me would believe the thing in 
the Magazine to be mine, even if they saw it in my own 
hyeroglyphics. 

" I write to you in the agonies of a sirocco, which annihi- 
lates me ; and I have been fool enough to do four things 
since dinner, which are as well omitted in very hot weather: 
Istly, ♦ * + + ; 2dly, to play at billiards from 10 to 12, 
under the influence of lighted lamps, that doubled the heat; 
3dly, to go afterward into a red-hot conversazione of the 
Countess Benzoni's; and 4'hly, to begin this letter at three 
in the morning : but being begun, it must be finished. 
" Ever very truly and affectionately yours, 

"B. 

" P. S. I petition for tooth-brushes, powder, magnesia, 
Macassar oil, (or Russia,) </ie sashes, and Sir Nl. Wrax- 
all's Memoirs of his Own Times. I want, besides, a bull- 
dog, a terrier, and two Newfoundland dogs ; and I want 
(is it Buck's ?) a life of Richard Sd, advertised by Long- 
man, long^ long, long ago ; I asked for it at least three years 
since. See Longman's advertisements." 



LETTER CCCXCI. 



TO MR. HOFPNER. 



" A journey in an Italian June is a conscription ; and 
if I was not the most constant of men, 1 should now be 
swimming from the Lido, instead of smoking in the dust 
of Padua. Should there be letters from England, let 
them wait my return. And do look at my house and (not 
lands, but) waters, and scold ; — and deal out the moneys 
to Edgecombe* with an air of reluctance and a shaice of 
the head — and put queer questions to him — and turn up 
your nose when he answers. 

" Make my respects to the Consuless — and to the 
Chevalier — and to Scotin — and to all the counts and 
countesses of our acquaintance. 
*' And believe me ever 

** Your disconsolate and affectionate, &c." 



* A clerk of the English Coiitulate, whom lie nl this time employed to 
control hii accounts. 



LETTER CCCXCEL 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

" Bologna, June 6, 1819. 

" I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am settled 
like a sausage, and shall be broiled like one, if this weather 
continues. Will you thank Mengaldo on my part for the 
Ferrara acquaintance, which was a very agreeable one. 
I stayed two days at Ferrara, and was much pleased with 
the Count Mosti, and the little the shortness of the time 
permitted me to see of his family. I went to his conver- 
sazione, which is very far superior to any thing of the kind 
at Venice — the women almost all young — several pretty 
— and the men courteous and cleanly. The lady of the 
mansion, who is young, lately married, and with child, 
appeared very pretty by candlelight, (I did not see her by 
day,) pleasing in her manners, and very lady-like, or 
thorough-bred, as we call it in England, — a kind of thing 
which reminds one of a racer, an antelope, or an Italian 
greyhound. She seems very fond of her husband, who is 
amiable and accomplished ; he has been in England two 
or three times, and is young. The sister, a Countess 
somebody — 1 forget what — (they arc both Maffei by birth, 
and Veronese of course) — is a lady of more display ; she 
sings and plays divinely ; but I thought she was a d — d 
long time about it. Her likeness to Madame Flahaut 
(JMiss Mercer that was) is something quite extraordinary. 

*' I had but a bird's-eye view of these people, and shall 
not probably see them again ; but 1 am very much obliged 
to Meno;aldo for letting me see them at all. Whenever I 
meet with any thing agreeable in this world, it surprises 
me so much, and pleases me so much, (when my passions 
are not interested one way or the other,) that I go on 
wondering for a week to come. I feel, too, in great ad- 
miration of the Cardinal Legate's red stockings. 

" I found, too, such a pretty epitaph in the Certosa 
cemetery, or rather two : one was 

' Martini Luigi 
Implora pace ;' 

the other, 

' Lucretia Picini 

Implora eterna quiete.' 

That was all ; but it appears to me that these two and 
three words comprise and compress all that can be said on 
the subject, — and then, in Italian, they are absolute music. 
They contain doubt, hope, and humility ; nothing can be 
more pathetic than the ' implora' and the modesty of the 
request ; — they have had enough of life — they want nothing 
but rest — they implore it, and ' eterna quiete.' It is like a 
Greek inscription in some good old heathen ' City of the 
Dead.' Pray, if I am shovelled into the Lido churchyard 
in your time, let me have the ' implora pace,' and nothing 
else, for my epitaph. I never met with any, ancient or 
modern, that pleased me a tenth part so much. 

" In about a day or two after you receive this letter, I will 
thank you to desire Edgecombe to prepare for my return. 
I shall go back to Venice before I village on the Brenta. 
I shall stay hut a few days in Bologna. I am just going 
out to see sights, but shall not present my introductory 
letters for a day or two, till I have run over again the place 
and pictures ; nor perhaps at all, if I find that I have books 
and sights enough to do without the inhabitants. After 
that, I shall return to Venice, where you may expect me 
about the eleventh, or perhaps sooner. Pray make my 
thanks acceptable to Mengaldo; my respects to the 
Consuless, and to Mr. Scott. 

*' I hope my daughter is well. 

*' Ever yours, and truly. 

" P. S. 1 went over the Ariosto MS. &c. &c. again at 
Ferrara, with the castle, and cell, and house, &c. &c. 

" One of the Ferrarese asked me if I knew ' Lord By- 
ron,' an acquaintance of his now at Naples. I told him 
'Nop which was true both ways; for I knew not an 
impostor, and, in the other, no one knows himself. He 



LETTERS, 1819. 



137 



stared when told that I was 'the real Simon Pure.' — 
Another asked me if I had not translated 'Tasso.' You 
see what Fame is! how acmrate ! how boundless! I do n't 
know how others feel, but I am always the lighter and the 
better looked on when I have got rid of mine ; it sits on me 
like armour on the Lord Mayor's champion ; and I got rid 
of all the husk of literature, and the attendant babble, by 
ansv/ering, that I had not translated Tasso, but a name- 
sake had; and by the blessing of Heaven, I looked so little 
like a poet, that every body believed me." 



LETTER CCCXCIIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



« Bologna, June 7, 1819 

"Tell Mr. Hobhouse that I wrote to him a few days ago 
from Ferrara. It will therefore be idle in him or you to 
wait for any farther answers or returns of proofs from 
Venice, as 1 have directed that no English letters be sent 
after me. The publication can be proceeded in without, 
and I am already sick of your remarks, to which I think 
not the least attention ought to be paid. 

" Tell Mr. Hobhouse, that since I wrote to him, I had 
availed myself of my Ferrara letters, and found the society 
much younger and better there than at Venice. I am 
very much pleased with the little the shortness of my stay 
permitted me to see of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and 
his family and friends in general. 

" I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous 
Domenichino and Guido, both of which are sui)erlative. I 
afterward went to the beautiful cemetery of Bologna, 
beyond die walls, and fjund, besides the superb burial- 
ground, an original of a Custode, who reminded one of the 
grave-digger in Hamlet. He has a collection of capuchins' 
skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of 
them, said, ' This was Brother Desiderio Borro, who died 
at forty — one of my best friends. I begged his head of his 
brethren after his decease, and they gave it me. I put it 
in lime, and then boiled it. Here it i<, teeth and all, in 
excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest 
fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went he brought joy ; 
and whenever any one was melancholy, the sight of him 
was enough to make liim cheerful again. He walked so 
actively, you might have taken him for a dancer — he joked 
— he laughed — oh ! he was such a Frate as I never saw 
before, nor ever shall again !' 

"He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses 
in the cemetery ; that he had the greatest attachment to 
them and to his dead people; that since 1801 they had 
buried fifty-three thousand persons. In showing some 
older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of twenty, 
with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Barlorini, 
dead two centuries ago: he said, that on opening her 
grave, they had found her hair complete, and ' as yellow as 
gold.' Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more 
than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for in- 
stance— 

' Martini Luigi 
Implora pace ;' 

' Lucrezia Piciiii 

Implora clerna quiete.' 

Can any thing be more full of pathos? Those few worsts 
say all that can bo said or sought; the dead had had 
enough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this they 
implore! There is all the helplessness, and humble h(»pe, 
and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the ^'rav( — 
' implora pace.' I hope u hocver may survive me, and 
shall see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the 
Lido, within tlie fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two 
words, and no more, put over me. I trust they won't think 
of 'pickliu',', and bringing mc homo to Clod or Blunderbuss 
Hall.' I am sure my bones would not rest in an I-'nglish 
grave, or my clay mix with tJie earth of (hat country. I 

18 



believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed, 
could I suppose that any of my friends would be base 
enough to convey my carcass back to your soil. — I would 
not even feed your worms, if I could help it. 

"So, as Shakspeare says of Mowbray, the banished 
Duke.of Norfolk, who died at Venice, (see Richard 2d.) 
that he, after fighting 

' Against b!acl{ Pagans, Turks, and Saracens, 
And toii'd witli works of war, retired himself 
To Italy, and there, at Venice, gave 
His body to that pleasant country's earth, 
And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, 
Under whose colours he had fought so lung.' 

" Before I lefi. Venice, I had returned to you your late, 
and Mr. Hobhouse's, sheets of Juan. Don't wait for 
farther answers from me, but address yours to Venice, as 
usual. 1 know nothing of my own movements; I may 
return there in a few days, or not for some time. All tliis 
depends on circumstances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well. 
My daughter AUegra was well too, and is growing pretty; 
her hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her 
temper and her ways, P.Ir. Hoppner says, are like mine, as 
well as her features: she will malie, in that case, a ma- 
nageable young lady. 

"I have never heard any thing of Ada, the little Electra 
of my Mycenae. * * * *. But there will 
come a day of reckoning, even if I should not live to see it. 
I have at least seen Romilly* shivered, who was one of 
my assassins. When that man was doing his worst to 
uproot my whole family, tree, branch, and blossoms — when, 
after taking my retainei-, he went over to them — when he 
was bringing desolation on my hearth, and destruction on 
my household godsj — did he think that, in less than three 
years, a natural event — a severe, domestic, but an expected 
and common calamity — would lay his carcass in a cross- 
road, or stamp his name in a Verdict of Lunacy ! Did he 
(who in his sexagenary + + *) reflect or consider what 
my feelings must have been, when wife, and child, and 
sister, and name, and fame, and country, were to be my 
sacrifice on his legal altar — and this at a moment when my 
health was declining, my fortune embarrassed, and my 
mind had been shaken by many kinds of disappointment- 
while I was yet young, and might have reformed what 
might be wrong in my conduct, and retrieved what was 
perplexing in my affairs ! But he is in his grave, and * 
+ * *, What a long letter I have scribbled ! 

" Yours, &o. 

"P. S. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers on tho 
tombs. I saw a quantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, 
scattered over the graves at Ferrara. Et has the most 
pleasing effect you can imagine," 



LETTER CCCXCIV. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



"Ravenna, June 20, 1819. 

♦ *♦*♦♦ 

"I wrote to you from Padua, and from Bologna, and 
since from Ravenna. I find my situation very agreeable, 
but want my horses very much, there being good riding in 
the environs. 1 can fix no time for my return to Venice-"-- 
it may be soon or late — or not at all — it all depends on tho 
Donna,! whom 1 found very seriously in bed with a cough 
and spitting of blood, &c. all of which has subsided. ♦ 

f found all tho people here firmly persuaded that she \vould 
never recover; — lliey were mistaken, however. 

"My letters were useful as far as I employed them; and 
I like both the place and people, though I ilo n't (rouble the 
latter more than I can help. S!ir manages very well — 



11,' ...u.n.ido.Unlriila. 
Thii '. KiiiintGiiiccioll. 



138 



LETTERS, 1819. 



♦ * ♦ + * but if I come away with a 
stiletto ill my gizzard some fine afrernocn, I shall not be 
astonished. I can't make hv7i out at all — he visits me 
frequently, and takes me out (like Whittington, the Lord 
Mayor) in a coacli and six horses. The fact appears to 
be, tliat he is completely governed by her — for that matter, 
so am L The people here don't know what to make of 
us, as he had the character of jealousy wiih all his wives— 
this is the tliird. He is the richest of the Ravennese, by 
iheir own account, but is not popular among them. 
****** 
****** 
Now do, pray, send off Augustine, and carriage and cattle, 
to Bologna, without fail or delay, or T shall lose my re- 
maining shred of senses. Do n't forget this. My coming, 
going, and every thing depend upon her entirely, just as 
Mrs. Hoppner (to whom I remit my reverences) said in 
the true spirit of female prophecy. 

"You are but a shabby fellow not to have written before. 
"And I am truly yours, &c." 



me, all of you, with your nonsensical prudery?— publish 
the two Cantos, and then you will see. I desired Mr. 
Kinnaird to speaii to you on a little matter of business; 
either he has not spoken, or you have not answered. You 
are a pretty pair, but I will be even with you both. I 
perceive that Mr. Hobhouse has been challenged by 
Major Cartwright. — Is the Major 'so cunning of fence?' 
why did not they fight ? — they ought. 

'' Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXCVI. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



LETTER CCCXCV. 

TO MR. MURRAY, 

"Ravenna, June 29, 1819. 

« The letters have been forwarded from Venice, but I 
trust that you will not have waited for farther alterations — 
I will make none. You ask me to spare Romilly — ask the 
worms. His dust can suffer nothing from the truth being 
spoken — and if it couM, how did he behave to me? You 
may talk to the wind, which will carry the sound — and to 
the caves, which will echo you — but not to me, on the sub- 
ject of a * * * who wronged me — whether dead or 
alive. 

" I have no time to return you the proofs — publish with- 
out them. I am glad you think the poesy good ; and as to 

• thinking of the effect,' think you of the sale, and leave me 
to pluck the porcupines who may pomt their quills at you. 

"I have been here (at Ravenna) these four weeks, 
having left Venice a month ago; — 1 came to see my 
'Amica,' the Countess Guiccioli, who has been, and still 
continues, very unwell. * * * * 

* * * * * * * 

She is only twenty years old, but not of a strong constitu- 
tion. ********* 
She has a perpetual cough, and an btermittent fever, but 
bears up most gaUandy in every sense of the word. Her 
husband (this is his third wife) is the richest noble of 
Ravenn^^ and almost of Romagna; he is also not the 
youngest, being upwards of threescore, but in good pre- 
servation. All this will appear strange to you, who do not 
understand the meridian morality, nor our way of life in 
such respects, and I cannot at present expound the differ- 
ence ; — but you would find it much the same in these parts. 
At Faenza there is Lord * + * + with an opera girl ; and 
at the inn in the same town is a Neapolitan Prbce, who 
serves the wife of tlie Gonfalonicre of that city. I am on 
duty here — so you see 'Cosi fan tuUi e tutie.' 

" I have my horses here, saddle as well as carriage, and 
ride or drive every day in the forest, the Pmeta, the scene 
of Boccaccio's novel, and Dryden's fable of Honoria, &c. 
&c. ; and I see my Dama every day *+***+. 
but I feel seriously uneasy about her health, which seems 
very precarious. In losing her, I should lose a being who 
has run great risks on my account, and whom I have 
every reason to love — but I must not think this possible. 
I do not know what 1 should do if she died, but I ought to 
blow my brains out — and I hope that I should. Her hus- 
band is a very polite personage, but I wish he would not 
carry me out in his coach and six, like Whittington and 
his cat. 

"You ask me if I mean to continue Don Juan, &c. 
How should I know? What encouragement do you give 



" Ravenna, July 2, 1819. 
" Thanks for yo-jr letter and for Madame's. I will an- 
swer it directly. AVill you recollect whether I did not 
consign to you one or two receipts of Madame Mocenigo's 
for house-rent — (I am not sure of this, but think I did — if 
not, they will be in my drawers) — and will you desire Mr. 
Dorville* to have the goodness to see if Edgecombe has 
receipts to all payments hitherto made by him on my ac- 
count, and that til ere are no debts at Venice? On your 
answer, I shall send order of farther remittance to carry 
on my household expenses, as my present return to Venice 
is very problematical ; and it may happen — but I can say 
nothing positive — every thing with me being indecisive and 
undecided, except the disgust which Venice excites when 
fairly compared with any other city in this pai-t of Italy. 
When I say Venicey I mean the Venetians — the city itself 
is superb as its history — but the people are what I never 
thought them till they taught me to think so. 

" The best way will be to leave Ailegra with Antonio's 
spouse till I can decide somethmg about her and myself— 
but I thought that you would have had an answer from 

Mrs. V r.| — ^You have had bore enough vvitli me and 

mine already. 

" I greatly fear that tlie Guiccioli is going into a con- 
sumption, to which her constitution tends. Thus it is 
with every thing and every body for whom I feel any thing 
like a real attachment ; — ^^ War, death, or discord, dotb 
lay siege to them.' I never even could keep alive a dog 
that I liked or that liked me. Her symptoms are obsti- 
nate cough of the lungs, and occasional fever, &c. &c. 
and there are latent causes of an eruption in the sldn, 
which she foolishly repelled into the system two years 
ago ; but I have made them send her case to Aglietti ; 
and have begged him to come — if only for a day or two— 
to consult upon her state. * * * 

+ * **** ** 

** * + ** ** 

If it would not bore Mr. Dorville, I wish he would keep 
an eye on Edgecombe and on my other ragamuffins. I 
might have more to say, but I am absorbed about La 
Gui. and her illness. I cannot tell you the effect it has 
upon me. 

" The horses came, &c. &c. and I have been galloping 
through the pine forest daily. 

" Believe me, &c. 
"P. S. My benediction on Mrs. Hoppner, a pleasant 
journey among the Bernese tyrants, and safe return. You 
ought to bring back a Platonic Bemese for my reformation. 
If any thing happens to my present Amica, I have done 
witli the passion for ever — it is my last love. As to liber- 
tinism, I have sickened myself of that, as was natural in 
the way I went on, and I have at least derived that advan- 
tage from vice, to love in tlie better sense of the word. 
This will be my last adventure! — I can hope no more to 
inspire attachment, and I trust never again to feel it." 



• TbeVice-Confcul of Mr. Hoppner. 

I An English lady, who propoied taking charge of AUegra. 

J See his liner, page 487. 



LE*rTERS,1819. 



139 



LETTER CCCXCVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY*, 

« Ravenna, August 1, 1819. 
*' [Address your answer to Venice, however.] 

"Don't be alarmed. You will see me defend myself 
gayly-^that is, if 1 happen to be in spirits ; and by ^irits, 
I don't mean your meaning of the word, but the spirit of a 
bull-dog when pinched, or a bull when pinned ; it is then 
that they make best sport ; and as my sensations under 
an attack are probably a happy compound of the united 
energies df these amiable animals, you may perhaps see 
what Marrall calls 'rare sport,' and some good tossing 
and goring, in the course of the controversy. But I must 
be in the right cue first, and I doubt 1 am almost too far 
off to be in a sufficient fury for the purpose. And then I 
have effeminated and enervated myself with love and the 
summer in these last two months. 

" I wrote to Mr. Hobhouse the other day, and foretold 
that Juan would either fall entirely or succeed completely ; 
there will be no medium. Appearances are not favour- 
able ; but as you write the day after publication, it can 
hardly be decided what opinion will predominate. You 
seem in a fright, and doubtless with cause. Come what 
may, I never will flatter the million's canting in any shape. 
Circumstances may or may not have placed me at times 
in a situation to lead the public opinion, but the public 
opinion never led, nor ever shall lead, me. I will not sit 
on a degraded throne ; so pray put Messrs. * * or * *, 
or Tom Moore, or * * * upon it ; they will all of them 
be transported with their coronation. 

****** 

*P. S. The Countess Guiccioli is much better than she 
was. I sent you, before leaving Venice, the real original 
sketch which gave* rise to the ' Vampire/ &c. Did you 
get it?" 



LETTER CCCXCVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Ravenna, August 9, 1819. 
****** 

• Talking of blunders reminds me of Ireland — Ireland 
of Moore. What is this I see in Galignani about ' Ber- 
muda — acent — deputy — appeal — attachment,' &c. ? What 
is the matter ? Is it any thing in which his friends can be 
of use to him ? Pray inform me. 

" Of Don Juan I hear nothing farther from you ; * * *^ 
but the papers do n't seem so fierce as the letter you sent 
me seemed to anticipate, by their extracts at least in 
Galigriani's Messenger. I never saw such a set of fel- 
lows as you arc I And then the pains taken to exculpate 
the modest publisher — he remonstrated, forsooth ! I will 
write a preface that shall exculpate r/ow and * * *, &c. 
completely on that point ; but, at the same time, I will cut 
you up like gourds. You have no more soul than the 
Count de Caylus (who assured his friends, on his death- 
bed, that he had none, and that he must know better than 
they whether he had one or no,) and no more blood than 
a wator-melon ! And I see there hath been asterisks, and 
what Ferry used to call ' domned cutting and slashing' — 
but, never mind. 

"I write in haste. To-morrow I set off for Bologna. 
1 write to you with thunder, lightning, &c. and all the 
winds of heaven whistling througli my hair, and the racket 
of preparation to boot. 'My mistress di-ar, who hath fi^d 
my heart upon smiles and wiuo' for the last two months, 
set off with her husl)and fur Bologna this nioniing, and it 
seenjs that I follow him at three to-morrow morning. I 
cannot tell how our romance will end, but it hath gone on 
hitherto most erotically. Such perils and escapes I Juan's 



See LeUer384. 



are as child's play in comparison. The fools think that 
all my poeshie is always allusive to my ovm adventures : I 
have had at one time or another better and more* extra- 
ordinary and perilous and pleasant than these, every day 
of the week, if I might tell them ; but that must never be. 
"I hope Mrs. M. has accouched. 

"Yours ever.' 



LETTER CCCXCIX. 

TO MR, MURRAY. 

"Bologna, August 12, 1819. 

" I do not know how far I may be able to reply to your 
letter, for I am not very well to-day. Last night I went 
to the representation of Alfieri's Mirrei, the last two acts 
of which threw me into convulsions. I do not mean by 
that word a lady's hysterics, but the agony of reluctant 
tears, and the choking shudder, which I do not often under- 
go for fiction. This is but the second time for any thing 
under reality: the first was on seeing Kean's Sir Giles 
Overreach. The worst was, that the ' Dama,' in v.hoso 
box I was, went off in the same way, I really believe more 
from fright than any other sympathy — at least with the 
players : but she has been ill, and I have been ill, and we 
are all languid and pathetic this morning, with great 
expenditure of sal volatile. But, to return to your letter 
ofthe23dof July. 

"You are right, Gifford is right, Crabbe is right. Hob- 
house is right — you are all right, and I am all wrong ; but 
do, pray, let me have that pleasure. Cut me up root and 
branch ; quarter me in the duarterly ; send roimd my 
' disjecti membra poeta3,' like those of the Levite's con- 
cubine ; make me if you will a spectacle to men and 
angels ; but do n't ask me to alter, for I won't : — I am 
obstinate and lazy — and there 's the truth. 

"But, nevertheless, I will answer your fiiend Perry, who 
objects to the quick succession of fun and gravity, as if in 
that case the gravity did not (in intention, at least) heighten 
the fun. His metaphor is, that ' we are never scorchoH 
and drenched at the same time.' Blessings on his expe- 
rience! Ask him these questions bout 'scorching and 
drenching.' Did he never play at cricket, or walk a mile 
in hot weather? Did he never spill a dish of tea over 
himself in handing the cup to his charmer, to the great 
shame of his nankeen breeches ? Did he never swim in 
the sea at noonday with the sun in his eyes and on his 
head, which all the foam of ocean could not cool ? Did 
he never draw his f )0t out of too hot water, d — ning his 
eyes and his valet's ? * * * ♦ 

Was he ever in a Turkish bath — that marble paradise of 
sherbet and * * ? Was he ever in a cauldron of boiling 
oil, like St. John? or in the sulphureous waves of h — 1? 
(where he ought to be for his ' scorching and drenching 
at the same time.') Did he never tumble into a river or 
lake, fishing, and sit in his wet clothes in the boat, or on 
the bank afterward, ' scorched and drenched,' like a true 
sportsman? 'Oh for breath to utter I' — but make him my 
compliments ; he is a clever fellow for all that — a very 
clever fellow. 

" You ask mc for tlio plan of Donnv Joliunv : I have no 
()lan ; I had no plan ; but I had or have materials ; thoii^'h 
if, like Tony Lumpkin, ' I am to bo snubbed so when I am 
in spirits,' the poem will bo naught, and llio poet turn 
serious again. If it don't takf, I will leave it olf where it 
is, witli all due respect to the public; but if continued, it 
must bo in my own way. You might as well muile 
Flauilot (or Diggory)'act mad' in a strait waistcoat as 
trannnil my butfoonory, if I am to bo a buffoon: their 
gestures and my thoughts would onlv be |)itiiibly al>surd 
and ludiorou.sly uoMcilrained. AVhy, man, the soul of such 
writing is its license ; ut least tho liherti/ of that license, if 



Hon Jtitii, Cinto XIV. .Siciita 101. 



140 



LETTERS, 1819. 



one likes — not that one should abuse it. It is like Trial 
by Jury and Peerage and the Habeas Corpus — a very 
fine thing, but chiefly in the reversion; because no one 
wishes to be tried for the mere pleasure of proving his 
possession of tlie privilege. 

"But a truce with these reflections. You are too 
earnest and eager about a work never intended to be 
serious. Do you suppose that I could Iiave any intention 
but to giggle and malie giggle ? — a i)layful satire, with as 
Jitde poetry as could be helped, was what I meant. And 
as to the indecency, do pray, read in Boswell what John.' 
son, the sullen moralist, says o( Prior and Paulo Purgante. 

" Will you get a favour done for me ? You can, by 
your government friends, Croker, Canning, or my old 
schoolfellow Peel, and I can't. Here it is. Will you 
ask them to appoint (without salary or emolument) a noble 
Italian (whom I will name afterward) consul or vice- 
consul for Ravenna? He is a man of very large pro- 
perty — noble too; but he wishes to have a British protec- 
tion in case of changes. Ravenna is near the sea. He 
wants no emolument whatever. That his office might be 
useful, I know; as I lately sent off from Ravenna to 
Trieste a poor devil of an English sailor, who had re- 
mained there sick, sorry, and pennyless (having been set 
ashore in 1814,) from the want of any accredited agent 
able or willing to help him homewards. Will you get 
this done ? If you do, I will then send his name and 
condition, subject of course to rejection, if not approved 
when kno\Mi, 

" I know that in the Levant you make consuls and vice- 
consuls, perpetually, of foreigners. This man is a patri- 
cian, and has twelve thousand a year. His motive is a 
British protection in case of new invasions. Don't you 
think Croker would do it for us? To be sure, my interest 
is rare 1 ! but perhaps a brother wit in the Tory line might 
do a good turn at the request of so harmless and long 
absent a Whig, particularly as there is no salary or 
burthen of any sort to be annexed to the office. 

"I can assure you, I should look upon it as a great 
obligation ; but, alas ! tliat very circumstance may, very 
probably, operate to the contrary — indeed, it ought ; but I 
have, at least, been an honest and an open enemy. Among 
your many splendid government connexions, could not 
you, think you, get our Bibulus made a Consul? or make 
me one. that I may make him my Vice. You may be 
assured that, in case of accidents in Italy, he would be no 
feeble adjunct — as you would tliink, if you knew liis patri- 
mony. 

" What is all this about Tom Moore ? but why do I 
ask? since the state of my own affairs would not permit me 
to be of use to him, though they are greatly improved since 
1816, and may, with some more luck and a little prudence, 
become quite clear. It seems his claimants are American 
merchants ? There goes Nemesis ! Moore abused Ame- 
rica. It is always thus in the long run : — Time, the 
Avenger. You have seen every trampler down, in turn, 
from Buonaparte to the simplest individuals. You saw 
how some were avenged even upon my insignificance, and 
how in turn * * * paid for his atrocity. It is an odd 
world ; but the watch has its mainspring, after all. 

" So the Prince has been repealing Lord Edward Fitz- 
gerald's forfeiture ? JEcco uiH soncUo ! 

" To be the father of tlie fatherless, &c.* 

■ There, you dogs ! diere 's a sonnet for you : you won't 
have such as that in a hurry from Mr. Fitzgerald. You 
may publish it with my name, an ye wool. He deserves 
all praise, bad and good ; it was a very noble piece of 
principality. Would you lil;e an epigram — a transladon 

"4f fDr silver, or for goU!, 
You could melt ten thousand pimples 
Into half a dozen dimples, 

Then your face we might behold, 

Looking doubtless much more snugly, 
Yet cv'n t/ien 't would be d d ugly. 



" This w as WTitten on some Frenchwoman, by Rul- 
hieres, I believe. " Yours." 



LETTER CCCC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Bologna, August 23, 1819. 

" I send you a letter to Roberts, signed ' Wordey Clut- 
terbuck,'* which you may publish in what form you please, 
in answer to his article. I have had many proofs of men's 
absurdity, but he beats all in folly. Why, the wolf in 
sheep's clothing has timibled into the very trap ! We '11 
strip him. The letter is written in great haste, and amid 
a thousand vexations. Your letter only came yesterday 
so that there is no time to polish: the post goes out 
to-morrow. The date is ' Little Pidlington.' Let * * * * 
correct the press : he knows and can read the handwrit- 
ing. Continue to keep the anonymous about 'Juan;' it 
helps us to fight against overwhelming numbers. I have 
a thousand distractions at present ; so excuse haste, and 
wonder I can act or Mrite at all. Answer by post, as 
usual. " Yours. 

"P. S. If I had had time, and been quieter and nearer, 
I would have cut him to hash : but as it is. you can judge 
for yourselves." 



LETTER CCCCL 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLA. 

[Written in the last page of her copy of Madame De 
Stael's "Corinna."] 

"My dearest Teresa, — 1 have read this book in your 
garden ; — my love, you were absent, or else I could not have 
read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer 
was a friend of mine. You will not understand these 
English words, and others will not understand them, — 
which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. 
But you will recognise the handwriting of him who pas- 
sionately loved you. and you will divine that, over a book 
which was yours, he could only think of love. In that 
word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours — 
Amor mio — is comprised my existence here and here- 
after. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I shall exist 
hereafter, — to what purpose you will decide ; my destiny 
rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of 
acre, and two out of a convent. I wish that you had stayed 
there, with all my heart, — or, at least, that I had never met 
you in your married state. 

" But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me, 
— at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last 
is a great consolation in all events. But / more than 
love you, and cannot cease to love you. 

" Think of me, sometmies, when the Alps and die ocean 
divide us, — but tliey never will, unless you vdsh it. 

" Byron. 

« Bologna, August 25, 1819." 



See Poems, p. 484. 



LETTER CCCCIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Bologna, August 24, 1819. 
" I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffooning let- 
ter for publication, addressed to the buffoon Roberts, who 
has thought proper to tie a canister to his own tail. It 
was written off-hand, and in the midst of circumstances 
not very favourable to facetiousness, so that there mayi 
perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort of 
small acid punch : — ^you will tell me. 

• ^ee page 296. 



LETTERS, 1819. 



141 



*•' Keep the anonymous, in any case : it helps what fun 
there may be. But if the matter grows serious about 
Drm Juan, and you feel yourself in a scrape, or vie cither. 
mon that I am the autlurr. I will never shrink ; and if you 
do, I can always answer you in the question of Guatimo- 
zin to his minister — each being on his own coals.* 

" I wish that I had been in better spirits ; but I am out 
of sorts, out of nerves, and now and tlien (I begin to fear) 
out of my senses. All this Italy has done for mo, and 
not England : I defy all you, and your climate to boot, to 
make me mad. But if ever I do really become a bedla- 
mite, and wear a strait waistcoat, let me be brought back 
among you ; your people will then be proper company. 

" I assure you what I here say and feel has nothing to 
do with England, either in a literary or personal point of 
view. All my present pleasures or plagues are as Italian 
as the opera. And after all, they are but trifles ; for all 
this arises from my 'Dama's' being in the country for 
three days, (at Capo-fiume.) But as I could never live 
but for one human being at a time, (and, I assure you, that 
one has never been myself, as you may know by the con- 
sequences, for the selfish are siiccessful in life,) I feel alone 
and unhappy. 

" I have sent for my daughter from Venice, and I ride 
daily, and walk in a garden, under a purple canopy of 
grapes, and sit by a fountain, and talk with the gardener 
of his tools, which seem greater than Adam's, and with 
his wife, and with his son's wife, who is the youngest of 
the party, and, I thinlc, talks best of the three. Then I 
revisited the Campo Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, 
has two — but one the prettiest daughter imaginable ; and 
I amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful and inno- 
cent face of fifteen, with the skulls with which he has 
peopled several cells, and particularly with that of one skull 
dated 1766, which was once covered (the tradition goes) 
by the most lovely features of Bologna — noble and rich. 
When I look at these, and at this girl — when I think of 
what they were, and what she must be — why, then, my 
dear Murray, I won't shock you by saying what I think. 
It is little matter what becomes of us ' bearded men,' but 
I do n't like the notion of a beautiful woman's lasting less 
than a beautiful tree — than her own picture — her own 
shadow, which won't change so to the sun as her face 
to the mirror. — I must leave offj for my head aches con- 
sumedly. I have never been quite well since the night 
of the representation of Alfieri's Mirra, a fortnight ago. 

" Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCCIIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



« Bologna, August 29, 1819. 
* I have been in a rage these two days, and am still 
bilious therefrom. You shall hear. A captain of dra- 
goons, * *, Hanoverian by t)irth, in tlie Papal troops at 
present, whom I had obliged by a loan when nobody 
would lend him a paul, recommended a horse to me, on 
sale by a Lieutenant * *, an officer who unites the sale 
of cattle to the purchase of men. I bought it. Tlu^ 
next day, on shoeing the horse, we discovered the Himsli, 
— the animal being warranted .sound. I sent to reclaim 
the contract and the money. The lieutenant desired to 
speak with me in person. I coasented. Tie came. It was 
his own particular request. He began a story. I asked 
him if he would return the money, lie said no — but he 
would exchange. lie asked an exorbitant price fir his 
other horses. I told him that ho was a thief. He 
said he wag an qfficir and a man of honour, and pull«'d 
out a Parmesan passport signed by General Count Ncif- 
porg. I answered, that as he was an ofliccr, I would treat 
iiim as such; and that as to his being a gentleman, he 



* "Aral now reposing on • bod of ro«M ?' 



might prove it by returning the money: as for liis Parme- 
san passport, I should have valued it more if it had been a 
Parmesan cheese. He answered in high terms, and said 
that if it were in the morning (it was about eight o'clock in 
the evening) he would have satisfaction. 1 tlicn lost my 
temper: 'As for that,' I replied, 'you siiall have it 
directly, — it will be mutual satisfaction, I can assure you. 
You are a thief, and, as you say, an officer ; my pistols 
are in the next room loaded ; take one of the candles, 
examine, and make your choice of weapons.' He replied 
ihdl pistols were English weapons ; he always fought with 
the siDord. I told him tliat I was able to accommodate 
liim, having three regimental swords in a drawer near us ; 
and he might take the longest, and put himself on guard. 

"All this passed in presence of a third person. He 
then said JVo, but to-morrow morning he would give me 
the meeting at any time or place. I answered that it 
was not usual to appoint meetings in the presence of 
witnesses, and that we had best speak man to man, and 
appoint time and instruments. But as the man present 
was leaving the room, the Lieutenant * *, before he could 
shut the door after him, ran out, roaring ' help and mur- 
der' most lustily, and fell into a sort of hysteric in the arms 
of about fifty people, who all saw that I had no weapon 
of any sort or kind about me, and followed him, asking 
him what the devil was the matter with him. Nothing 
would do: he ran away without his hat, and went to bed, 
ill of the fright. He then tried his complaint at the 
police, which dismissed it as frivolous. He is, I believe 
gone away, r r going. 

" The horse was warranted, but, I believe, so worded 
that the villain will not be obliged to refund, according to 
law. He endeavoured to raise up an indictment of assault 
and battery, but as it was in a public inn, in a frequented 
street, there were too many witnesses to the contrary; 
and, as a military man, he has not cut a martial figurCj 
even in the opinion of the priests. He ran off in such a 
hurry that he left his hat, and never missed it till he got 
to his hostel or inn. The facts are as I tell you, I can 
assure you. He began by ' coming Captain Grand over 
me,' or I should never have thought of trying his ' cunning 
in fence.' But what could I do? He talked of 'honour, 
and satisfaction, and his commission ;' he produced a mili- 
tary passport ; there are severe punishments for regular 
du^ls on the continent, and trifling ones for iciwmitres, so 
that it is best to fight it out directly ; he had robbed, and 
then wanted to insult me ; — what could I do ? My 
patience was gone, and the weapons at hand, fair and 
equal. Besides, it was just after dinner, when my diges- 
tion was bad, and I don't like to be disturbed. His 
friend + + is at Forli •, we shall meet on my way back to 
Ravenna. The Hanoverian seems tlie greater rogue of 
the two ; and if my valour does not oozo away like 
Acre.s's — 'Odds flints and triggers!' if it should be a 
rainy morning, and my stomach in disorder, lliere may be 
something for the obituary. 

Now, pray, ' Sir Lucius, do not you look upon mc as 
a very ill-used gentleman?' I send my Lieutenant to 
match Mr. Hobhouse's Major Carlwright: and so 'good 
morrow to you, good master Lieutenant.' With regard 
to other things,! will write soon, but I have been quarrelling 
and foolinj till I can scribble no more." 



LETTER CCCCIV. 



TO MK. norrNEH. 



« October C-2, 1S19. 
" I am glad to hear of your return, but 1 do not know 
how to congratulate you — unless you think dillerpntly of 
Venice from what I think now, and you thought always. 
I am, besides, about to renew your troul>Ies by requesting 
you to bo judge between Air. iMlgeeonibo and myself 
in a small matter of imputed peculation and irregular 



142 



LETTERS, 1819. 



accounts on the part of that phcenix of secretaries. As I 
knew that you had not parted friends, at the same lime 
that / refused for my own part any judgment but ^ours, I 
offered him his choice of any person, the least scoundrel 
native to be found in Venice, as his own umpire : but 
he expressed himself so convinced of your impartiahty, 
that he declined any but you. This is in his favour. — 
The paper within will explain to you the default in his 
accounts. You will hear liis explanation, and decide, if 
it so please you. I shall not appeal from the decision. 

"As he complained that his salary was insufficient, I 
determined to have his accounts examined, and the en- 
closed was the result. — It is all in black and white with 
documents, and I have despatched Fletcher to explain 
(or rather to perplex) the matter. 

" I have had much civiUty and kindness from Mr. Dor- 
ville during your journey, and I thank him accordingly. 

" Your letter reached me at your departure,* and dis- 
pleased me very much: — not that it might not be true in 
its statement and kind in its intention, but you have lived 
long enough to know how useless all such representations 
ever are and must be in cases where the passions are 
concerned. To reason with men in such a situation is 
like reasoning with a drunkard in his cups — the only 
answer you will get from him is that he is sober, and you 
are drunk. 

" Upon that subject we will (if you like) be silent. 
You might only say what would distress me without 
answering any purpose whatever; and I have too many 
obligations to you to answer you in the same style. So 
that you should recollect that you have also that advan- 
tage over me. I hope to see you soon. 

"I suppose you know that they said at Venice, that I 
was arrested at Bologna as a Carbonaro — a story about 
as true as their usual conversation. Moore has been 
here — I lodged him in my house at Venice, and went to 
see him daily ; but I could not at that time quit La Mira 
entirely. You and I were not very far from meeting in 
Switzerland. With my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, 
believe me ever and truly, &c. 

" P. S. AUegra is here in good health and spirits — I 
shall keep her with me till T go to England, which will 
perhaps be in the spring. It has just occurred to me that 
you may not perhaps like to undertake the office of judge 
between Mr. Edgecombe and your humble servant. — Of 
course, as Mr. Listen (the comedian, not the ambassador) 
says, ^ it is all hoptional f but I have no other resource. I 
do not wish to find him a rascal, if it can be avoided, and 
would rather think him guilty of carelessness than cheat- 
ing. The case is this — can I, or not, give him a character 
for honesty ? — It is not my intention to continue him in 
my service." 



LETTER CCCCV. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"October 25, 1819. 
■You need not have made any excuses about the. let- 
ter ; I never said but that you might, could, should, or 
would have reason. I merely described my own state of 
inaptitude to listen to it at that time, and in those circum- 
stances. Besides, you did not speak from your own 
authority — but from what you said you had licard. Now 
my blood boils to hear an Italian speaking ill of another 
Itaban, because, though they lie in particular, they speali 



• Mr. Hoppner, before hi« deparliirc from Venice for Switz.erl.ind. 
had wrilteii a letter to LonI Uyron, cntreatin? liim " to leave Ravenna, 
while yel he had a whole skin, and iirpn? him not to risk the safety of a 
person he appeared so sincerely attached to— as well as his own— for the 
gratification of a momentary passion, which could only be a sonrcc of 
regret to both parlies." In the same letter Mr. Hoppner informed him 
of some reports he had heard lately at Venice, which, though possibly, 
he said, unfo'mdcd, had much increased hii anxiety respecting iImj con- 
wquences of ihc comiexiou formed by hxm.—Mo'jie. 



truth in general by speakmg ill at all — and although they 
know that they are trying and wishing to lie, they do not 
succeed, merely because they can say nothing so bad of 
each other, that it may not, and must not be true from tlie 
atrocity of their long-debased national character. 

" With regard to Edgecombe, you w ill perceive a most 
irregular, extravagant account, without proper documents 
to support it. He demanded an increase of salary, which 
made me suspect him ; he supported an outrageous extra- 
vagance of expenditure, and did not like the dismission of 
the cook ; he never complained of him — as in duty bound 
— at the time of his robberies. I can only say, that the 
house expense is now under one-half of what it then was, 
as he himself admits. He charged for a comb eighteen 
francs, — the real price was eight. He charged a passage 
from Fusina for a person named lambelli, who paid it 
herself, as she will prove, if necessary. He fancies, or 
asserts himselfj the victim of a domestic complot against 
him ; — accounts are accounts — prices are prices ; — let 
him make out a fair detail, /am not prejudiced against 
him — on the contrary, I supported him against the com- 
plaints of his wife, and of his former master, at a time 
when I could have crushed him like an earwig, and if he 
is a scoundrel, he is the greatest of scoundrels, an un- 
grateful one. The truth is, probably, that he thought I 
was leaving Venice, and determined to make the most of 
it. At present he keeps bringing in account after accouniy 
though he had always money in hand — as I believe you 
know my system was never to allow longer than a week's 
bills to run. Pray read him this letter — I desire nothing 
to be concealed against which he may defend himself. 

"Pray how is your httle boy? and how are you — I 
shall be up in Venice very soon, and we will be bilious 
together. I hate the place and all that it inherits. 

« Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCVI. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"October 28, 1819. 
*♦ + **** + 

" I have to thank you for your letter, and your com- 
pliment to Don Juan. I said nothing to you about it, 
understanding that it is a sore subject with the moral 
reader, and has been the cause of a great row ; but I am 
glad you like it. I will say nothing about the shipwreck, 
except that I hope you think it is as nautical and technical 
as verse could admit in the octave measure. 

" The poem has not sold wcU, so Murray says — 'but the 
best judges, &c. say, &c.' so says that worthy man. I have 
never seen it in print. The Third Canto is in advance 
about one hundred stanzas ; but the failure of the first two 
has weakened my estrOy and it will neither be so good as 
the former two, nor completed, unless I get a httle more 
riscaldato in its behalf* I understand the outcry was 
beyond every thing. — Pretty cant for people who read 
Tom Jones, and Roderick Random, and the Bath Guide, 
and Ariosto, and Dryden, and Pope — to say nothing of 
Little's Poems. Of course I refer to the morality of these 
works, and not to any pretension of mine to compete with 
them in any thing but decency. I hope yours is the Paris 
edition, and that you did not pay the London price. I 
have seen neither except in the newspapers. 

" Pray make my respects to Mrs. H. and take care of 
your httle boy. All my household have the fever and 
ague, except Fletcher, AUegra, and mysera, (as we used to 
say in Nottinghamshire,) and the horses, and Mutz, and 
Moretto. In tlie beginning of November, perhaps sooner 
I expect to have the pleasure of seeing you. To-day 1 
got drenched by a thunder-storm, and my horse and groom 
too, and his horse all bemired up to the middle in a cross- 



See Letter 380. 



LETTERS, 1819. 



143 



road. It was summer, at noon, and at five we were 
be wintered ; but the lightning was sent perhaps to let us 
know that the summer was not yet over. It is queer 
weather for the 27th of October. 

K: "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Venice, October 29, 1819. 

"Yours of the 15th came yesterday. I am sorry that 
you do not mention a large letter addressed to your care 
for Lady Byron, from me, at Bologna, two montiis ago. 
Pray tell me was this letter received and forwarded? 

" You say nothing of the vice-consulate for the Ravenna 
patrician, from which it is to be inferred that the thing will 
not be done. 

"I had written about a hundred stanzas of a Third 
Canto to Don Juan, but the reception of the first two is 
no encouragement to you nor me to proceed. 

" I had also written about sLx hundred lines of a poem, 
the Vision (or Prophecy) of Dante, the subject a view of 
Italy in the ages down to the present — supposing Dante 
to speak in his own person, previous to his death, and 
embracing all topics in the way of prophecy, like Lyco- 
phron's Cassandra ; but this and the other are both at a 
stand-still for the present. 

*' I gave Moore, who is gone to Rome, my life in MS. 
in 78 folio sheets, brought down to 1816. But this I put 
into his hands for his care, as he has some other MSS. of 
mine — a Journal kept in 1814, &c. Neither are for pub- 
lication during my life, but when I am cold, you may do 
what you please. In the mean time, if you like to read 
them you may, and show them to any body you Uke — I 
care not. 

" The Life is Memoranda^ and not Confessions. I have 
left out all my toues, (except in a general way,) and many 
other of the most nnportaiit things, (because I must not 
comprombe other people,) so that it is like the play of 
Hamlet — 'The part of Hamlet omitted by particular 
desire.' But you will find many opinions, and some fun, 
with a detailed account of my marriage and its conse- 
quences, as true as a party concerned can make such 
account, for I suppose we are all prejudiced. 

" I have never read over this Life since it was written, 
so that I know not exactly what it may repeat or contain. 
Moore and I passed some merry days together. * 

♦ + + * + ♦ * 

" I probably must return for business, or in my way to 
America. Pray, did you get a letter for Hobhouse, who 
will have told you the contents ? I understand that the 
Venezuelan commissioners had orders to treat with emi- 
grants ; now I want to go there. I should not make a bad 
South American planter, and I should take my natural 
daughter, Allegra,vvith mo, and settle. I wrote, at length, 
to Hobhouse, to get intormation from Perry, who, I sup- 
pose, IS the best topographer and trumpeter of the new 
republicans. Pray write. •* Yours, ever. 

" P. S. Moore and I did nothing but laugh. He will 
tell you of ' my whereabouts,' and all my proceedings at 
this present ; they are as usual. You should not let those 
fellows publish false ' Don Jiians ;' but do not put vui nanie^ 
because I mean to cut Roberts up Uke a gourd in the pre- 
face, if I continue the poem." 



LETTER CCCCVIIL 



TO MR. nOPPNER. 



"October 29, 1819 

" The Ferrara story is of a piece with all the rest of 

Uie Venetian manufacture,* — you may judge : 1 only 



Sec Letter 400. 



changed horses there since I wrote to you, after my visit 
in June last. Convent^ and ^ carry off^ quotha I and 
' girV I should like to know uho has been carried ofl^ 
except poor dear me. I have been more ravished myself 
than any body since the Trojan war; but as to the 
arrest, and its causes, one is as true as the other, and 
I can account for the invention of neither. I suppose it 
is some confusion of the tale of the Fornaretta and of Me. 
Guiccioli, and half a dozen more; but it is useless to 
unravel the web, when one has only to brush it away. I 
shall settle with Master E., who looks very blue at your 
in-decision, and swears that he is the best aritlimetician in 
Europe; and so I think also, for he makes out two and 
two to be five. 

" You may see me next week. I have a horse or two 
more, (five in all,) and I shall repossess myself of Lido, 
and I will rise earUer, and we will go and shake our livers 
over the beach, as heretofore, if you like — and we will 
make the Adriatic roar again with our hatred of that now 
empty oyster-shell, without its pearl, the city of Venice. 

" Murray sent me a letter yesterday : the impostors 
have published two new Third Cantos of Don Juan : — 
the devil take the impudence of some blackguard book- 
seller or other there/or.' Perhaps I did not make myself 
understood ; he told me the sale had been great, 1200 out 
of 1500 quarto, I believe, (which is nothing, after, selling 
13,000 of the Corsair in one day;) but that the 'best 
judges,' &c. had said it was very fine, and clever, and par- 
ticularly good English, and poetry, and all those consola- 
tory things, wliich are not, however, worth a single copy 
to a bookseller : and as to the author, of course I am in a 
d — ned passion at the bad taste of the times, and swear 
there is nothing like posterity, who, of course, must know 
more of the matter than their grandfathers. There has 
been an eleventh commandment to the women not to read 
it, and what is still more extraordinary, they seem not to 
have broken it. But that can be of little import to them, 
poor things, for the reading or non-reading a book will 
never ****** 

"Count G. comes to Venice next week, and I am re- 
quested to consign his wife to him, which shall be done. * 
* * * What you say of the long even- 

ings at the Mira, or Venice, reminds me of what Curran 
said to Moore : — ' So I hear you have married a pretty 
woman, and a very good creature, too — an excellent crea- 
ture. Pray — um I — how do you pass your evenings ?^ It 
is a devil of a question that, and perhaps as easy to 
answer with a wife as with a mistress. 

"If you go to Milan, pray leave at least a Vicc'Consul 
— the only vice that will ever be wanting at Venice. 
D'Orville is a good fellow. But you shall go to England 
in the spring with mc, and plant Mrs. Hoppner at Berne 
with her relations for a few months. I wish you had been 
here (at Venice, I mean, not tlie Mira) when Moore was 
here — we were very merry and tipsy. He hated Venice 
by-the-wav, and swore it was a sad place . 

•So Madame Albrizzi's death is in danger — poor wo- 
man ! * + + * * ♦ 
Moore told mc that at Geneva they had made a devil of 
a story of the Fornaretta : — ' Young lady seduced I — sub- 
sequent abandonment! — leap into die Grand Canal!' — 
and her being in the ' hospital oi fous in consequence " I 
should like to know who was nearest being made ^fou^ 

and be tl d to them ! Don't you tliink me in the 

interesting character of a very ill-used gentleman? I 
hope yom- little boy is well. AUegrina is flourisliing like 
a pomegranate blossom. "Your?, ice." 



LETTER CCCCIX. 

TO MR. MURUAV. 

« Venice, November 8, 1819. 
■ Mr. Hoppn 'r I as lent me a ropy of I >on Juan,' Pari* 



144 



LETTERS, 1819. 



edition, which he tells me is read in Switzerland by clergy- 
men and ladies, with considerable approbation. In the 
Second Canto, you must alter the 49th stanza to 

" 'T was twilight, nnd tlie sunless day went down 

Over llie waste 6f waters, like a veil 
Which if wiihdrawn would hut disclose the frown 

Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail ; 
Thus to their liopeless eyes the night was shown, 

And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
And the dim desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear 
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.* 

« I have been ill these eight days with a tertian fever, 
caught in the country on horseback in a thunder-storm. 
Yesterday I had the fourth attack : the two last were very 
smart, the first day as well as the last being preceded by 
vomiting. It is the fever of the place and the season. 
I feel weakened, but not unwell, m the intervals, except 
headache and lassitude. 

" Count Guiccioli has arrived in Venice, and has pre- 
sented his spouse (who had preceded him two months for 
her health and the prescriptions of Dr. Aglietti) with a 
paper of conditions, regulations of hours, and conduct, and 
morals, &c. &c. &c. which he insists on her accepting, 
and she persists in refusing. I am expressly, it should 
seem, excluded by this treaty, as an indispensable pre- 
liminary ; so that they are in high dissension, and what 
the result may be, I know not, particularly as they are 
consulting friends. 

"To-night, as Countess Guiccioli observed me poring 
over 'Don Juan,' she stumbled by mere chance on the 
137th stanza of the First Canto, and asked me what it 
meant. I told her, 'Nothing, — but "your husband is 
coming."' As I said this in Itahan with some emphasis, 
she started up in a fright, and said, ' Oh, my God, is he 
coming ?' thinking it was her own, who either was or ought 
to have been at the theatre. You may suppose we 
laughed when she found out the mistake. You will be 
amused, as I was ; — it happened not three hours ago. 

" I wrote to you last week, but have added nothing to 
the Third Canto since my fever, nor to 'The Prophecy 
of Dante.' Of the former there are about a hundred 
octaves done ; of the latter about five hundred lines — per- 
haps more. Moore saw the Third Juan, as far as it then 
went. I do not know if my fever will let me go on witli 
either, and the tertian lasts, they say, a good while. I had 
it in Malta on my way home, and the malaria fever in 
Greece the year before that. The Venetian is not very 
fierce, but I was delirious one of the nights with it, for 
an hour or two, and, on my senses coming back, found 
Fletcher sobbing on one side of the bed, and La Contessa 
Guiccioli weeping on the other ; so that I had no want of 
attendance. 1 have not yet taken any physician, because, 
though I think they may relieve in chronic disorders, such 
as gout and the like, &c. &c. &c. (though they can't cure 
them) — ^just as surgeons are necessary to set bones and 
tend wounds — yet I think fevers quite out of their reach, 
and remediable only by diet and nature. 

" I do n't like the taste of bark, but I suppose that 1 must 
take it soon. 

" Tell Rose that somebody at Milan (an Au.«trian, Mr. 
Hoppner says) is answering his book. William Bankes 
is in quarantine at Trieste. I have not lately heard from 
you. Excuse this paper: it is long paper shortened for 
the occasion. What folly is this of Carlile's trial? why 
let him have the honours of a martyr ? it will only adver- 
tise tlie books in question. 

" Yours, &c. 

"P. S. As I tell you that the Guiccioli business is on 
the eve of exploding in one way or the other, I will just 
add, that without attempting to influence the decision of 
»he Contessa, a good deal depends upon it. If she and 
her husband make it up, you will perhaps see me in Eng- 
land sooner than you expect. If not, I shall retire with 

• Corrected in this edition. 



her to France or America, change my name, and lead a 
quiet provincial life. All this may seem odd, but I have 
got the poor girl into a scrape; and as neither her birth^ 
nor her rank, nor her connexions by birth or marriage, 
are inferior to my own, 1 am in honour bound to support 
her through. Besides, she is a very pretty woman — ask 
Moore — and not yet one-and-twenty. 

" If she gets over this, and I get over my tertian, I will 
perhaps look in at Albemarle-street, some of these days, 
en passant to Bolivar. 



LETTER CCCCX. 



TO ME. BANKES. 



"Venice, November 20, 1819. 

" A tertian ague which has troubled me for some time, 
and the indisposition of my daughter, have prevented me 
from replying before to your welcome letter. I have not 
been ignorant of your progress nor of your discoveries, 
and I trust that you are no worse in health from your 
labours. You may rely upon finding every body in Eng- 
land eager to reap the fruits of them ; and as you have 
done more than other men, I hope you will not limit your- 
self to saying less than may do justice to the talents and 
time you have bestowed on your perilous researches. 
The first sentence of my letter will have explained to you 
why I cannot join you at Trieste. I was on the point of 
setting out for England, (before I knew of your arrival,) 
when my child's illness has made her and me dependent 
on a Venetian Prolo-Medico. 

" It is now seven years since you and I met ; — which 
time you have employed better for others, and more 
honourably for yourself, than I have done. 

"In England you will find considerable changes, public 
and private, — you will see some of our old college con- 
temporaries turned into lords of the treasury, admiralty, 
and the like, — others become reformers and orators, — 
many settled in hfe, as it is called, — and others settled in 
death ; among the latter (by-the-way, not our fellow-col- 
legians,) Sheridan, Curran. Lady Melbourne, Monk 
Lewis, Frederick Douglas, &c. &c. &c.; but you will 
still find Mr. * * living and all his family, as also * 

" Should you come up this way, and I am still here, 
you need not be assured how glad I shall be to see you ; 
I lo"ng to hear some part, from you, of that which I expect 
in no long time to see. At length you have had better 
fortune than any traveller of equal enterprise, (except 
Humboldt,) in returning safe ; and after the fate of the 
Brownes,and the Parkes, and the Burckhardts, it is hardly 
less surprise than satisfaction to get you back again. 
"Believe me ever 

" and very affectionately yours, 
•ByRON." 



LETTER CCCCXL 

TO MB.. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Dec. 4, 1819. 

" You may do as you please, but you are about a hope- 
less experiment.* Eldon will decide against you, were it 
only that my name is m the record. You will also recol- 
lect that if the publication is pronounced against, on the 
grounds you mention, as indecent and blasphemous, that / 
lose all right in my daughter's gvardiansliip and education, 
in short, all paternal authority, and every thing concerning 
her, except *** + *• 



* Mr. Murray had commenced a suit Rgaiiist a London bookseller, for 
an infringement of hie copyright, in publishing a piratecl edition of Don 



LETTERS, 1819. 



145 



It was so decided in Shelley's case, because he had writ- 
ten dueen Mab, &c. &c. However you can ask the 
lawyers, and do as you like : I do not inhibit you trying 
the question ; I merely state one of the consequences to 
me. With regard to the copyright, it is hard that you 
should pay for a nonentity: I will therefore refund it, 
which I can very well do. not having spent it, nor begun 
upon it ; and so we will be quits on that score. It lies at 
my banker's. 

" Of the Chancellor's law I am no judge ; but take up 
Tom Jones, and read his Mrs. Waters and Molly Sea- 
gl-im ; or Prior's Hans Carvel and Paulo Purganti ; Smol- 
lett's Roderick Random, the chapter of Lord Strutwell, 
and many others ; Peregrine Pickle, the scene of the 
Beggar Girl; Johnson's London^ for coarse expressions; 
for instance, the words ' * *,' and « + * ;' Anstey's Bath 
Guide, the ' Hearken, Lady Betty, hearken ;' — take up, 
in short. Pope, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Fielding, Smol- 
lett, and let the Counsel select passages, and what be- 
comes of their copyright, if his Wat Tyler decision is to 
pass into a precedent?* I have nothing more to say: 
you must judge for yourselves. 

" I wrote to you some time ago. I have had a tertian 
ague ; my daughter Allegra has been ill also, and I have 
been almost obliged to run away with a married woman ; 
but with some difficulty, and many internal struggles, I 
reconciled the lady with her lord, and cured the fever of 
the child with bark, and my ovni with cold water. I think 
of setting out for JEngland by the Tyrol in a few days, so 
that I could wish you to direct your next letter to Calais. 
Excuse my writing in great haste and late in the morn- 
ing, or night, whichever you please to call it. The Third 
Canto of ' Don Juan' is completed, in about two hundred 
stanzas ; very decent, I believe, but do not know, and it 
is useless to discuss until it be ascertained, if it may or 
may not be a property. 

" My present determination to quit Italy was unlooked 
for ; but I have explained the reasons in letters to my 
sister and Douglas Kinnaird, a week or tv/o ago. My 
progress will depend upon the snows of the Tyrol, and 
the health of my child, who is at present quite recovered ; 
— but I hope to get on well, and am 

" Yours every and truly. 

"P. S. Many thanks for your letters, to which you are 
not to consider this as an answer, but as an acknowledg- 
ment." 



LETTER CCCCXIL 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"You are, and ever will be, my first thought. But 
at this moment, I am in a state most dreadful, not know- 
ing which way to decide ; — on the one hand, fearing that 
I should compromise you for ever, by my return to Ra- 
venna and the consequences of such a step, and, on the 
other, dreading that I shall lose both you and myselfj and 
all that I have ever known or tasted of happiness, by never 
seeing you more. I pray of you, I implore you to be 
comforted, and to believe that I cannot cease to love you 
but with my life." + * + + " I go to 

save you, and leave a country insupportable to me with- 
out you. Your letters to F * * and myself do wrong 
to my motives — but you will yet see your injustice. It is 
not enough that I must leave you — from motives of which 
ere long you will be convinced — it is not enough that I 
must fly from Italy, with a heart deeply wounded, after 
having passed all my days in solitude since your depar- 
ture, sick both in body and mind — but I must also have to 
endure your reproaches without answering and without 
deserving them. Farewell ! — in that one word is com- 
prised the death of my happiness." 



8m I^etter 881. 



LETTER CCCCXm. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

« p * * + will already have told you, with her accus' 
tomed sublimity, that Love has gained the victory. I could 
not summon up resolution enough to leave the country 
where you are, without, at least, once more seeing you. 
On yourself, perhaps, it will depend, whether I ever again 
shall leave you. Of the rest we shall speak when we 
meet. You ought, by this time, to know which is most 
conducive to your welfare, my presence or my absence. 
For myself, I am a citizen of the world — all countries are 
alike to me. You have ever been, since our first acquaint- 
ance, the sole object of my thoughts. My opinion was, that 
the best course I could adopt, both for your peace and 
that of all your family, would have been to depart and go 
far, jTar away from you ; — since to have been near and not 
approach you would have been, for me, impossible. You 
have however decided that I am to return to Ravenna. I 
shall accordingly return — and shall do — and be all that you 
wish. I cannot say more." 



LETTER CCCCXIV. 

TO MR. HOPPER. 
" MY DEAR HOPPNER, 

" Partings are but bitter work at best, so that I shall not 
venture on a second with you. Pray make my respects to 
Mrs. Hoppner, and assure her of my unalterable rever- 
ence for the singular goodness of her disposition, which is 
not without its reward even in this world — for those who 
are no great believers in human virtues would discover 
enough in her to give them a better opinion of their fellow- 
creatures, and — what is still more difficult — of themselves, 
as being of the same species, however inferior in approach- 
ing its nobler models. Make, too, what excuses you can 
for my omission of the ceremony of leave-taking. If we 
all meet again, I will make my humblest apology ; if not, 
recollect that 1 wished you all well : and, if you can, for- 
get that I have given you a great deal of trouble. 

« Yours, &c. &o," 



LETTER CCCCXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, December 10, 1819. 

" Since I last wrote, I have changed my mind, and shall 
not come to England. The more 1 contemplate, the more 
I dislike the place and the prospect. You may therefore 
address to me as usual here, though I moan to go to 
another city. I have finished the Third Canto of Don 
Juan, but the things I have read and heard discourage all 
farther publication — at least for the present. You may 
try the copy question, but you'll lose it: the cry is up, 
and cant is up. I should have no objection to return tlio 
price of the copyright, and have written to Mr. Kinnaird 
by this post on the subject. Talk with him. 

" I have not the patience, nor do I fvel interest enough 
in the question, to contend with tho fellows in thoir own 
slang ; but I perceive Mr. Blackwood's Magazino aud 
one or two others of your missives have boon liyporbolioaJ 
in their praise, and diabolical in thoir abuse. I lik<' and 
admire Wilson, autl lie should not have indulged hunsolf 
in surJi outrageous license.* It is ovordono and dt-feats 
il.self. What would he say to the grossness without pi»- 
sion and tho misanthropy without fooling of tJulliviv'i 



This Uoneol' the inniiy iiiiilRkrtiiilo wlii 

!• U'.l hill 



of lilci-Hry opoi'nlioiii Inl him. The Kciilh'tnitn to wliom ihi- hi<MiVi 
articif liitliB M.(Kii».in«t !■ Iier« .•turihuli-ii, liia urvn-, nilicr Uhts or 
■ini'c, wiiHi'ii "puii Ihr suhj.-il o( Ihr iiol'lo i«>ei'» ch,\i»ilrr or »t»iii.i«, 
wllhoiil aiviiii veiil to n rceliiii of adniinitleii •• •■lUiwmx'e •» *« i» 
alwD^i tloqiicnity "uil j>ow»rlu4)r««|>r»Me<l— Jl#»«r». 



146 



LETTERS, 1820, 



Travels?— When he talks of lady Byron's business, he 
talks of what he knows nothing about ; and you may tell 
hini that no one can more desire a public investigation of 
that affair than I do. 

» I sent home by Moore {for Moore only, who hag my 
journal also) my Memoir written up to 1816, and I gave him 
leave to show it to whom he pleased, but not io publish, on 
any account. You may read it, and you may let Wilson 
read it, if he likes— not for his public opinion, but his 
private ; for I like the man, and care very little about his 
magazine. And I could wish Lady B. herself to read 
it, that she may have it in her power to mark any thing 
mistaken or misstated ; as it may probably appear after 
my extinction, and it would be but fair she should see it, 
— that is to say, herself willing. 

« Perhaps I ma.y take a journey to you in the spring ; 
but I haoe been ill and am indolent and indecisive, because 
few things interest me. These fellows first abused me 
for being gloomy, and now they are wroth that I am, or 
attempted to be, facetious. I have got such a cold and 
headach that I can hardly see what I scrawl ; — the win- 
ters here are as sharp as needles. Some time ago I 
wrote to you rather fully about my Italian affairs ; at pre- 
sent I can say no more except that you shall hear farther 
by-ajid-by. 

"Your Blackwood accuses me of treating women 
harshly : it may be so, b«t I have been their martyr ; my 
whole life has been ^iacrificed to then* and by them. I 
mean to leave Venice in a few days, but you will address 
your letters here as usual. When I fix elsewhere, you 
shall know." 



LETTER CCCCXVl. 



TO MK. HOPPNER. 



"Ravenna, December 31, 1819. 

■ I have been here this week, and was obliged to put on 
my armour and go the night after my arrival to the Mar- 
quis Cavalli's, where there were between two and three 
hundred of the best company I have seen in Italy, — 
more beauty, more youth, and more diamonds among the 
women than have been seen these fifty years in the Sea- 
Sodom.* — I never saw such a difference between two 
places of the same latitude (or platitude, it is all one,) — 
music, dancing, and play, all in the same salle. The G.'s 
object appeared to be to parade her foreign lover as 
much JLS possible, and, faith, if she seemed to glory in the 
scandal, it was not for me to be ashamed of it. Nobody 
seemed surprised ; — all the women, on the contrary, were, 
as it were, delighted with the excellent example. The 
vice-legate, and all the other vices, were as polite as could 
be ; — and I, who had acted on the reserve, was fairly 
obli<»ed to take the lady under my arm, and look as much 
like a cicisbeo as I could on so short a notice, — to say 
nothing of the embarrassment of a cocked hat and sword, 
much more formidable to me than ever it will be to the 
enemy. 

" I write in great haste — do you answer as hastily. I 
can understand nothing of all this ; but it seems as if 
the G. had been presumed to be planted, and was deter- 
mined to show that she was not, — plantation, in this 
hemisphere, being the greatest moral misfortune. But 
this is mere conjecture, for I know nothing about it — 
except that every body arc very kind to her, and not dis- 
courteous to me. Fathers, and all relations, quite agree- 
able. " Yours ever, 

"B. 

"P. S. Best respects to Mrs. H. 

'• I would send the compliments of the season ; but the 



season itself is so little complimentary with snow and 
rain that I wait for sunshine." 



LETTER CCCCXVn. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



'January 2, 1820. 



" MY DEAR MOORE. 



" ' To-day it is my wedding-day, 
And all the folks would stare 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
And I should dine at Ware.' 



Or tnus, — 



' Gehenna of the waters ! thou Sea-Sodom !" 

Marino Faliero. 



" Here 's a happy new year ! but with reactm, 

I beg you '11 permit me to say — 
Wish me many returns of the season, 

But as few as you please of the day. 

" My this present writing is to direct you that, if s?i« 
chooses, she may see the MS. Memoir in your possession, I 
wish her to have fair play in all eases, even though it will 
not be published till after my decease. For this purpose, it 
were but just that Lady B. should know what is there said 
of her and hers that she may have full power to remark on 
or respond to any part or parts, as may seem fitting to 
herself. This is fair dealing, I presume, in all events. 

" To change the subject, are you in England I I send 
you an epitaph for Castlereagh. 

** * + ** %:^ 

Another for Pitt — 

" with death doom'd to grapple 

Beneath this cold slab, he 
Who lied in the Chapel 
Now lies in the Abbey, 

* The gods seem to have made me poetical this day : — 

" In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 

Will. Cobbett has done well : 
You visit him on earth again, 

He '11 visit you in hell. 

"You come to him on earth again. 
He '11 go with you to hell. 

" Pray let not these versiculi go forth with my name, 
except among the initiated, because my friend Hobhouse 
has foamed into a reformer, and I greatly fear, will sub- 
side into Newgate ; since the Honourable House, accord- 
ing to Galignani's Reports of Parliamentary Debates, 
are menacing a prosecution to a pamphlet of his. I shall 
be very sorry to hear of any thing but good for him, par- 
ticularly in these miserable squabbles ; but these are the 
natural effects of taking a part rn them. 

"For my own part, I had a sad scene since you went. 
Count Gu. came for his wife, and noTie of those conse- 
quences which Scott prophesied ensued. There was no 
damages, as in England, and so Scott lost his wager. Bui 
there was a great scene, for she would not, at first, go 
back with him — at least, she did go back with him ; bm 
he insisted, reasonably enough, that all communication 
should be broken off between her and me. So, finding 
Italy very dull, and having a fever tertian, I packed up 
my valise and prepared to cross the Alps ; but my daugft- 
ter fell ill, and detained me. 

" After her arrival at Ravenna, the Guiccioli fell ill 
again too ; and, at last her father (who had, all along, op- 
posed the liaison most violently till now) wrote to me to 
say that she was in such a state that he begged me to 
come and see her, — and that her husband had acquiesced^ 
in consequence of her relapse, and that he (her father) 
would guarantee all this, and that there would be no far- 
ther scenes in consequence between them, and that I 
should not be compromised in any way. I set out soon 
after, and have been here ever since. I found her a good 
deal altered, but getting better :—all this comes of reading 
Corinna. 

" The Carnival is about to begin, and I saw about two 



LETTERS, 1820. 



147 



or three hundred people at the Marquis Cavalli's the other 
evening, with as much youth, beauty, and diamonds among 
the women, as ever averaged in the like number. My 
appearance in waiting cm the Guiccioli was considered as 
a thing of course. The Marquis is her uncle, and natu- 
rally considered me as her relation. 

" The paper is out, and so is the letter. Pray write. 
Address to Venice, whence the letters will be forwarded. 
« Yours, &c. ' "B." 



LETTER CCCCXVni. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

« Ravenna, January 20, 1820. 

" I have not decided any thing about remaining at Ra- 
venna. I may stay a day, a week, a year, all my life ; but 
all this depends upon what I can neither see nor foresee. 
I came because I was called, and will go the moment that 
I perceive what may render my departure proper. My 
attachment has neither the blindness of the beginning, nor 
the microscopic accuracy of the close to such liaisons ; 
but < time and the hour' must decide upon what I do. I 
can as yet say nothing, because I hardly know any thing 
beyond what I have told you. 

" I wrote to you last post for my moveables, as there is 
no getting a lodging with a chair or table here ready ; and 
as I have already some things of the sort at Bologna which 
I had last summer there for my daughter, I have directed 
them to be moved ; and wish the like to be done with 
those of Venice, that I may at least get out of the * Alber- 
go Imperiale,' which is imperial in all true sense of the 
epithet, Buffini may be paid for his poison. I forgot 
to thank you and Mrs. Hoppner for a whole treasure 
of toys for AUegra before our departure ; it was very kind, 
and we are very grateful. 

" Your account of the wedding of the Governor's party 
is very entertaining. If you do not understand the con- 
sular exceptions, I do ; and it is right that a man of ho- 
nour, and a woman of probity, should find it so, particu- 
larly in a place where there are not ' ten righteous.' As 
to nobility — in England none are strictly noble but peers, 
not even peers^ sons, though titled by courtesy ; nor knights 
of the garter, unless of the peerage, so that Castlereagh 
himself would hardly pass through a foreign herald's or- 
deal till the death of his father. 

" The snow is a foot deep here. There is a theatre, and 
opera, — the Barber of Seville. Balls begin on Monday 
next. Pay the porter for never looking after the gate, and 
ship my chattels, and let me know, or let Castelli let me 
know, how my lawsuits go on — but fee him only in pro- 
portion to his success. Perhaps we may meet in the 
spring yet, if you are for England. I see Hobhouse has 
got into a scrape, which does not please me ; he should 
not have gone so deep among those men, without calculat- 
ing the consequences. I used to think myself the most 
imprudent of all among my friends and acquaintances, 
but almost begin to doubt it* 

"Yours &c." 



LETTER CCCCXIX. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" Ravenna, January 31, 1820. 

" You would hardly have been troubled witli the remo- 
val of my furniture, but there is none to hv had nearer than 
Bologna, and I have been fain to have that of the rooms 
which I fitted up for my daughter there in the summer re- 
moved here. The expense will be at least as great of llie 
land carriage, so that you see it was necessity, and not 
choice. Here they got every tiling from Bologna, except 
Bomo lighter articles from Forli or Facnza. 

" If Scott is returned, pray remember nio to him, and 



plead laziness the whole and sole cause of my not reply- 
ing: — dreadful is the exertion of letter-writing. The 
Carnival here is less boisterous, but we have bails 
and a theatre. I carried Bankes to both, and he carried 
away, I believe, a much more favourable impression of 
the society here than of that of Venice — recollect that I 
speak of the native society only. 

" I am drilling very hard to learn how to double a shawl, 
and should succeed to adimration if I did not always dou- 
ble it the wrong side out ; and then I sometimes confuse 
and biing away two, so as to put all the Serventi out, be- 
sides keeping their Servile in the cold till every body can 
get back their property. But it is a dreadfuDy moral 
place, for you must not look at any body's wife except 
your neighbour's, — if you go to the next door but one, you 
are scolded, and presumed to be perfidious. And then a 
relazione or an amicizia seems to be a regular affair of 
from five to fifteen years, at which period, if there occur 
a widowhood, it finishes by a sposalizio \ and in the mean 
time, it has so memy rules of its own that it is not much 
better. A man actually becomes a piece of female pro- 
perty, — they won't let their Serventi marry until there is 
a vacancy for themselves. I know two instances of this 
in one family here. 

" To-night there was a — * Lottery after the opera : it 
is an odd ceremony. Bankes and I took tickets of if, and 
buffooned together very merrily. He is gone to Firenze. 
Mrs. J * * should have sent you my postscript ; there 
was no occasion to have bored you in person. I never 
interfere in any body's squabbles, — she may scratch your 
face herself. 

" The weather here has been dreadful — snow several 
feet — a Jiunie broke down a bridge, and flooded heaven 
knows how many campi ; then rain came — and it is still 
thawing — so that my saddle-horses have a sinecure till 
the roads become more practicable. Why did I^ega give 
away the goat ? a blockhead — I must have him again. 

" Will you pay Missiaglia and the Buffo Buffini of the 
Gran Bretagna. I heard from Moore, who is at Paris ; 
I had previously written to him in London, but he has not 
yet got my letter, apparently. 

" Believe me, &c.'' 



LETTER CCCCXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, February 7, 1820. 

" I have had no letter from you these two montlis ; but 
since I came here in December, 1819, I sent you a letter 
for Moore, who is God knows where — in Paris or London, 
I presume. I have copied and cut the Third Canto of Don 
Juan into two, because it was too long ; and I tell you this 
beforehand, because in case of any reckoning between 
you and me, these two are only to go for one, as tliis was 
the original form, and, in fact, the two together are not 
longer than one of the first : so remember that I have not 
made this division to double upon you ; but merely to su[>- 
press some tediousness in the aspect of the thing. I 
should have served you a pretty trick if I had sent .you, 
for example, cantos of 60 stanzas each. 

" I am translating the First Canto of Pulci's Morgante 
Maggiore, and have half done it ; but these last days of 
the Carnival confuse and interrupt every thing. 

"I have not yet sent off the Cantos, and have somo 
doubt whether they ought to bo published, for they have 
not the spirit of the first. The outcry has not frightened 
but it has hurt me, and 1 have not written con amore this 
time. It is very decent, however, and as dull as ' tho lost 
now comedy.' 

'*I think my translations of Pulei wiH make you itare. 

* Th« word litre, Mni umler th* •••!, !■ UltgitU. 



148 



LETTERS, 1820. 



|t must be put by the original, stanza for stanza, and verse 
for verse ; and you will see what was permitted in a Ca- 
tholic country and a bigoted age to a churchman, on the 
score of rehgiun ; — and so tell ihose buffoons who accuse 
me of attacking tJie Liturg}'. 

« I vmte in the greatest haste, it bemg the hour of the 
Corso, and I must go and buffoon with the rest. My 
daughter Allegra is just gone with the Countess G. in 
Count G.'s coach and sLx, to join the cavalcade, and I must 
follow with all the rest of the Ravenna world. Our old 
Cardinal is dead, and the new one not appointed yet ; but 
the maskmg goes on the same, the vice-legate being a 
good governor. We have had hideous frost and snow, but 
all IS mild agam. 



" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXL 

TO MR. BANKES. 

"Raverma, February 19, 1820. 

" I have room for you in the house here, as I had in 
Venice, if you think fit to make use of it ; but do not ex- 
pect to find the same gorgeous suite of tapestried halls. 
Neither dangers nor tropical heats have ever prevented 
your penetrating wherever you had a mind to il, and why 
should the snow now I — Italian snow — fie on it ! — so 
pray come. Tita's heai-t yearns for you, and mayhap 
for your silver broad pieces ; and your playfellow, the 
monkey, is alone and inconsolable. 

" I forget whether you admire or tolerate red hair, so 
that I ratlier dread showing you all that I have about me 
and around me in this city. Come, nevertheless, — you 
can pay Dante a morning visit, and I will undertake that 
Theodore and Honoria will be most happy to see you in 
the forest hard by. We Goths, also, of Ravenna hope 
you will not despise our arch-Goth, Theodoric. I must 
leave it to these worthies to entertain you all the fore part 
of the day, seeing that I have none at all myself — the 
lark, that rouses me from my slumbers, being an afternoon 
bird. But, then, all your evenings, and as much as you 
can give me of yovr nights, will be mine. Ay ! and you 
will find me eating flesh, too, like yourself or any other 
carmibal, except it be upon Fridays. Then, there are 
more Cantos (and be d — d to them) of what the cour- 
teous reader, Mr. Saunders, calls Grub-street, in my 
drawer, which I have a Utde scheme to commit to your 
charge for England ; only I must first cut up (or cut 
down) two aforesaid Cantos into three, because I am grown 
base and mercenary, and it is an ill precedent to let my 
Mecaenas, Murray, get too much for his money. I am 
busy, also, with Pulci — translasting — servilely translating, 
stanza for stanza, and line for line — two octaves every 
night,— the same allowance as at Venice. 

" Would you call at your banker's at Bologna, and ask 
him for some letters lying there for me, and bum them? — 
or I will — so do not burn them, but bring them, — and be- 
lieve me ever and very affectionately 

« Yours, « Bykon. 

"P. S. I have a particular wish to hear from yourself 
something about Cyprus, so pray recollect all that you 
can. — Good night." 



LETTER CCCCXXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Ravenna,Feb. 21, 1820. 
" The bull-dogs will be very agreeable. I have only 
those of this country, who, though good, have not the tena- 
city of tooth and stoicism in endurance of my canine fel- 
low-citizens : then pray send them by the readiest con- 



See Don Juan, Canto III, Stanza 105. 



veyance — perhaps best by sea. Mr. Kinnaird will dis- 
burse for them, and deduct from the amount on your ap- 
plication or that of Captain Tyler. 

"I see the good old Bang is gone to his place. One 
can't help being sorry, though blindness, and age, and in- 
sanity are supposed to be drawbacks on human felicity ; 
but I am not at all sure that the latter at least might not 
render him happier than any of his subjects. 

" I have no thoughts of coming to the coronation, though 
I should like to see it, and though I have a right to be a 
puppet in it ; but my division with Lady Byron, which 
has drawn an equinoctial hne between me and mine in 
all other things, vnll operate in this also to prevent my 
being in the same procession. 

" By Saturday's post I sent you four packets, contain- 
ing Cantos Third and Fourth. Recollect that these two 
cantos reckon only as (me with you and me, being in fact 
the third canto cut into two, because I found it too long. 
Remember this, and do n't imagine that there could be suiy 
other motive. The whole is about 225 stanzas, more or less, 
and a lyric of 96 lines, so that they are no longer than the 
first ^ngle cantos : but the truth is, that I made the first 
too long, and should have cut those down also had I 
thought better. Instead of saving in future for so many 
cantos, say so many stanzas or pages : it was Jacob Ton- 
son's way, and certainly the best ; it prevents mistakes. 
I might have sent you a dozen cantos, of 40 stanzas each, 
— those of ' The Minstrel' (Beattie's) are no longer, — 
and ruined you at once, if you do n't suffer as it is. But 
recollect that you are not pinned down to any thing you 
say in a letter, and that, calculating even these two cantos 
as one only (which they were and are to be reckoned,) 
you are not bound by your offer. Act as may seem fair 
to all parties. 

"I have finished my translation of the First Canto of 
the 'Morgante Maggiore' of Pulci, which I will transcribe 
and send. It is the parent, not only of Whistlecraft, but 
of all jocose Itahan poetry. You must print it side by 
side with the original Italian, because I wish the reader 
to judge of the fidelity: it is stanza for stanza, and often 
Hne for hne, if not word for word. 

" You ask me for a volume of maimers, &c. on Italy. 
Perhaps I am in the case to know more of them thein 
most Englishmen, because I have lived among the na- 
tives, and in parts of the country where Englishmen 
never resided before (I speak of Romagna and this place 
particularly ;) but there are many reasons why I do not 
choose to treat in print on such a subject. I have lived 
in their houses and in the heart of their famihes, sometimes 
merely as ' amico di casa,' and sometimes as ' amico di 
cuore' of the Dama, and in aeither case do I feel myself 
authorized in making a book of them. Their moral is 
not your moral ; their life is not your life ; you would not 
understand it ; it is not English, nor French, nor German, 
which you would all understand. The conventual edu- 
cation, the cavalier servitude, the habits of thought and 
living are so entirely different, and the difference becomes 
so much more striking the more you live intimately with 
them, that I know not how to make you comprehend a 
people who are at once temperate and profligate, serious 
in their characters and buffoons in their amusements, 
capable of impressions and passions, which are at once 
sudden and durable (what you find in no other nation,) 
and who actually have no society (what we would call 
so,) as you may see by their comedies ; they have no 
real comedy, not even in Goldoni, and tiiat is because 
they have no society to draw it from. 

" Their conversazioni are not society at all. They go 
to the theatre to tallc, and into company to hold their 
tongues. The women sit in a circle, and the men gather 
into groupes, or they play at dreary faro, or ' lotto reale,' 
for small sums. Their academie are concerts like our 
own, with better music and more form. Their best things 
are the carnival balls, and masquerades, when every body 



LETTERS, 1820. 



149 



runs mad for six weeks. After their dinners and suppers 
they make extempore verses and buffoon one another ; 
but it is in a humour which you would not enter into, ye 
of the north. 

« In their houses it is better. I should know something 
of the matter, having had a pretty general experience 
among their women, from the fisherman's wife up to the 
Nobil Dama, whom I serve. Their system has its rules, 
and its fitnesses, and its decorums, so as to be reduced to 
a kind of discipline or game at hearts, which admits few 
deviations, unless you wish to lose it. They are ex- 
tremely tenacious, and jealous as furies, not permitting 
their lovers even to mairy if they can help it, and keeping 
them always close to them in public as in private, when- 
ever they can. In short, they transfer marriage to adul- 
tery, and stike the not out of that commandment. The 
reason is, that they marry for their parents, and love for 
themselves. They exact fidelity from a lover as a debt 
of honour, while they pay the husband as a tradesman, 
that is, not at all. You hear a person's character, male 
or female, canvassed, not as depending on their conduct 
to their husbands or wives, but to their mistress or lover. 
If I wrote a quarto, I do n't know that I could do more 
than amplify what I have here noted. It is to be observed 
that while they do all this, the greatest outward respect 
is to be paid to the husbands, not only by the ladies, but 
by their Serventi — particularly if the husband serves no 
one himself (which is not often the case, however ;) so 
that you would often suppose them relations — the Ser- 
vente making the figure of one adopted into the family. 
Sometimes the ladies run a little restive and elope, or 
divide, or make a scene ; but this is at starting, generally, 
when they know no better, or when they fall in love with 
a foreigner, or some such anomaly, — and is always reck- 
oned unnecessary and extravagant. 

" You inquire after Dante's Prophecy : I have not done 
more than six hundred lines, but will vaticinate at leisure. 

" Of the bust I know nothing. No cameos or seals are 
to be cut here or elsewhere that I know of, in any good 
style. Hobhouse should write himself to Thorwaldsen: 
the bust was made and paid for three years ago. 

" Pray tell Mrs. Leigh to request Lady Byron to urge 
forward the transfer from the funds. I wrote to Lady 
Byron on business this post, addressed to the care of 
Mr. D. Kinnaird." 



LETTER CCCCXXIII. 

TO MR. BANKES. 

"Ravenna, February 26, 1820. 

" Pulci and I are waiting for you with impatience ; but 
I suppose we must give way to the attraction of the Bo- 
lognese galleries for a time. I know nothing of pictures 
myself, and care almost as little ; but to me there are 
none like the Venetian — above all, Giorgione. I remem- 
ber well his judgment of Solomon in the Mariscalchi 
in Bologna. The real mother is beautiful, exquisitely 
beautiful. Buy her, by all means, if you can, and 
take her home with you : put her in safc^ty — for be as- 
sured there arc troublous times brewing for Italy ; and 
as I never could keep out of a row in my life, it will 
be my fate, I dare say, to be over head and ears in it ; 
but no matter, tliese are the stronger reasons for coming 
to see me soon. 

" I have more of Scott's novels (for surely they are 
Scott's) since wo met, and am more and more delighted. 
I think that I even prefer them to his poetry, which (by- 
the-way) I redde for the first lime in my life in your 
rooms in Trinity college. 

" There are some curioiis commentaries on Dante pre- 
served here, which you should soo. BeUcve nio ever, 
faithfully and most afFectionatoly, 

« Yours, &c. 



LETTER CCCCXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, March 1, 1820. 

" I sent you by last post the translation of the First 
Canto of the Morgante Maggiore, and wish you to ask 
Rose about the word 'sbergo,' i. e. 'usbergo,' which I 
have translated cuirass. I suspect that it means Jtelmet 
also. Now, if so, which of the senses is best accordant 
with the text ? I have adopted cuirass, but will be ame- 
nable to reasons. Of the natives, some say one, and 
some t' other ; but they are no great Tuscans in Ro- 
magna. However I will ask Sgricci (the famous impro- 
visatore) to-morrow, who is a native of Arezzo. The 
Countess Guiccioli, who is reckoned a very cultivated 
young lady, and the dictionary, say cuirass. I have writ- 
ten cuirass, but helmet runs in my head nevertheless — and 
will run in verse very well, whilk is the principal point. 
I will ask the Sposa Spina Spinelli, too, the Florentine 
bride of Count Gabriel Rusponi, just imported from Flo- 
rence, and get the sense out iif somebody. 

" I have just been visiting the new Cardinal, who ar- 
rived the day before yesterday in his legation. He seems 
a good old gentleman, pious and simple, and not quite 
lilte his predecessor, who was a honvivant, in the worldly 
sense of the words. 

" Enclosed is a letter which I received some time ago 
from Dallas. It will explain itself. I have not answered 
it. This comes of doing people good. At one time or 
another (including copyrights) this person has had about 
fourteen hundred pounds of my money, and he writes 
what he calls a posthumous work about me, and a scrubby 
letter accusing me of treating him ill, when I never did 
any such thing. It is true that I left off letter-writing, 
as I have done with almost every body else ; but I can't 
see how that was misusing him. 

" I look upon his epistle as the consequence of my not 
sending him another hundred pounds, which he wrote to 
me for about two years ago, and which I Uiought proper 
to withhold, he having had his share, methought, of what 
I could dispone upon others. 

" In your last you ask me after my articles of domestic 
wants : I believe they are as usual ; the bull-dogs, mag- 
nesia, soda -powders, tooth-powders, brushes, and every 
thing of the kind which are here unattainable. You still 
ask me to return to England : alas ! to what purpose ? 
You do not know what you are requiring. Return I must, 
probably, some day or other (if I live,) sooner or later; 
but it will not be for pleasure, nor can it end in go<xl. 
You inquire after my health and spirits in large letters : 
my health can't be very bad, for I cured myself of a sharp 
tertian ague, in three weeks, with cold water, which had 
held my stoutest gondolier for months, notwithstanding 
all the bark of the apothecary, — a circumstance which 
surprised Dr. Aglietti, who said it was a proof of great 
stamina, particularly in so epidemic a season. I did it 
out of dislike to tlie taste of bark (which I can't bear,) 
and succeeded, contrary to the prophecies of every body, 
by simply taking nothing at all. As to spirits^ tJiey are 
unequal, now high, now low, like other people's, I suppose, 
and depending upon circumstances. 

" Pray send me W. Scott's new novels. What are 
their names and characters ? I read some of his former 
ones, at h^ast once a day, for an hour or so. The last are 
loo hurried : he forgets Ravonswocnl's name and calls him 
Kdgar and then Nirrmnn; and Girder, the cooper, is 
styled now GUbcrt, and now John; and he don't mako 
enough of Montrose ; but Dalgetty is excellent, and so is 
Lucy Ashton, and the b — h her mother. What is /«w»- 
hoe.'' and what do you call liis other? are t]iere^n>.' 
Pray niaUe him write at least two a year : T like no read- 
ing so well. 

"The editor of the Bologna Telegraph has sent me a 
paper wiili extracts from INlr. JMuUxJi'ii (hia name nlwaj's 



L 



* 



150 



LETTERS, 1820. 



reminds me of Muley Moloch of Morocco) ' Atheism 
answered,' in which their is a long eulogium of my poesy, 
and a great ' compatimento' for my misery. I never could 
understand what they mean by accusing me of irreligion. 
However, they may have it their own way. This gen- 
tleman seems to be my great admirer, so I take what he 
says in good part, as he evidently intends kindnesS; to 
which I can't accuse myself of being invincible. 

» Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, March 5, 1820. 

"Incase, in your country, you should not readily lay 
hands on the Morgante Maggiore, I send you the original 
text of the First Canto, to correspond with the translation 
which I sent you a few days ago. It is from the Naples 
edition in quarto of 1732, — doled Florence, however, by a 
trick oithe trade, which you, as one of the allied sove- 
reigns of the profession, will perfectly imderstand without 
any farther spiegazione. 

" It is strange that here nobody understands the real 
precise meaning of ' sbergo,' or ' usbergo,'* an old Tuscan 
word, which I have rendered cuirass (but am not sure it is 
not helmet.) I have asked at least twenty people, learned 
and ignorant, male and female, including poets, and offi- 
cers civil and military. The dictionary says cuirass, but 
gives no authority ; and a female friend of mine says 
positively cuira^Sy which makes me doubt the fact still 
more than before. Ginguene says, ' bormet de fer,' with 
the usual superficial decision of a Frenchman, so that I 
can't believe him : and what between the dictionary, the 
Italian woman, and the Frenchman, there 's no trusting 
to a word they say. The context too, which should de- 
cide, admits equally of either meaning, as you will per- 
ceive. Ask Rose, Hobhouse, Merivale, and Foscolo, 
and vote with the majority. Is Frere a good Tuscan ? 
if he be, bother him too. I have tried, you see, to be as 
accurate as I well could. This is my third or fourth 
letter, or packet, within the last twenty days." 



LETTER CCCCXXVL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



did not come of it. I have no objection to this being his 
fourteenth in the four-and-twenty hours. He presides over 
overturns and all escapes therefrom, it seems ; and they 
dedicate pictures, &c. to him, as the sailors once did to 
Neptune, after 'the high Roman fashion.' 

" Yours, in haste." 



LETTER CCCCXXVIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, March 14, 1820. 

•Enclosed is Dante's Prophecy — Vision — or what not. 
Where I have left more than one reading, (which I have 
done often,) you may adopt that which GifFord, Frere, 
Rose, and Hobhouse, and others of your Utican Senate 
think the best, or least bad. The preface will explain all 
that is explicable. These are but the first four cantos : 
if approved, I will go on. 

" Pray mind m printing ; and let some good Itahan scho- 
lar correct the Italian quotations. 

" Four days ago I was overturned in an open carriage 
between the river and a steep bank : — wheels dashed to 
pieces, slight bruises, narrow escape, and all that ; but no 
harm done, though coachman, footman, horses, and vehi- 
cle were all mixed together like macaroni. It was owintr 
to bad drivuig, as I say ; but the coachman swears to a 
start on the part of the horses. We went against a post 
on the verge of a steep bank, and capsized. I usually go 
out of the town in a carriage, and meet the saddle horses 
at the bridge ; it was in going there that we bo^aled • but 
I got my ride, as usual, after the accident. They say here 
it was all owing to St. Antonio of Padua (serious, I as- 
sure you,)-^vho does thirteen miracles a day, — that worse 

• Usbergo is obTiously the same aa hauberk, habergeon, &c. all from 
the German haU-berg, or covering of the neck. See Gray 'g Bard, " Helm 
aor baubcrk't twilled mail." 



« Raverma, March 20, 1820. 
" Last post I sent you, ' The Vision of Dante,' — first 
four cantos. Enclosed you will find, line for line, in third 
rhyme (terza rima,*) of which your British blackguard 
reader as yet understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini. You 
know that she was bom here, and married, and slain, from 
Gary, Boyd, and such people. I have done it into cramp 
English, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the pos- 
sibility. You had best append it to the poems already sent 
by last three posts. I shall not allow you to play the tricks 
you did last year, with the prose you ^osi-scribed to Ma- 
zeppa, which I sent to you not to be published, if not in a 
periodical paper, — and there you tacked it, without a word 
of explanation. If this is published, publish it rvith the ori- 
ginal, and together with the Pulci translation, or the Dante 
imitation. I suppose you have both by now, and the Juan 
long before. 



LETTER CCCCXXVm. 

TO MR. aiURRAY. 

« Ravenna, March 23, 1820. 

"I have received your letter of the 7th. Besides the 
four packets you have already received, I have sent the 
Pulci a few days after, and since (a few days ago) the 
first four Cantos of Dante's Prophecy, (the best thing I ever 
wrote, if it be not unintelligible,) and by last post a literal 
translation, word for word (versed like the original) of the 
episode of Francesca of Rimini. I want to hear what 
you think of the new Juans, and the translations, and the 
Vision. They are all things that are, or ought to be, very 
diiferent from one another. 

"If you choose to make a print fiom tlie Venetian, you 
may ; but she do n't correspond at all to the character you 
mean her to represent. On the contrary, the Contessa G. 
does (except that she is fair,) and is much prettier than 
the Fomarina ; but I have no picture of her except a mi- 
niature, which is very ill done ; and, besides, it would not 
be proper, on any account whatever, to make such a use 
of it, even if you had a copy. 

" Recollect that the tux) new Cantos only count with us 
for one. You may put the Pulci and Dante together : per- 
haps that were best. So you have put your name to Juan 
after all your panic. Y"ou are a rare fellow. — I must novy 
put myself in a passion to continue my prose. 

" I have caused write to ThorwaJdsen. Pray be care- 
ful in sending my daughter's picture — I mean, that it be 
not hurt in the carriage, for it is a journey rather long 
and jolting." 



LETTER CCCCXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

t " Ravenna, March 28, 1820. 
"Enclosed is a 'Screed of Doctrine' for you, of which I 
will trouble you to acknowledge the receipt by next post. 
Mr. Hobhouse must have the correction ofit for the press. 
You may show it first to whom you please. 



• See Poems, p. 485. 

t Lelier in answer to Mr. Bowles, page 280. 



LETTERS, 1820. 



151 



"I wisih to know what became of my two Epistles from 
St. Paul, (translated from the Armenian three years ago 
and more,) and of the letter to Roberts of last autumn, 
which you never have attended to ? There are two pack- 
ets with this. 

"P. S. I have some thoughts of publishing the 'Hints 
from Horace,' vsritten ten years ago — if Hobhouse can 
rummage them out of my papers left at his father's, — with 
some omissions and alterations previously to be made when 
I see the proofs." 



LETTER CCCCXXX. 

TO MK. MITRRAT. 

« Ravenna, March 29, 1820. 

"Herewith you will receive a note (enclosed) on Pope, 
which you will find tally with a part of the text of last post. 
I have at last lost all patience with the atrocious cant and 
nonsense about Pope, with which our present * *s are 
overflowing, and am determined to make such head 
against it as an individual can, by prose or verse ; and I 
■mW. at least do it with good will. There is no bearing it 
any longer; and if it goes on, it vdll destroy what litde 
good vmting or taste remains among us. I hope there are 
still a few men of taste to second me ; but if not, I '11 battle 
it alone, convinced that it is in the best cause of English 
literature. 

" I have sent you so many packets, verse and prose, 
lately, that you will be tired of the postage, if not of the pe- 
rusal. I want to answer some parts of your last letter, but 
I have not time, for I must 'boot and saddle,' as my Cap- 
tain Craigengilt (an officer of the old Napoleon Italian 
army) is in waiting, and my groom and cattle to boot. 

" You have given me a screed of metaphor and what 
not about Pulci, and manners, ' going without clothes, like 
our Saxon ancestors.' Now, the Saxons did not go with- 
out clothes ; and, in the next place, they are not my an- 
cestors, nor yours either ; for mine were Norman, and 
yours, I take it by your name, where Gad. And, in the 
next, I differ from you about the ' refinement' which has 
banished the comedies of Congreve. Are not the come- 
dies of Sheridan acted to the thinnest houses ? I know (as 
ex-committed) that ' The School for Scandal' was the worst 
stock-piece upon record. I also know that Congreve gave 
up writing because Mrs. Centlivre's balderdash drove his 
comedies off. So it is not decency, but stupidity, that docs 
all this ; for Sheridan is as decent a writer as need be, and 
Con<'reve no worse than Mrs. Centlivre, of whom Wilkes 
(the actor) said, 'not only her play would be damned, but 
she too.' He alluded to ' A Bold Stroke for a Wife.' But 
last, and most to the purpose, Pulci is not an indecent 
wiriter — at least in his first Canto, as you will have per- 
ceived by this time. 

" You talk oir^nement: — are you all mme moral ? are 
you so moral ? No such thing. / know what the world 
is in England, by my own proper experience of the best 
of it — at least of the loftiest ; and I have described it 
every where as it is to be found in all i)laces. 

" But to return. I should like to see the proofs of mine 
answer, because there will be something to omit or to 
alter. But pray let it be carefully printed. When con- 
venient let me have an answer. ** Yours." 



LETTER CCCCXXXL 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

« Ravenna, March 31, 1820. 

♦ * ♦ * ♦ 

" Ravenna continues much the .same as I dfsrribcd it. 
Conversazioni all Lent, and much betl»T ones than ;iiiy at 
Venice. Therr are small games at hazard, that i.-, faro, 



where nobody can point more than a shilling or two ; — 
other card-tables, and as much talk and coffee as you 
please. Every body does and says what they please : 
and I do not recollect any disagreeable events, except 
being three times falsely accused of flirtation, and once 
being robbed of six sixpences by a nobleman of the city, a 
Count * * +. I did not suspect the illustrious delin- 
quent ; but the Countess V * * * and the Marquis L * * ♦ 
told me of it directly, and also that it was a way he had, 
of filching money when he saw it before him ; but I did 
not ax him for the cash, but contented myself with telling 
hun that if he did it again, I should anticipate the law. 

" There is to be a theatre in April, and a fair, and an 
opera, and another opera in June, besides the fine weather 
of nature's giving, and the rides in the Forest of Pine. 
With my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, believe me 
ever, &c. " Byron. 

" P. S. Could you give me an item of what books re- 
mam at Venice ? IdonH want them, but want to know 
whether the few that are not here are there, and were not 
lost by the way. I hope and trust you have got all your 
wine safe, and that it is drinkable. Allegra is prettier, I 
think, but as obstinate as a mule, and as ravenous as a 
vulture : health good, to judge of the complexion — temper 
tolerable, but for vanity and pertinacity. She thinks her- 
self handsome and will do as she pleases." 



LETTER CCCCXXXU. 

TO MR. MtTRRAr. 

"Ravenna, April 9, 1820. 

" In the name of all the devils in the printing-office, why 
do n't you write to acknowledge the receipt of the second, 
third, and fourth packets, viz. the Pulci translation and 
original, the Daniides, the Observations on, &c. ? You 
forget that you keep me in hot svater till I know whether 
they are arrived, or if I must have the bore of recopying. 
+ * + ♦ * 

" Have you gotten the cream of translations, Francesca 
of Rimini, from the Inferno ? Why, I have sent you a 
warehouse of trash within the last month, and you have 
no sort of feeling about you : a pastry-cook would have 
had twice the gratitude, and thanked me at least for the 
quantity. 

" To make the letter heavier, I enclose you the Cardi- 
nal Legate's (our Campcius) circular for his conversa- 
zione this evening. It is the anniversary of Uie Pope's 
<iara-tion, and all polite Christians, even of the Lutheran 
creed, must go and be civil. And there will bo a circle, 
and a faro-table, (for shillings, tliat is, thoy do n't allow 
high play,) and all the beauty, nobility, and sanctity of 
Ravenna present. The Cardinal himself is a very good- 
natured Uttle fellow, bishop of Muda, and legate here, — & 
decent believer in all the doctrines of the church. He 
has kept his housekeeper these forty years * ♦ * * j 
but is reckoned a pious man, and a moral liver. 

" I am not quite sure that I won't bo among you this 
autumn, for I find that business do n't go on — what with 
trustees and lawyers — as it should do, ' with all delibe- 
rate speed.' They differ about investments in Ireland.' 

" Between the devil uiuldrep »i"i», 
Between tl\e lawyer nnd trustee, 

I am puzzled ; and so much time is lost by mv not being 
upon the spot, what with answers, demurs, rejoinders, that 
it may bo I mtust come anil l»K)k to it ; tor ono says do, 
and t' otlir-r do n't, so that I know ntit which way to turn : 
but perhaps tlioy can manage witJiout mo. 

« Yours, &e. 
" P. S. I have begtm a tragedy on the subject of Ma- 
rino Faliero, the Doge of Venio<> ; but you sha'n't sea it 
tliest> six years, if you do n't acknowledge my paekeLs with 
more quickness and precision. Alioai/s unVr, if but a 



152 



LETTERS, 1820. 



Une, by return of post, when any thing arrives, which is 
not a mere letter. 

« Address direct to Ravenna ; it saves a week's time, 
and much postage." 



LETTER CCCCXXXin. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, April 16, 1820, 

"Post after post arrives without bringing any acknow- 
ledgment from you of the different packets (excepting the 
first) which I have sent within the last two months, all of 
which ought to be arrived long ere now; and as they 
were announced in other letters, you ought at least to say 
whether they are come or not. You are not expected to 
vvTite frequent or lor^ letters, as your time is much occu- 
pied ; but when parcels that have cost some pains in the 
composition, and great trouble in the copying, are sent to 
you, I should at least be put out of suspense, by the im- 
mediate acknowledgment, per return of post, addressed 
directly to Ravenna. I am naturally — knowing what con- 
tinental poste are — eumous to hear that they are arrived; 
especially as I loath the task of copying so much, that if 
there was a human being that could copy my blotted 
MSS. he should have all they can ever bring for his 
trouble. All I desire is two lines, to say, such a day I 
received such a packet. There are at least six unac- 
knowledged. This is neither kind nor courteous. 

" I have, besides, another reason for desiring you to be 
speedy, which is, that there is that brewing in Italy 
which will speedily cut off all security of communication, 
and set all your Anglo-travellers flying in every direction, 
with their usual fortitude in foreign tumults. The Spa- 
nish and French affairs have set the Italians in a ferment ; 
and no wonder : they have been too long trampled on. 
This will malie a sad scene for your exquisite traveller, 
but not for the resident, who naturally wishes a people to 
redress itself. I shall, if permitted by the natives, remain 
10 see what v^ill come of it, and perhaps to take a turn 
with them, like Dugald Dalgetty and his horse, in case of 
business ; for I shall think it by far the most interesting 
spectacle and moment in existence, to see the Italians 
send the barbarians of all nations back to their own dens. 
I have lived long enough among them to feel more for 
ihem as a nation than for any other people in existence. 
But they want union, and they want principle ; and I 
doubt their success. However, they will try, probably, 
and if they do, it will be a good cause. No Italian can 
hate an Austrian more than I do : unless it be the Eng- 
bsh, the Austrians seem to me the most obnoxious race 
under the sky. 

" But I doubt, if any thing be done, it won't be so qui- 
etly as in Spain. To be sure, revolutions are not to be 
made with rose-water, where there are foreigners as 
masters. 

"Write while you can; for it is but the toss up of a 
paul that there will not be a row that will somewhat re- 
tard the mail by-and-by. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXXIV. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Ravenna, April 18, 1820. 
"I have caused write to Siri and Willhalm to send with 
Vincenza, in a boat, the camp-beds and swords left in 
their care when I quitted Venice. There are also seve- 
ral pounds of MantorCa best powder in a japan case ; hit 
unUsH I felt sure of getting it away from V. without 
seizure, I won't have it ventured. I can gel it in here, by 
means of an acquamtance in the customs, who has offered 



to get it ashore for me ; but should like to be certiorated 
of its safety in leavmg Venice. I would not lose it for its 
weight in gold — there is none such in Italy, as I take it 
to be. 

" I wrote to you a week or so ago, and hope you are in 
good plight and spirits. Sir Humphry Davy is here, and 
was last night at tlie Cardinal's. As I had been there 
last Sunday, and yesterday was warm, I did not go, which 
I should have done, if I had thought of meeting the man 
of chemistry. He called this morning, and I shall go in 
search of him at Corso time. I beheve to-day, being 
Monday, there is no great conversazione, and only the 
family one at the Marchese Cavalli's, where I go as a 
relation sometimes, so that, unless he stays a day or two, 
we should hardly meet in public. 

" The theatre is to open in May for the fair, if there is 
not a row in all Italy by that time, — the Spanish business 
has set them all a constitutioning, and what will be the 
end no one knows — it is also necessary thereunto to have 
abegirming. "Yours, &c. 

"P. S. My benediction to Mrs. Hoppner. How is 
your little boy ? Allegra is growing, and has increased 
in good looks and obstinacy." 



LETTER CCCCXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Ravenna, April 23, 1820. 

The proofs do n't contain the last stanzas of Canto 
Second, but end abruptly with the 103th stanza. 

"I told you long ago that the new Cantos* were not 
good, and I also told you a reason. Recollect, I do not 
oblige you to publish them ; you may suppress them, if 
you like, but I can alter nothing. I have erased the six 
stanzas about those two impostors, * * * * 
(which I suppose will give you great pleasure,) but I can 
do no more. I can neither recast, nor replace ; but I give 
you leave to put it all into the fire, if you lilie, or not to 
pubhsh, and I think that 's sufficient. 

" I told you that I wrote on with no good- will — that I 
had been, not frightened, but hurt by the outcry, and, be- 
sides, that when I wrote last November, I was ill in body, 
and in very great distress of mind about some private 
things of my own ; but you would have it : so I sent it to 
you, and to make it lighter, cut it in two — but I can't piece 
it together again. I can't cobble : I must 'either make a 
spoon or spoil a horn,' — and there 's an end ; for there 's 
no remeid: but I leave you free will to suppress the 
whole, if you hke it. 

" About the Mor garde Maggiore, I wotCI have a tine 
omitted. It may circulate, or it may not; but all the 
criticism on earth sha'n't touch aline, unless it be because 
it is badly trsinslated. Now you say, and I say, and 
others say, that tlie translation is a good one ; and so it 
shall go to press as it is. Pulci must answer for his own 
irreligion : I answer for the translation only. 

* + + + + * 

"Pray let Mr. Hobhouse look to the Italian next time 
in the proofs : this time, while I am scribbling to you, they 
are corrected by one who passes for the prettiest woman 
in Romagna, and even the Marches, as far as Ancona, 
be the other who she may. 

" I am glad you like my answer to your inquiries about 
Italian society. It is fit you should like something, and 
be d — d to you. 

" My love to Scott. I shall think liigher of knighthood 
ever after for his being dubbed. By-the-way, he is the 
first poet titled for his talent in Britain : it has happened 
abroad before now ; but on the continent titles are imiver- 
sal and worthless. Why do n't you send me Ivanhoe and 
!he jMonastery ? I have never written to Sir Walter, for 



LETTERS, 1820. 



163 



1 know he has a thousand things, and I a thousand nothings, 
to do ; but I hope to see him at Abbotsford before very 
long, and I will sweat his claret for him, though Italian 
abstemiousness has made my brain but a shilpit concern 
for a Scotch sitting 'mter pocula.'* I love Scott, and 
Moore, and all the better bretliren ; but I hate and abhor 
that puddle of water- worms whom you have taken into 
your troop. 

"Yours, &c. 

«P. S. You say that one-half is very good: you are 
wrong; for, if it were, it would be the finest poem in exist- 
ence. Where is the poetry of which one-half is good ? is 
it the ^neid? is it Milton^? is it Dryden's? is it ^ny 
one's except Pope's and Goldsmith's, of which all is good ? 
and yet diese last two are the poets your pond poets 
would explode. But if o/i€-/ia(/"of the two new Cantos be 
good in your opinion, what the devil would you have more ? 
No — no ; no poetry is generally good — only by fits and 
starts-^and you are lucky to get a sparkle here and there. 
You might as well want a midnight all stars as rhyme all 
perfect. 

" We are on the verge of a row here. Last night they 
have overwritten all the city walls with ' Up with the re- 
public I' and ' Death to the Pope ! ' &c. &c. This would 
be nothing in London, where the walls are privileged. But 
here it is a different thing: they are not used to such 
fierce political inscriptions, and the poUce is all on the 
alert, and the Cardinal glares pale through all his purple. 
"April 24th, 1820, 8 o'clock, p. M. 

" The police have been, all noon and after, searching 
for the inscribers, but have caught none as yet. They 
must have been all night about it, for the ' Live repubUcs 
— Death to Popes and Priests,' are innumerable, and 
plastered over all the palaces : ours has plenty. There is 
' Down with the NobiUty,' too ; they are down enough al- 
ready, for that matter. A very heavy rain and wind hav- 
ing come on, I did not go out and ' skirr the country ;' but 
I shall mount to-morrow, and take a canter among the 
peasantry, who are a savage, resolute race, always riding 
with guns in their hands. 1 wonder they do n't suspect 
the serenaders, for they play on the guitar here all night, 
as in Spain, to their mistresses. 

" Talking of politics, as Caleb duotem says, pray look 
at the conclusion of my Ode on Waterloo, written m the year 
1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Berri's cata- 
strophe in 1820, tell me if I have not as good a right to the 
character of ' VateSy in both senses of the word, as Fitz- 
gerald and Coleridge ? 

' Crimson tears will follow yet—* 

and have not they ? 

« I can't pretend to foresee what will happen among you 
EngUshers at this distance, but I vaticinate a row in Italy ; 
in whilk case, I do n't know that I won't have a finger in it. 
I dislike the AustriaiLs, and think the Italians Infamously 
oppressed ; and if they begin, why, I will recommend ' the 
erection of a sconce upon Drumsnab,' hke Dugald Dal- 
getty." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, May 8, 1820. 
"From your not having written again, an intention which 
your letter of the 7th ultimo indicated, I have to presume 
that the 'Prophecy of Dante' has not been found more 
worthy than its predecessors in the eyes of your illustrious 
synod. In that case, you will be in some perplexity ; to 
end which, I repeat to you, that you are not to consider 
yourself as bound or pledged to publish any thing because 
it is mine, but aways to act according to your own views, 
or opinions, or those of your friends ; and to bo sure that 



See BfpjK), Slmi; 

20 



you wiU in no degree offend me by ' declining the article,' 
to use a technical phrase. The prose observations on 
John Wilson's attack,* I do not intend for publication at 
this time ; and I send a copy of verses to Mr. Kirmaird, 
(they were written last year on crossing the Po,) j- which 
must not be published either. I mention this, because it 
is probable he may give you a copy. Pray recollect this, 
as they are mere verses of society, and written upon pri- 
vate feehngs and passions. And, moreover, I can't con- 
sent to any mutilations or omissions ofPidci: the original 
has been ever free from such in Italy, the capital of Cliris- 
tianity, and the translation may be so in England ; though 
you will think it strange that they should have allowed 
such freedom for many centuries to the Morgante, while 
the other day they confiscated the whole translation of the 
Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, and have persecuted 
Leoni, the translator — so he writes me, and so I could 
have told him, had he consulted me before its publication. 
This shov/s how much more politics interest men m these 
parts than religion. Half a dozen invectives against ty- 
rarmy confiscate ChUde Harold in a month ; and eight- 
and-twenty cantos of quizzing monks and knights, and 
church government, are let loose for centuries. I copy 
Leoni's account. 

" 'Non ignorerh forse che la mia versione del 4" Canto 
del Childe Harold fu confiscata in ogni parte : ed io stesso 
ho dovuto soffrir vessazioni altrettanto ridicole quanto illi- 
berali, ad arte che alcuni versi fossero esclusi dalla cen- 
sura. Ma siccome il divieto non fa d'ordmario che ac- 
crescere la curiositci cosi quel carme sull' Italia e ricercato 
piu che mai, e penso di farlo nstampare in Inghilterra 
senza nulla escludere. Sciagurata condizione di questa 
mia patria I se patria si pub chiamare una terra cosi av- 
viiita dalla fortuna, dagU uomini, da se medesima.' 

" Rose will translate this to you. Has he had his letter ? 
I enclosed it to you months ago. 

" This intended piece of publication I shall dissaude him 
from, or he may chance to see the inside of St. Angelo's. 
The last sentence of his letter is the common and patlietic 
sentiment of all his coumr)'men. 

" Sir Humphry Davy was here last fortnight, and I was 
in his company in the house of a very pretty Italian lady of 
rank, who, by way of displaying her learning in presence 
of the great chemist, then describing his fourteenth ascen- 
sion of Mount Vesuvius, asked 'if there was not a similar 
volcano in Ireland '/ ' My only notion of an Irish volcano 
consisted of the lake of Killarney, which I naturally con- 
ceived her to mean ; but on second thoughts I divined that 
she alluded to fce\a.nd and to Hecla — and so it provcd,thou?h 
she sustained her volcanic topography for some time with 
all the amiable pertinacity of ' the feminic.' She soon 
after turned to me, and asked me various questions about 
Sir Humphry's philosophy, and I explained as well as an 
oracle his skill in gascn safety lamps, and ungluing the 
Pompeian ^vISS. ' But what do you call him ?' said she. 
'A great chemist,' quoth I. 'What can he do?' n-peatcd 
the lady. 'Almost any thing,' said I. 'Oh, tlien, mio 
caro, do pray beg him to give mc something to dye mv 
eyebrows black. I have tried a thousand things, and the 
colours all come off; and besides, they do n't grow : can't 
he invent something to make them grow?' All tliis witJi 
the greatest earnestness ; and what you will be surprised 
at, she is neither ignorant nor a fool, but really well edu- 
cated and clever. But they speak like children, when first 
out of their convents ; and, after all, tliis is better than an 
English blue-stocking. 

"I did not fell Sir Humphry of this last piece of philoso- 
phy, not knowing how he might take it. Davy wiusuuich 
taken with Ravenna, and the primitive Italitmism of the 
people, who are unused to foreigners : but ho only stayed a 
day. 

" Send mo Scott's novels and some news. 



* Bae letter lo (he ttlilor of BUckwood's MagaiiM, pap S 
1 See Poeini, p. 484. 



LETTERS, 1820. 



164 

"P. S. I have begun and advanced into the second act of 
a tragedy on the subject of the Doge's conspiracy, (i. e. the 
story of Marino Faliero ;) but my present feeling is so 
little encouraging on such matters that I begin to think I 
have mined my talent out, and proceed in no great phan- 
tasy of finding a new vein. 

«P. S. I sometimes tliink (if the Italians do n't rise) 
of coming over to England m the autumn after the corona- 
tion, (at which I would not appear on account of my family 
schism,) but as yet I can decide nothing. The place 
must be a great deal changed since I left it, now more 
than four years ago." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVIl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Ravenna, May 20, 1 820. 

«« Murray, my dear, make my respects to Thomas 
Campbell,* and tell him from me, with faith and friend- 
ship, three things that he must right in his poets : Firstly, 
he says Anstey's Bath Guide characters are taken from 
Smollett. 'T is impossible : — the Guide was published 
in 1766, and Humphrey Clinker in 1771 — dunque, 't is 
Smollett who has taken from Anstey. Secondly, he does 
not know to whom Cowper alludes when he says diat 
there was one who ' built a church to God, and then blas- 
phemed his name ;' it was ' Deo erexit Voltaire,^ to whom 
that maniacal Calvinist and coddled poet alludes. Third- 
ly, he misquotes and spoils a passage from Shakspeare, 
'to gild refined gold, to pamt the lily,' &c. ; for lily he puts 
rose, and bedevils in more words than one the whole quo- 
tation. 

" Now, Tom is a fine fellow ; but he should be correct : 
for the first Is an injustice, (to Anstey,) the second an 
ignorance, and the third a blunder. Tell him all this, and 
let him take it in good part ; for I might have ranmied it 
into a review and rowed him — instead of which, 1 act like 
a Christian. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVIU. 

TO MR. MITRRAY. 

« Ravenna, May 20, 1820. 

"First and foremost, you must forward my letter to 
Moore dated 2d January, which I said you might open, 
but desired you to forward. Now, you should really not 
forget these little things, because they do mischief among 
friends. You are an excellent man, a great maji, and hve 
among great men, but do pray recollect your absent friends 
and authors. 

« In the first place, your packets ; then a letter from 
Kinnaird, on the most urgent business; another from 
Moore, about a communication to Lady Byron of import- 
ance ; a fourth from the mother of AUegra ; and fifthly, at 
Ravenna, the Contessa G. is on the eve of being divorced. 
— But the Italian public are on our side, particularly the 
women, — and the men also, because they say that he had 
no business to take the business up now after a year of 
toleration. All her relations (who are numerous, high 
in rank, and powerful) are ftirious against him for his 
conduct. I am warned to be on my guard, as he is very ca- 
pable of employing .«cani — this is Latin as well as Italian, 
so you can understand it ; but I have arms, and do n't mind 
them, thinking that I could pcj^per liis ragamuffins, if they 
do n't come unawares, and that if they do, one may as well 
end that way as another ; and it would besides serve you 
as an advertisement. 

' Man may iHcape from rope or gun, &c. 

But be who takes woman, woman, womaa,' &c. 

"Yours." 



"P. S. I have looked over the press, but heaven knows 
how. Think what I have on hand, and the post going 
out to-morrow. Do you remember the epitaph on Vol- 
taire? 

' Ci-git I'enfant gStfe,' &c. 

* Here lies the spoil 'd child 
Of the world which he spoil'd.' 

The original is in Grimm and Diderot, &c. &c. &c, 



• See Don Juan, Canto V. Note 9. 



LETTER CCCCXXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Raverma, May 24, 1820. 

" I wrote to you a few days ago. There is also a letter 
of January last for you at Murray's which will explain to 
you why I am here. Murray ought to have forwarded 
it long ago. I enclose you an epistle from a country- 
woman of yours at Paris, which has moved my entrails. 
You will have the goodness, perhaps, to inquire into the 
truth of her story, and I will help her as far as I can, — 
though not in the useless way she proposes. Her letter 
is evidently unstudied, and so natural, that the orthography 
is also in a state of nature. 

" Here is a poor creature, ill and solitary, who thinlts, 
as a last resource, of translating you or me into French ! 
Was there ever such a notion ? It seems to me the con- 
summation of despair. Pray inquire, and let me know, 
and, if you could draw a bill on me here for a few hundred 
francs, at your banlcer's, I will duly honour it, — that is, if 
she is not an impostor. If not, let me know, that I may get 
something remitted by my banker Longhi, of Bologna, for 
I have no correspondence, myself, at Paris ; but tell her 
she must not translate ; — if she does, it will be the height 
of ingratitude. 

' I had a letter (not of the same kind, but in French and 
flattery) from a Madame Sophie Gail, of Paris, whom I 
take to be the spouse of a Gallo-Greek of that name. 
Who is she ? and what is she ? and how came she to take 
an interest in my poeshie or its author ? If you know her, 
tell her, with my compliments, that, as I only read Frencli, 
I have not answered her letter ; but would have done so in 
Italian, if I had not thought it v^ould look Uke an affecta- 
tion. I have just been scolding my monkey for tearing the 
seal of her letter, and spoiling a mock book, in which I put 
rose leaves. I had a civet-cat the other day, too ; but it 
ran away after scratching my monkey's cheek, and I am 
in search of it still. It was the fiercest beast I ever saw, 
and like * * in the face and manner. 

I have a world of things to say ; but as they are not 
come to a denouement^ 1 do n't care to begin their history 
till it is wound up. After you went I had a fever, but <Tot 
well again without bark. Sir Humphry Davy was here 
the other day, and lilced Ravenna very much. He will tell 
you any thing you may wish to know about the place and 
your humble servitor. 

"Your apprehensions (arising from Scott's) were un- 
founded. There are no damages in this country, but there 
will probably be a separation between them, as her family, 
which is a principal one, by its connexions, are very much 
against him, for the whole of his conduct ; — and he is old 
and obstinate, and she is young and a woman, determined 
to sacrifice every thing to her affections. 1 have given her 
the best advice, viz. to stay with him, — pointing out the 
state of a separated woman, (fur the priests won't let lovers 
live openly togetlier, unless the husband sanctions it,) and 
making the most exquisite moral reflections, — but to no 
purpose. She says, ' I will stay with him, if he will let you 
remain with me. It is hard that I should be the only wo- 
man in Romagna who is not to have her Amico ; but, if 
not, I will not live with him ; and as for the consequences, 
love, &c. &c. &c. — you know how females reason on such 
I occasions. 



LETTERS, 1820. 



155 



"He says he has let it go on, till he can do so no longer. 
But he wants her to stay, and dismiss me ; for he does n't 
like to pay back, her dowiy and to make an alimony. Her 
relations are rather for the separation, as they detest him, 
— indeed, so does every body. The populace and the 
women are, as usual, all for those who are in the wrong, 
viz. the lady and her lover. I should have retreated, but 
honour, and an erysipelas which has attacked her, prevent 
me, — to say nothing of love, for I love her most entirely, 
though not enough to persuade her to sacrifice every thing 
to a phrensy. ' I see how it will end ; she will be the six- 
teenth Mrs. Shuffleton.' 

" My paper is firushed, and so must this letter. 

"Yours ever, "B. 

"P. S. I regret that you have not completed the Italian 
Fudges, Pray, how come you to be still in Paris ? 
Murray has four or five things of mine m hand — the new 
Don Juan, which his back-shop synod do n't admire ; — a 
translation of the first Canto ofPnlci's Morgante Maggiore, 
excellent ; — a short ditto from Dante, not so much approv- 
ed ; — the Prophecy of Dante, very grand and worthy, &c. 
&c. &c. : — a furious prose answer to Blackwood's Obser- 
vations on Don Juan, with a savage Defence of Pope — 
likely to make a row. The opinions above I quote from 
Murray and his Utican senate ; — you will form your own, 
when you see the things. 

"You will have no great chance of seeing me, for I 
begin to think 1 must finish in Italy. But, if you come my 
way, you shall have a tureen of macaroni. Pray tell me 
about yourself and your intents. 

" My trustees are going to lend Earl Blessington sixty 
tliousand pounds (at six per cent.) on a Dublin mortgage. 
Only think of my becoming an Irish absentee !" 



LETTER CCCCXL. 

TO MR. HOPPNKR. 

"Ravenna, May 25, 1830. 

"A German named Ruppsecht has sent me, heaven 
knows why, several Deutsche Gazettes, of all which I 
understand neither word nor letter. I have sent you th 
enclosed to beg you to translate to me some remarks, 
which appear to be Goethe's upon Manfred — and if I may 
judge by two notes of admiration (generally put after some' 
thing ridiculous by us), and the word '■ hypocondrisch^ are 
any thing but favourable. I shall regret this, for I should 
have been proud of Goethe's good word ; but I sha'n't alter 
my opinion of him, even though he should be savage. 

" Will you excuse this trouble, and do me this favour ? 
— Never mind — soften nothing — I am literary proof- 
having had good and evil said in most modern languages 
"Believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXLl. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, .Tunc 1820. 
"I have received a Parisian letter from W. W. which 
I prefer answering through you, if that worthy be still at 
Paris, and, as he says, an occasional visiter of yours. In 
November last he wrote to me a vvoll-meaning letter, 
stating, for some reasons of his own, his belief that a rc- 
imion might be effected between Lady B. and myself 
To this I answered as usual ; and he sent me a second 
letter, repeating his notions, which letti-r I have nnvor an- 
swered, having had a thousand other things to think of 
He now writes as if he believed that he had offciuliHl me, 
by touchmg on the topic ; and 1 wish you to assure him 
that I am not at all so, — but, on tlic contrary, obliged by 
his good-nature. At the same time acciuaiiit liini the 
thing M impossible. You know thin, as well as I,— and 
there lot it end. 



" I believe that I showed you his epistle in autumn last. 
He asks me if I have heard of my 'laureate' at Paris,*— 
somebody who has written 'a most sanguinary Epitre' 
against me ; but whether in French, or Dutch, or on what 
score, I know not, and he don't say, — except that (for my 
satisfaction) he says it is the best thing in the fellow's 
volume. If there is any thing of the kind that I ought to 
know, you will doubtless tell me. I suppose it to be some- 
thing of the usuaJ sort ; — he says, he do n't remember the 
author's name. 

" I wrote to you some ten days ago, and expect an an- 
swer at your leisure. 

"The separation business still continues, and all the 
world are implicated, including priests and cardinals. The 
public opinion is furious against him, because he ought to 
have cut the matter short at first, and not waited twelve 
months to begin. He has been trying at evidence, but can 
get none sufficient ,• for what would make fifty divorces in 
England won't do here — there must be the mast decided 
proofs. * * * 

"It is the first cause of the kind attempted in Ravenna 
for these tv/o hundred years ; for, though they often sepa- 
rate, they assign a different motive. You know that the 
contbental incontinent are more delicate than the Eng- 
lish, and do n't like proclaiming their coronation in a cour^ 
even when nobody doubts it. 

"All her relations are furious against him. The father 
has challenged him — a superfluous valour, for he do n't 
fight, though suspected of two assassinations— one of die 
famous Monzoni of Forli. Warning was given me not to 
take such long rides in the Pine Forest without being on 
my guard ; so I talte my stiletto and a pair of pistols in my 
pocket during my daily rides. 

"I won't stir from this place till the matter is settled one 
way or the other. She is as femininely firm as possible ; 
and the opinion is so much against him, that the advocates 
decline to undertake his cause, because they say that he 
is either a fool or a rogue — fool, if he did not discover the 
liaison till now ; and rogue, if he did know it, and waited, 
for some bad end, to divulge it. In short, there has been 
nothing like it since the days of Guido di Polenta's family, 
in these parts. 

" If the man has me taken off, like Polonius, * say he 
made a good end' — for a melodrame. The principal se- 
curity is, that he has not the courage to spend twenty 
scudi — the average price of a clean-handed bravo— other- 
wise there is no want of opportunity, for I ride about the 
woods every evening, with one servant, and sometimes an 
acquaintance, who latterly looks a Utile queer in solitary 
bits of bushes. 

"Good-by. — Write to yours ever, fee." 



LETTER CCCCXLH. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, Juno 7, 1820. 
"Enclosed is something which will interest you, to 
wit, the opinion of the greatest man of Germany — per- 
haps of Europe — upon one of the great men of vour adver- 
tisements (all ' famous hands,' as Jacob Tonson used to 
say of his ragamuflins) — in sliort, a crititpie ofdoithe^s 
upon Manfred. There is the oriijinal, an English trans- 
lation, and an Italian one ; keep them all in your archives, 
for the opinions of such a man as Goethe, whether favour- 
able or not, are always interesting — ami this is more so, as 
favourable. His Faust 1 never read, for 1 di) n't know 
German; but Matthew Monk Lewis, in 1816, at (.%>ligny, 
translated most of it to nie t'iiv' xntce, and 1 was naturally 
much struck with it ; hut it was tJie Slriulmch untl the 
JungJ'rau, and somelliing else, much more than P'auntus, 



M. I.Kinarlln*. 



156 



LETTERS, 



1820. 



that made me write Manfred. The first scene, however, 
and that of Faustus, are very siniilair Acknowledge thi 
letter. " Yours ever. 

* P. S. I have received Ivanhoe ; — good. Pray send me 
some tooth-powder and tincture of myrrh, by IVaite, &c 
Ricciardetto should have been translated literally, or not at 
all. As to puffing fVfdstlecraft, it won't do. I '11 tell you 
why some day or other. Cornwall 's a poet, but spoiled by 
the detestable schools of die day. Mrs. Hemans is a 
poet also, but too stiltified and apostrophic, — and quite 
wrong. Men died calmly before the Christian era, and 
since, without Christianity: witness the Romans, and, 
lately, Thistlewood, Sandt, and Lovel — men who ought to 
have been weighed down with their crimes, even had they be- 
lieved. A death-bed is a matter of nerves and constitu- 
tion, and not of religion. Voltaire was frightened, Frede- 
rick of Prussia not : Christians the same, according to tlieir 
strength rather than their creed. What does H * * H * * 
mean by his stanza ? which is octave got drunk or gone 
mad. He ought to have his ears boxed with Thor's ham- 
mer for rhyming so fantastically." 



LETTER CCCCXLUI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, June 9, 1820. 

"GaFignani has just sent me the Paris edition of your 
works, (vvhich I wrote to order,) and I am glad to see my 
old friends with a French face. I have been skimming and 
dipping, in and over them, like a swallow, and as pleased as 
one. It is the first time that I had seen the Melodies without 
music ; and, I do n't know how, but I can't read in a 
music-book — the crotchets confound the words in my 
head, though I recollect them perfectly when sung. Music 
assists my memory through the ear, not through the eye ; 
I mean, that her quavers perplex me upon paper, but they 
are a help when heard. And thus I was glad to see the 
words without their borrowed robes ; — to my mind they 
look none the worse for their nudity. 

" The biographer has made a botch of your life — call- 
ing your father ' a venerable old gentleman,' and prattling 
of 'Addison,' and ' dowager countesses.' If that damned 
fellow was to write my life, I would certainly take his. 
And then, at the Dublin dinner, you have 'made a speech,' 
(do you recollect, at Douglas K.'s, ' Sir, he made me a 
speech?') too complimentary to the 'living poets,' and 
somewhat redolent of universal praise. / am but too 
well off in it, but * * + * 

* * * * *^ 

" You have not sent me any poetical or personal news 
of yourself. Wliy do n't you complete an Italian Tour of 
the Fudges ? I have just been turning over Little, which 
I knew by heart in 1803, being then in my fifteenth sum- 
mer. Heigho! I believe all the mischief I have ever 
done, or sung, has been owing to that confounded book 
of yours. 

"In my last I told you of a cargo of 'Poeshie,' which I 
had sent to M. at his own impatient desire ; — and, now 
he has got it, he do n't like it, and demurs. Perhaps he is 
right. I have no great opinion of any of my last ship- 
ment, exrepr a translation from Pulci, which is word for 
word, and verse for verse. 

" I am in the Third Act of a Tragedy ; but whether it 
will be finished or not, I know not : I have, at this pre- 
sent, too many passions of my own on hand to do justice 
to those of the dead. Besides the vexations mentioned 
in my last, I have incurred a quarrel with the Pope's 
carabiniers, or gens-d'armerie, who have petitioned the 
Cardinal against my liveries, as resembling too nearly 
their own lousy uniform. They particularly object to 
the epaulettes, which all the world with us have upon 
gala days. My liveries are of the colours conforming to my 
arms, and have been the family hue since the year 1066. 



"I have sent a tranchant reply, as you may suppose ; 
and have given to understand that, if any soldados of that 
respectable corps insult my servants, I will do likewise 
by their gallant commanders; £uid I have directed my 
ragamuffins, six in number, who are tolerably savage, to 
defend themselves, in case of aggression ; and, on holy- 
days and gaudy days, I shall arm the whole set, including 
myself, in case of accidents or treachery. I used to play 
pretty well at tlie broadsword, once upon a time, at 
Angelo's ; but I should like the pistol, our national buc- 
caneer weapon, better, though I am out of practice at 
present. However, I can 'wink and hold out mine iron.' 
It makes me think (the whole thing does) of Romeo and 
Juliet — 'now, Gregory, remember thy smashing blow.' 

"All these feuds, however, with the Cavalier for his 
wife, and the troopers for my liveries, are very tiresome 
to a quiet man, who does his best to please all the world, 
and longs for fellowship and good-will. Pray write. 

" I am yours, &€." 



LETTER CCCCXLIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, July 13. 1820. 

" To remove or mcrease your Irish anxiety about my 
being ' in a whisp,'* I answer your letter forthwith ; pre- 
mismg that, as I am a ' Will of the wisp.' I may chance to 
flit out of it. But, first, a word on the Memoir ; — I have 
no objection, nay, I would rather that one correct copy 
was taken and deposited in honourable hands, in case of 
accidents happening to the original ; for you know that I 
have none, and have never even re-read, nor, indeed, read 
at all what is there written ; I only know that I wrote 
it with the fullest intention to be 'faithfial and true' in my 
narrative, but not impartial — no, by the Lord ! I can't pre- 
tend to be thai, while I feel. But I wish to give every 
body concerned the opportunity to contradict or correct me. 

" I have no objection to any proper person seeing what 
is there written, — seeing it was written, like every thing 
else, for the purpose of being read, however much many 
writings may fail in arriving at that object. 

" With regard to ' the whisp,' the Pope has pronounced 
their separation. The decree came yesterday from Baby- 
lon, — it was she and her friends who demanded it, on the 
grounds of her husband's (the noble Count Cavalier's) 
extraordinary usage. He opposed it with all his might, 
because of the ahmony, which has been assigned, with all 
her goods, chattels, carriage, &c. to be restored by him. 
In Italy they can't divorce. He insisted on her giving 
me up, and he would forgive every thing, — even the adul- 
tery which he swears that he can prove by ' famous wit- 
nesses.' But, in this country, the very courts hold such 
proofs in abhorrence, the Italians being as much m6re 
delicate in public than the English, as they are more 
passionate in private. 

"The friends and relatives, who are numerous and 
powerful, reply to him — ' You yourself are either fool or 
knave, — fool, if you did not see the consequences of the 
approximation of these two young persons, — knave, if 
you connive at it. Take your choice, — but do n't break 
out (after twelve months of the closest intimacy, under 
your ovm eyes and positive sanction) with a scandal, 
which can only make you ridiculous and her unhappy.' 

" He swore that he thought our intercourse was purely 
amicable, and that / was more partial to him than to her, 
till melancholy testimony proved the contrary. To this 
they jmswer. that ' Will of this wisp' was not an unknown 
person, and that ' clamosa Fama' had not proclaimed the 
purity of my morals ; — that her brother, a year ago, wrote 
from Rome to warn him, that his wife would infallibly 
be led astray by this ignis fatuus, unless he took proper 
measures, all of which he neglected to take, &c. &c. 



Ai> Irish phrase for being in a Ecrape. 



LETTERS, 1820. 



157 



"Now, he says, that he encouraged my return to 
Ravenna, to see ' in quanii piedi di acqua siamo^ and he 
has found enough to drown him in. In short, 

' Ce lie fut pas le tout ; sa femme se plaignit — 
Procfe — La pareiUes i>e joiiu en excuse et dit 
Q,ue du Doclew venoii lout le mauvais mfenage ; 
due eel hommefeloit fou, que sa femrae fetoil sage. 
Oil fit casser le mariage.' 

It is but to let the women alone, in the way of conflict, 
for they are sure to win against the field. She returns 
to her father's house, and I can only see her under great 
restrictions — such is the custom of the country. The 
relations behaved very well; — I offered any settle- 
ment, but they refused to accept it, and swear she slia n't 
live with G. (as he has tried to prove her faithless,) but 
that he shall maintain her ; and, in fact, a judgment to 
this effect came yesterday. I am, of course, in an awk- 
ward situation enough. 

" I have heard no more of the carabiniers who protested 
against my liveries. They are not popular, those same 
soldiers, and, in a small row, the other night, one was 
slain, another wounded, and divers put to flight, by some 
of the Romagnuole youth, who are dexterous, and some- 
what liberal of the knife. The perpetrators are not 
discovered, but I hope and believe that none of my raga- 
muffins were in it, though they are somewhat savage, 
and secretly armed, like most of the inhabitants. It is 
their way, and saves sometimes a good deal of litigation. 

" There is a revolution at Naples. If so, it will pro- 
bably leave a card at Ravenna in its way to Lombardy. 

"Your publishers seem to have used you like mine. 
Murray has shuffled, and almost insinuated that my last 
productions are dull. Dull, sir ! — damme, dull I I believe 
he is right. He begs for the completion of my tragedy 
on Marino Faliero, none of which is yet gone to England. 
The fifth act is nearly completed, but it is dreadfully long 
^-40 sheets of long paper, 4 pages each — about 150 when 
printed; but 'so full of pastime and prodigality' that I 
think it will do. 

" Pray send and publish your Poem upon me ; and 
do n't be afraid of praising me too highly. I shall pocket 
my blushes. 

" ' Not actionable !' — Chantre (Tenfer .'* — by * * that 's 
* a speech,' and I won't put up with it. A pretty title 
to give a man for doubting if there be any such place ! 

"So my Gail is gone — and Miss Mahony won't take 
wioney. I am very glad of it — I lilie to be generous free 
of expense. But beg her not to translate me. 

" Oh, pray tell Galignani that I shall send him a screed 
of doctrine if he don't be more punctual. Somebody 
regularly detains ttoo, and sometimes four, of his messen- 
gers by the way. Do, pray, entreat him to be more 
precise. News are worth money in this remote lungdom 
of the Ostrogoths. 

"Pray, reply. I should like much to share some of 
your Champagne and La Fitte, but I am too Italian for 
Paris in general. Make Murray send my letter to you 
— it is full of epigrams. Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, July 17, 1820. 

*I have received some books, and Gtuartorlic^s, ami 
Edinburghs, for all which I am grateful ; th(!y contain 
all I know of England, except by Galignani's newspaper. 

" The Tragcdyl is completed, but now comes the task 
of copy and correction. It is very long, (42 sheets of long 
paper, of four pages each,) and I believe must make mon- 
than 140 or 150 pages, bcisides many historical extracts 
as notes, which I mean to append. History is closely 



• The title Rivni liim by M. Lamarliiic, in one of liU l'o«iui. 
t Marioo FuUoro. 



followed. Dr. Moore's account is in some respects falsci 
and in all foolish and flippant. JVone of the chronicles 
(and I have consulted Sanuto, Sandi, Navagero, and an 
anonymous Siege of Zara, besides the histories of Lau- 
gier, Daru, Sismondi, &c.) state, or even hint, that he 
begged his life ; they merely say that he did not deny 
the conspiracy. He was one of their great men, — com- 
mander at the siege of Zara, — beat 80,000 Hungarians, 
killing 8000, and at the same time kept the town he was 
besieging in order, — took Capo d'Istria, — was ambassa- 
dor at Genoa, Rome, and finally Doge, where he fell for 
treason, in attempting to alter the government, by what 
Sanuto calls a judgment on him for, many years before, 
(when Podesta and Captain of Treviso,) having knocked 
down a bishop, who was sluggish in carrying the host at 
a procession. He ' saddles him,' as Thwackum did 
Square, 'with a judgment;' but he does not mention 
whether he had been punished at the time for what 
would appear very strange, even now, and must have been 
still more so in an age of papal power and glory. Sa- 
nuto says, that Heaven took away his senses for this 
buffet, and induced him to conspire. ' Peri) fu permesso 
che il Faliero perdette I' intelletto,' &c. 

" I do not know what your parlour-boarders will think 
of the Drama I have founded upon this extraordinary 
event. The only similar one in history is the story of Agis, 
King of Sparta, a prince, with the commons against the 
aristocracy, and losing his life therefor. But it shall be 
sent when copied. 

" I should be glad to know why your duartering- Re- 
viewers, at the close of ' the Fall of Jerusalem,* accuse me 
of Manicheism? a compliment to which the sweetener of 
'one of the mightiest spirits' by no means reconciles me. 
The Poem they review is very noble ; but rould they not 
do justice to the writer without converting him into my 
religious antidote ? T am not a Manichean, nor an Any- 
chean. I should like to know what harm my ' poeshies' 
have done ? I can't tell what people mean by making me 
a hobgoblin." 

♦ * + ** + 



LETTER CCCCXLVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 

"I have 'put my sout into the tragedy, (as you if it:) 
but you know that there are d — d souls as well as trage- 
dies. Recollect that it is not a political plav, though it 
may look like it : it is strictly historical. Read the history 
and judge. 

"Ada's picture is her mother's. I am glad of it — the 
mother made a good daughter. Send me Giffonl's opi- 
nion, and never mind the Archbishop. 1 can neither send 
vou away, nor give you a hundred pistoles, nor a better 
taste: I send you a tragedy, and you asked for 'facetious 
epistles ;' a little like your predecessor, who advised Dr. 
Prideaux to 'put some more humour into his Life of Ma- 
homet.' 

" Bankcs is a wonderful fellow. There is hardly one of 
my school or college contemjiorarios that has not turned 
out more or less celebrated. Peel, Palmerston, Bankes, 
Hobhouse, Tavistock, Boh Mills, Douglas Kinnaird, &c. 
&c. have all talked and been talked about. 

♦ * ♦ ♦ ♦ 

"We are hero going to fight a little next month, if the 
Huns don't cross the Po, and probably if they do. I can't 
say more now. If any thin<j happens, you have matter for 
a posthumous work in MS. ; so pray be civil. Depend 
upon it, there will be savage work, if once they begin here. 
The French courage pnjceeds from vanity, llu> CJertnan 
from phU'iiin, the Turkish from fanaticism and opium, the 
Spiuiish from pride, the F,n>'Jish from c<h»Imoss, the Dutch 
from obstinacy, the Russian frtmi insensibility, but the /<»• 
lian from anger ; so you 'U sco tliat tlioy will spare nothing.'* 



158 



LETTERS, 1820. 



LETTER CCCCXLVIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 
"D— n your 'mezzo cammin'* — you should say 'the 
prime of life,' a much more consolatory phrase. Besides, 
it is not correct. I was born in 1788, and consequently 
am but thirty-two. You are mistaken on another point. 
The * Sequin Box' never came into requisition, nor is it 
Wcely to do so. It were better that it had, for then a man 
is not bound, you know. As to reform, I did reform — what 
would you have ? 'Rebellion lay in his way, and he found 
it.' I verily believe that nor you, nor any man of poetical 
temperament, can avoid a strong passion of some kind. It 
is the poetry of life. What should I have known or writ- 
ten, had I been a quiet, mercantile politician, or a lord in 
waiting? A man must travel and turmoil, or there is no 
existence. Besides, I only meant to be a Cavalier Ser- 
vente, and had no idea it would turn out a romance, in the 
Anglo fashion. 

"However, I suspect I know a thing or two of Italy — 
more than Lady Morgan has picked up in her posting. 
"What do Englishmen know of Italians beyond their mu- 
seums and saloons — and some hack **,en passant ? Now, 
I have lived in the heart of their houses, in parts of Italy 
freshest and least influenced by strangers, — have seen and 
become {pars magna fui) a portion of their hopes, and 
fears, and passions, and am almost inoculated into a fa- 
mily. This is to see men and things as they are. 

"You say that I called you 'quiet'f — I do n't recollect 
any thing of the sort. On the contrary you are always in 
scrapes. 

"What think you of the Ctueen? I hear Mr. Hoby 
says, ' that it makes him weep to see her, she reminds hirn 
so much of Jane Shore.' 

" Mr. Hoby the bootmaker's heart is quite sore, 
For seeing theQ.ueen makes him think of Jane Shore ; 
And, in fact, • • • • • • 

Pray, excuse this ribaldry. What is your Poem about? 
Write and tell me all about it and you. 

" Yours, &c. 
"P. S. Did you write the lively quiz on Peter Bell? It 
has wit enough to be yours, and almost too much to be 
any body else's now going. It was in Galignani the other 
day or week." 



pies, all Italy will be behind them. The dogs — the wolves 
— may they perish like the host of Sennacherib! If you 
want to publish the Prophecy of Dante, you never will 
have a better time." 



LETTER CCCCXLIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



LETTER CCCCXLVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, September 7, 1820. 

" In correcting the proofs you must refer to the lyianu- 
ncript, because there are in it various readings. Pray at- 
tend to this, and choose what GifFord thinks best. Let me 
hear what he thinks of the whole. 

" You speak of Lady +*'s illness: she is not of those 
who die : — the amiable only do ; and those whose death 
would do good live. Whenever she is pleased to return, 
It may be presumed she will take her ' divining rod' along 
with her: it may be of use to her at home, as well as to 
the ' rich man' of the Evangelists. 

"Pray do not let the papers paragraph me back to Eng- 
land. They may say what they please, any loathsome 
abuse but that. Contradict it. 

"My last letters will have taught you to expect an ex- 
plosion here: it was primed and loaded, but the v hesitated 
to fire the train. One of the cities shirked from the league. 
I cannot write more at large for a thousand reasons. Our 
•puir hill folk' offered to strike, and raise the first banner, 
but Bologna paused; and now 'tis autumn, and the sea- 
son half over. 'O Jerusalem I Jerusalem!' The Huns are 
on the Po ; bui if once they pass it on their way to Na- 

• Ihnd coiijtratulated him upon arriving at what Dante calls the " mez- 
aocanimin" of life, the age of ihirty-three. 
t I hod miitaken the concluding words of his letter of the 9th of Jnne. 

Moore. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 11, 1820. 

" Here is another historical note for you. I want to be 
as near truth as the Drama can be. 

"Last post I sent you a note fierce asFaliero himselfj* 
in answer to a trashy tourist, who pretends that he could 
have been introduced to me. Let me have a proof of it, 
that I may cut its lava into some shape. 

" What GifFord says is very consolatorj', (of the First - 
Act.) English, sterling genuine English, is a desideratum 
among you, and I am glad that I have got so much left ; 
though Heaven knows how I retain it ; I hear none but 
from my valet, and his is Nottinghamshire ; and I see none 
but in your new publications, and theirs is no language at 
all, but jargon. Even your + * + + is terribly stilted and 
affected, with ' very, very^ so soft and pamby. 

" Oh ! if ever I do come among you again, I will give 
you such a ' Baviad and Maeviad !' not as good as the old, 
but even better merited. There never was such a set as 
your ragamiiffins, (I mean not yours only, but every body's.) 
What with the Cockney's, and the Lakers, and the foUou)- 
ers of Scott, and Moore, and Byron, you are in the very 
uttermost decHne and degradation of bterature. I can't 
think of it without all the remorse of a murderer. I wish 
that Johnson were alive again to crush them !" 



LETTER CCCCL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



«Ravenna,Sept. 14, 1820. 

"What! not a line? Well, have it in your own way. 

" I wish you would inform Perry that his stupid para- 
graph is the cause of all my newspapers being stopped in 
Paris.f The fools believe me in your infernal country, and 
have not sent on their gazettes, so that I know nothing of 
your beastly trial of the dueen. 

" I cannot avail myself of Mr. Giflford's remarks, be- 
cause I have received none, except on the first act. 

" Yours, &c. 

" P. S. Do, pray, beg the editors of papers to say any 
thing blackguard they please ; but not to put me among 
their arrivals. They do me more mischief by such non- 
sense than all their abuse can do." 



LETTER CCCCLL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 21, 1820. 
" So you are at your old tricks again. This is the se- 
cond packet I have received unaccompanied by a single 
line of good, bad, or indifferent. It is strange tJiat you have 
never forwarded any farther observations of Gifford's. How 
am I to alter or amend, if I hear no fartner ? or does this 
silence mean that it is well enough as it is, or too bad to 
be repaired ? if the last, why do you not say so at once, 
instead of playing pretty, while you know that soon or late 
you must out with the truth. 

" Yours, &c. 
P. S. My sister tells me, that you sent to her to m- 
quire where I was, believing in my arrival, ' driving a cur- 



* See notes to Marino Faliero. 
t It had been reported that he had arrived ia 
Clueeu's trial. 



to attend the 



LETTERS, 1820. 



159 



ride,' &c. &c. into Palace-yard. Do you think me a cox 
comb or a madman, to be capable of such an exhibition ? 
My sister knew me better, and told you, that could not be 
me. You might as well have thought me entering on ' a 
pale horse,' like Death in the Revelations." 



LETTER CCCCLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 23, 1820. 

"Get from Mr. Hobhouse, and send me a proof (with 
the Latin) of my Hints from Horace : it has now the 
nonum premature in annum complete for its production, 
being written at Athens m ISIL I have a notion that, 
with some omissions of names and passages, it will do ; 
and I could put my late observations for Pope among the 
notes, with the date of 1820, and so on. As far as versifi- 
cation goes, it is good; and on looking back to what I 
wrote about that period, I am astonished to see how little 
1 have trained on. I wrote better then than now ; but 
that comes of my having fallen into the atrocious bad 
taste of the times. If I can trim it for present publica- 
tion, what with the other things you have of mine, you 
will have a volume or two of variety at least, for there will 
be all measures, styles, and topics, whether good or no. 
I am anxious to hear what Gifford thinks of the tragedy ; 
pray let me know. I really do not know what to think 
myself. 

"If the Germans pass the Po, they will be treated to a 
mass out of the Cardinal de Retz's Breviary. * * 's a 
fool, and could not understand this : Frere will. It is as 
pretty a conceit as you would wish to see on a summer's 
day. 

" Nobody here believes a word of the evidence against 
the Q-ueen. The very mob cry shame against their 
countrymen, and say that for half the money spent upon 
the trial, any testimony whatever may be brought out of 
Italy. This you may rely upon as fact. 1 told you as 
much before. As to what travellers report, what are tra- 
vellers? Now I have lived among the Italians — not 
Florenced, and Romed, and gallened, and conversationed 
it for a few months, and then home again ; but been of 
their families, and friendships, and feuds, and loves, and 
councils, and correspondence, in a part of Italy least 
known to foreigners, — and have been among them of all 
classes, from the Conte to the Contadine; and you may 
be sure of what I say to you. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLin. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, September 28, 1820. 

" I thought that I had told you long ago, that it* never 
was intended nor vvritten with any view to the stage. 1 
have said so in the preface too. It is too long and too 
regular for your stage, the persons too few, and the vnifi/ 
too much observed. It is more like a play of Alfieri's 
than of your stage, (I say this humbly in speaking of that 
great man;) but there is poetry, and it is equal to Man- 
fred, though I know not what esteem is held of Manfred. 

"I have now been nearly as long ow/ of England as 1 
was there during the time I saw you frequently. I ("imc 
home July 14lli, 1811, and left again A|)ril 25tli, 1816 : so 
that Sept. 28tli, 1820, brings me within a ver> few months 
of the same duration of time of my slay and my absence. 
In course, I can know nothing of the pul)lic taste and 
feelings, but from what I glean from letters, &c. Both 
seem to bo as bad as [tossible. 

" I thought Anastimus excellent : did I not say so ? 
Matthews's Diary most excellent ; it, and Forsyth, and 



Marino Faliero. 



parts of Hobhouse, are all we have of truth or sense upon 
Italy. The letter to Julia very good indeed. I do not 
despise * * * * * *; but if she knit blue-stockinga 
instead of wearing them, it would be better. You are 
taken in by that false, stilted, trashy style, which is a mix- 
ture of all the styles of the day, which are all bombastic, 
(I don't except my aum — no one has done more through 
negligence to corrupt the language ;) but it is neither 
English nor poetry. Time will show. 

"I am sorry Gifford has made no farther remarks 
beyond the first Act; does he think all the English equally 
sterling as he thought the first ? You did right to send 
the proofs: I was a fool; but I do really detest the sight 
of proofs: it is an absurdity ; but comes from laziness. 

" You can steal the two Juans into the world quietly, 
tagged to the others. The play as you will — the Dante 
too ; but the Pulci I am proud of: it is superb ; you have 
no such translation. It is the best thing I ever did in my 
life. I wrote the play from beginning to end, and not a 
single scene without interruption, and being obliged to break 
off in the middle ; for I had my hands full, and my head, 
too, just then ; so it can be no great shakes — I mean tlie 
play ; and the head too, if you like. 

"P. S. Politics here still savage and uncertain. How- 
ever, we are all in our 'bandaliers' to join the 'Highland- 
ers if they cross the Forth,' i. e. to crush the Austrians 
if they pass the Po. The rascals ! — and that dog Liver- 
pool, to say their subjects are happy ! If ever I come 
back, I'll work some of these ministers. 

* Sept. 29. '■ 
" I open my letter to say that on reading mare of the 
four volumes on Italy, where the author says ' declined 
an introduction,' I perceive {horresco referms) it is written 
by a WOMAN ! ! ! In that case you must suppress my 
note and answer,* and all I have said about the book 
and the writer. I never dreamed of it until now, in my 
extreme wrath at that precious note. I can only say tliat 
I am sorry that a lady should say any thing of the kind. 
What I would have said to one of ihe other sex you know 
already. Her book too (as a slie book) is not a bad one ; 
but she evidently don't know the Italians, or raiher don't 
like them, and forgets the causes of their misery and pro- 
fligacy, {Mattheivs and Forsyth are your men for the truth 

and tact,) and has gone over Italy in company cdways 

a bad plan: you must be alone with people to know them 
well. Ask her, who was the '■descendant of Lady M. W. 
Mordague^ and by whom ? by Algarotti ? 

1 suspect that in Marino Falioro, you and yours won't 
like the politics which are perilous to yon in these times: 
but recollect that it is not a political play, and that I 
was obliged to put into the mouths of the choracters tlie 
sentiments upon which they acted. I hate all things 
written like Pizarro, to represent France, England, and 
so forth. All I have done is meant to be purely Vene- 
tian, even to the very prophecy of its |)resent slate. 
" Your Angles in general know little of the lUdiuuSy 
ho detest them for their numbers and their Gknoa 
treachery. Besides, the English travellers have not been 
omposed <jf the best company. How could they ? — out 
of 100,000, how many gentlemen were there, or honest 
men ? 

Milchell's Aristophanes is excellent. Send me the 
rest of it. 

" These fools will force mc to write a book about Italy 
myself, to give them ' the loud lie' They prate ubuul 
assassination ; what is it but the origin of duelling — and 
' a wild justice^ as Lord Bacon calls it ? It is the fount 
of the nuMlern point of honour in what flic laws can't or 
v>onH reach. Every man is liable to it nu>re or less, 
according to circumstances or place. For inslauce, I am 
living here exposed to it daily, for 1 have hiippiiicil lo 
make a powerful and unprincipled man my enemy ; — and 



* See Letter Mi. 



160 



LETTERS, 1820. 



I never sleep the worse for it, or ride in less solitary 
places, because precaution is useless, and one thinks of it 
as of a disease which may or may not strike. It is true 
that there are those here, who, if he did, would ' live to 
tliink on 't ;' but that would not awake my bones : I should 
be sorry if it would, were they once at rest." 



LETTER CCCCLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, Sbrc 6", 1820. 

« You will have now received all the Acts, corrected, of 
the Marino Faliero. What you say of the ' bet of 100 
guineas' made by some one who says that he saw me last 
week reminds me of what happened in 1810; you can 
easily ascertain the fact, and it is an odd one. 

" Jn the latter end of 1811, I met one evening at the 
Alfred my old school and form-fellow, (for we were within 
two of each other, he the higher, though both very near 
the top of our remove,) Peel, the Irish secretary. He 
told me that, in 1810, he met me, as he thought, in St. 
James'-street, but we passed without speaking. He men- 
tioned this, and it was denied as impossible ; I being then 
in Turkey. A day or two afterwards, he pointed out to 
his brother a person on the opposite side of the way : 
— ' There,' said he ' is the man whom I took for Byron.' 
His brother instantly answered, ',Why it is Byron, and 
no one else.' But this is not all : — I was seen by some- 
body to write down my name among the inquirers after 
the king's health, then attacked by insanity. Now, at 
this very period, as nearly as I could make out, I was ill 
of a str<mg fever at Patras, caught in the marshes near 
Olynipia, from the modaria. If I had died there, this 
would have been a new ghost story for you. You can 
easily make out the accuracy of this from Peel himselfj 
who told it in detail. I suppose you will be of the opinion 
of Lucretius, who (denies the immortality of the soul, but) 
asserts that from the ' flying off of the surfaces of bodies, 
these surfaces or cases, like the coats of an onion, are 
sometimes seen entire when they are separated from it, 
so that the shapes and shadows of both the dead and 
living are frequently beheld.' 

"But if they are, are their coats and waistcoats also 
seen ? I do not disbelieve that we may be two by some 
unconscious process, to a certain sign, but which of these 
two I happen at present to be, I leave you to decide. I 
only hope that ^ other Tne behaves like a gemman. 

" I wish you would get Peel asked how far I am accu- 
rate in my recollection of what he told me ; for I do n't 
like to say such things without authority. 

"I am not sure that I was not spoken with ; but this also 
you can ascertain. I have written to you such letters 
that I stop. " Yours, &c. 

"P. S. Last year (in June, 1819) I met at Count 
Mosti's, at Ferrara, an Itahan, who asked me 'if I knew 
Lord Byron ?' I told him no, (no one knows himselfj i/ou 
know.) ' Then,' says he, ' I do ; I met him at Naples 
the other day.' 1 pulled out my card and asked him if 
that was the way he spelled his name : he answered, yes. 
1 suspect that it was a blackguard navy surgeon, who 
attended a young travelling madam about, and passed 
himself for a lord at the posthouses. He was a vulgar 
dog — quite of the cockpit order — and a precious repre- 
sentative I must have had of him. if it was even so ; but 
I do n't know. He passed himself off as a gentleman, 
and squired about a Countess * * (of this place) then 
at Venice, an ugly, battered woman, of bad morals even 
for Italy." 



LETTER CCCCLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, S^^e 8°, 1820. 
" Foscolo's letter is exactly the .thing wanted ; firstly, 



because he is a man of genius ; and, next, because he is 
an Italian, and therefore the best judge of Italics. Be- 
sides, 

' He 's more an antique Roman than a Dane j' 
that is, he is more of the ancient Greek than of the 
modern Italian. Though 'somewhat,' as Dugald Dal- 
getty says, 'too wild and sa/vage,' (like 'Ronald of the 
Mist,') 't is a wonderful mem, and my friends Hobhouse 
and Rose both swear by him ; and they are good judges 
of men and of Italian humanity. 

' Here are in all two worthy voices gain'd :' 

Gifford says it is good ' sterling genuine English,' and 
Foscolo says that the characters are right Venetian. 
Shakspeare and Otway had a million of advantages over 
me, besides the incalculable one of being dead from one 
to two centures, and having been both born blackguards, 
(which ARE such attractions to the gentle hving reader;) 
let me then preserve the only one which I could possibly 
have — that of having been at Venice, and entered more 
into the local spirit of it. I claim no more. 

" I know what Foscolo means about Calendaro's spitting 
at Bertram ; that's national — the objection, I mean. The 
Italians and French, with those 'flags of abomination,' 
their pocket-handkerchiefs, spit there, and here, and every 
where else — in your face almost, and therefore object to 
it on the stage as too familiar. But we who .spiY nowhere 
— but in a man's face when we grow savage — are not 
likely to feel this. Remember Massinger, and Kean's Sir 
Giles Overreach — 

' Lord 1 thus I spit at thee and at thy counsel 1' 
Besides, Calendaro does not spit in Bertram's face; he 
spits at him, as I have seen the Mussulmans do upon the 
ground when they are in a rage. Again, he does not in 
fact despise Bertram, though he affects it, — as we all do, 
when angry with one we think our inferior. He is angry 
at not being allowed to die in his own way, (although not 
afraid of death;) and recollect that he suspected and 
hatred Bertram from the first. Israel Bertuccio, on the 
other hand, is a cooler and more concentrated fellow : he 
acts upon principle and impulse; Calendaro upon impulse 
and example. 

"So there's argument for you. 

" The Doge repeats ; — titie, but it is from engrossing 
passion, and because he sees diff'erent persons, and is 
always obliged to recur to the catise uppermost in his 
mind. His speeches are long ; — true, but I wrote for the 
closet, and on the French and Italian model rather than 
yours, which I think not very highly of, for all your old 
dramatists, who are long enough, too, God knows : — look 
into any of them. 

" I return you Foscolo's letter, because it alludes also 
to his private affairs. I am sorry to see such a man in 
straits, because I know what they are, or what they were. 
I never met but three men who would have held out a 
finger to me : one was yourself, the other William Bankes, 
and the other a nobleman long ago dead ; but of these the 
first was the only one who offered it while I really wanted 
it ; the second from good-wiU — but I was not in need of 
Bankes's aid, and would not have accepted it if I had, 
(though I love and esteem him ;) — and the third — 

— — — * 

" So you see that I have seen some strange things in 
my time. As for your own offer, it was in 1815, when I 
was in actual uncertainty of five pounds. I rejected it ; 
but I have no' forgotten it, althoughf you probably have. 

" P. S. Foscolo's Ricciardo was lent, with the leaves 
uncut, to some Itahans, now in villeggiatura, so that I have 
had no opportunity of hearing their decision, or of reading 
it. They seized on it as Foscolo's, on account of the 
beauty of the paper and printing, directly. If I find it 
takes, I will reprint it here. The Italians tliink as highly 



• The paragraph is left thus imperfect in the original, 
t See Letter 289. 



LETTERS, 1820. 



161 



of Foscolo as they can of any man, divided and miserable 
as they are, and with neither leisure at present to read, 
nor head nor heart to judge of any thing but extracts from 
French newspapers and the Lugano Gazette. 

" We are all looking at one another, like wolves on their 
prey in pursuit, only waiting for the first falling on to do 
unutterable things. They are a great world in chaos, or 
angels in hell, which you please ; but out of chaos came 
paradise, and out of hell — I do n't know what ; but the 
Devil went in there, and he was a fine fellow once, you 
know. 

* You need never favour me with any periodical publi- 
cation, except the Edinburgh, Quarterly, and an occasional 
Blackwood ; or now and then a Monthly Review : for the 
rest I do not feel curiosity enough to look beyond their 
covers. 

" To be sure I took in the Editor of the British finely, 
He fell precisely into the glaring trap laid for him. It was 
inconceivable how he could be so absurd as to imagine us 
serious with him. 

"Recollect, that if you put my name to ' Don Juan' in 
these canting days, any lawyer might oppose my guardian 
right of my daughter in chancery, on the plea of its con- 
taining the parody ; — such are the perils of a foolish jest. 
1 was not aware of this at the time, but you will find it 
correct, I believe ; and you may be sure that the Noels 
would not let it slip. Now I prefer my child to a poem 
at any time, and so should you, as having half a dozen. 

'* Let me know your notions. 

" If you turn over the earlier pages of the Huntingdon 
peerage story, you will see how common a name Ada 
was in the early Plantagenet days. I found it in my own 
pedigree in the reign of John and Henry, and gave it to 
my daughter. It was also the name of Charlemagne's 
sister. It is in an early chapter of Genesis, as the name 
of the wife of Lamech ; and I suppose Ada is the femi- 
nine of Adam. It is short, ancient, vocalic, and had been 
in my family, for which reason I gave it to my daughter." 



LETTER CCCCLVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, S^re 12o, 1820. 
"By land and sea carriage a considerable quantity of 
books have arrived ; and I am obliged and grateful : but 
' medio de fonte leporum, surgit amari aliquid,' &c. &c. ; 
which, being interpreted, means, 

'I'm Uiankful Tor your bookn, dear Murray ; 
But why not send Scott's Moiias/ery 7 

the only book in four living volumes I would give a baioc- 
colo to see — 'bating the rest of the same author, and an 
occasional Edinburgh and Quarterly, as brief chronicltTs 
of the times. Instead of this, here arc Johnny Keatss 
* * poetry, and three novels, by God l<Jiows whom, except 
that there is Peg * * *'s name to one of them — a sjjin- 
8ter whom I thought we had sent back to her spinninjj. 
Crayon is very good ; Hogg's Tales rough, but nAcv,and 
welcome. 

" Books of travels are expensive, and I do n't want 
them, having travelled already ; besides, they lie. Thank 
the author of' the Profligate' for his (or her) [)roscnt. Pray 
send me no more poetry but what is rare and decidedly 
good. There is such a trash of Keats and the like upon 
my tables that I am ashamed to look at them. 1 say 
nothing against your jtarsons, your Smith's, and your 
Croly's — it is all very fine — but pray dispense me I'roni 
the pleasure. Instead of |)oetry, if you will favour me 
with a few soda-powders, I shall be delighted: but till 
prose Cbating traveit and novels not by Scott) is wel- 
come, especially Scott's Talcs of My Landlortl,and so on. 

" In the notes to Marino l<'alier<i, it may as be well to 
say that * JJenirUeru/e' was not really of </te 7Vn, but merely I 

21 



Grand Cha^ncdhr, a separate office, (although important); 
it was an arbitrary alteration of mine. The Doges too 
were all buried in St. Mark's before Faliero. It is sin- 
gular that when his predecessor, Andrea Dandolo, died, 
the Ten made a law that all the future Doges should be 
buried vnth their families^ in their own churclies, — one 
would think by a kind of presentiment. So that all that 
is said of his ancestral Doges, as buried at St. John's and 
Paul's, is altered from the fact, they being in St. Mark's. 
Make a note of this, and put Editor as the subscription 
to it. 

" As I make such pretensions to accuraxiy, I should not 
like to be twitted even with such trifles on that score. Of 
the play they may say what they please, but not so of my 
costume and dram. pers. they having been real existences. 
" I omitted Foscolo in my list of living Venetian worthies 
in the notes, considering him as an Italian in general, and 
not a mere provincial like the rest ; and as an Italian I 
have spoken of him in the preface to canto 4th of Childe 
Harold. 

" The French translation of us ! ! ! oiml ! oimt ! — and 
the German ; but I do n't understand the latter, and his 
long dissertation at the end about the Fausts. Excuse 
haste. Of politics it is not safe to speak, but nothing is 
decided as yet. 

" I am in a very fierce humour at not having Scott's 
Monastery. — You are too liberal in quantity, and some- 
what careless of the quahty, of your missives. AU the 
Quarterlies (four in number) I had had before from you, 
and two of the Edinburgh ; but no matter, we shall have 
new ones by-and-by. No more Keats, I entreat : — flay 
him alive ; if some of you do n't, I must skin him myself. 
There is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the manikin. 
" I do n't feel inclined to care farther about ' Don Juan.' 
What do you think a very pretty Italian lady said to me 
the other day ? She had read it in the French, and paid 
me some compliments, with due drawbacks, upon it. 
I answered that what she said was true, but that I sus- 
pected it would live longer than Childe Harold. — '.4A, 
but, (said she,) * / vxjuld ratlter have tlie fame of Childe 
Harold for three years tlxan an immortality of Don 
Juan ." The truth is that it is too true, and the women 
hate many things which strip off tlie tinsel of sentiment ; 
and they arc right, as it would rob them of their wea])ons. 
I never knew a woman who did not hate Dc Grainnwnis 
Memoirs for the same reason : even Lady * + used to 
abuse them. 

" Rose's work I never received. It was seized at 
Venice. Such is the liberahty of the Huns, with their 
two hundred thousand men, that they dare not let such a 
volume as his circulate." 



LETTER CCCCLVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 8'"-e 10°, 1820. 

" The Abbot has just arrived ; many tl\anks ; as also 
for the Monastery — when you serul it ! I ! 

" The Abbot will have a more th;ui ordinary interest (or 
me, for an ancestor of mine by the mother's side, Sir J. 
Gordon of Gight, the handsomest of his day, died on a. 
scaffold at Aberdeen for his loyalty to Mary, of whom ho 
was an imputed paramour as well as her relation. His 
fate was much commented on in the ('hronieh"s of tjie 
limes. If I mistake not, he had something to do with her 
escape from Loch Lcven, (m- with her captivity there. But 
this you will kiww belter than I. 

" I r(H;f)lle(t Loth I.eveu as it were but yesterday. I 
saw it in my way to England, in 1798, being then ten 
years of age. My mother, who was as haughty as Luci- 
fer with her descent from the Stuarts, iuid her riglil lino 
from Uie oUl GordoM, not Vw Scyton Gonlons, as she dis- 



162 



LETTERS, 1820. 



dainfully termed the ducal branch, told me the story, 
always reminding me how superior her Gordons were to 
the southern Byrons, — notwithstanding our Norman, and 
always masculine descent, which has never lapsed into a 
female, as n^ mother's Gordons had done in her own 
person. 

« I have written to yoQ so often lately that the brevity 
of this will be welcome. 

« Yours, &c.» 



LETTER CCCCLVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Ravenna, S^re 17°, 1820. 

« Enclosed is the Dedication of Marino FaUero to 
Goethe. Query,— is his title Baron or not 7 I think yes . 
Let me know your opinion, and so forth. 

" P. S. Let me know what Mr. Hobhouse and you 
have decided about the two prose letters and their publi- 
cation. 

" I enclose you an Italian abstract of the German trans- 
lator of Manfred's Appendix, in which you will perceive 
quoted what Goethe says of the whoh body of English 
poetry, (and not of me in particular). On this the Dedi- 
cation is founded, as you will perceive, though I had 
thought of it before, for I look upon him as a great man." 
'^^ Dedication to Baron Goethe, &c. &c. &c. 
"'sir, 
"'In the Appendix to an English work lately trans 
lated into German and published at Leipsic, a judgment 
of yours upon English poetry is quoted as follows : " That 
in English poetry, great genius, uraversai power, a feeling 
of profundity,, with sufficient tenderness and force, are to 
be found ; but that altogether these do not constitute poets,^^ 
&c. &c. 

" ' I regret to see a great man falling into a great mis- 
take. This opinion of yours only proves that the " Dic- 
tionary often thousand living English author i' has not been 
translated into German. You will have read, in your 
friend Schlegel's version, the dialogue in Macbeth — 



Macbeth. 
Antwer. 



' There are ten thousand I 
Geese, villain ? 

Authors, sir. 



Now, of Ihese " ten thousand authors," there are actually 
nineteen hundred and eighty-seven poets, all aUve at this 
moment, whatever their works may be, as their booksellers 
well know ; and among these there are several who pos- 
sess a far greater reputation than mine, although consi- 
derably less than yours. It is owing to this neglect on 
the part of your German translators that you are not 
aware of the works of * ♦ ♦ * 

♦ ♦. 

" ' There is also another, named ♦ ♦ * 

♦ ♦****♦ 

♦ ♦ + ♦ ♦^ 

" ' I mention these poets by way of sample to enlighten 
you. They form but two bricks of our Babel, (Windsor 
bricks, by-the-way,) but may serve for a specimen of the 
building. 

" ' It is, moreover, asserted that " the predominant cha- 
racter of the whole body of the present English poetry is 
a disgust and contempt for life." But I rather suspect 
that, by one single work of prose, you yourself have 
excited a greater contempt for life than all the English 
volumes of poesy that ever were written. Madame de 
Stael says, that " Werther has occasioned more suicides 
than the most beautiful woman ;" and I really believe that 
he has put more individuals out of this world than Napo- 
leon himself, — except in the way of his profession. Per- 
haps, illustrious sir, the acrimonious judgment passed by a 
celebrated northern journal upon you in particular, and 
the Germans in general, has rather indisposed you towards 
English poetry as well as criticism. But you must not 



regard our critics, who are at bottom good-natured fellows, 
considering theLr two professions, — taking up the law in 
court, and la}-ing it down out of it. No one can more 
lament their hasty and unfair judgment, in your particu- 
lar, than I do ; and I so expressed myself to your friend 
Schlegel, in 1816, at Copet. 

" ' in behalf of my " ten thousand" living brethren, and 
of myself, I have thus far taken notice of an opinion 
expressed >vith regard to " English poetry" in general, and 
which merited notice, because it was yours. 

" ' My principal object in addressing you was to testify 
my sincere respect and admiration of a man, who, for half 
a century, has led the hterature of a great nation, and wiU 
go down to posterity as the first literary character of 
his age. 

" ' You have been fortunate, sir, not only in the vrritings 
which have illustrated your name, but in the name itself^ 
as being sufficiently musical for the articulation of poste- 
rity. In this you have the advantage of some of your 
countrymen, wnose names would perhaps be immortal 
also — ^if any body could pronounce them. 

" ' It may, perhaps, be supposed, by this apparent tone 
of levity, that I am wanting in intentional respect towards 
you ; but this wili be a mistake : I am always flippant in 
prose . Considering you, as I really and warndy do, is 
common with all your own, and with most other nations, 
to be by far the first literary diaracter which has existed 
in Europe since the death of Voltaire, 'I felt, and feel, 
desirous to inscribe to you the foUowdng woa-k, — not as 
being either a tragedy or a poem, (for I cannot pronounce 
upon its pretensions to be either one or the other, or both, 
or neither,) but as a mark of esteem and admiratioB from 
a foreigner to the man who has been hailed in GermaBy 

"the great GOETHE." 

" ' I have the honour to be, 
" ' with the truest respect, 
^ ' your most obedient 

" ' and very humble servant, 

«' Byron."* 
"Ravenna, 8»*« 14o,1820. 
"P.S.I perceive that in Germany, as well as in Italy, 
tliere is a great struggle about what they call ' ClassieaP 
and ' Ronwoitic^ — terms which were not subjects of clas- 
sification in England, at least when I left it four or five 
years ago. Some of the English scribblers, it is true, 
abused Pope and Swift, but the reason was that they 
themselves did not know how to write either prose or 
verse ; but nobody thought them worth making a sect of. 
Perhaps there may be something of the kind spnmg up 
lately, but I have not heard much about it, and it would 
be such bad taste that I shall be very sorry to believe it.** 



LETTER CCCCLIX. 

to MR. MOORE. 

« Ravenna, October 17th, 1820. 

"You owe me two letters — pay them. I want to 
know what you are about. The summer is over, and you 
will be back to Paris. Apropos of Paris, it was not 
Sophia Goal, but Sophia Gay — the English word Gay — 
who was my correspondent. Can you tell who «Ae is, as 
you did of the defunct * + ? 

" Have you gone on with your poem ? I have received 
the French of mine . Only think of being traduced into a 
foreign language in such an abominable travesty ! It is 
useless to rail, but one can't help it. 

" Have you got my Memoir copied ? I have begun a 
continuation. Shall I send it you, as far as it is gone ? 

" I can't say any thing to you about Italy, for the Go- 
vernment here look upon me with a suspicious eye, as I 
am well informed. Pretty fellows! — as if I, a solitary 
stranger, could do any mischief. It is because I am fond 
of rifle and pistol shooting, I beheve ; for they took the 



«l 



LETTERS, 1820. 



i63 



alarm at the quantity of cartridges I consumed, — the 
wiseacres ! 

" You do n't deserve a long letter — nor a letter at all — 
for your silence. You have got a new Bourbon, it seems, 
whom they have christened ' Dieu-donne ;' — perhaps the 
honour of the present may be disputed. Did you write 
the good lines on , the Laker ? * + 

** The queen has made a pretty theme for the journals. 
Was there ever such evidence published? Why it is 
worse than • Little's Poems' or ' Don Juan .' If you do n't 
write soon, I will ' make you a speech ' 

« Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



« Ravenna, S^re 25, 1820. 

" Pray forward the enclosed to Lady Byron. It is on 
business, 

" In thanking you for the Abbot, I made four grand 
mistakes. Sir John Gordon was not of Gight, but of 
Bogagicht, and a son of Huntley's. He suffered not for 
his loyalty, but in an insurrection. He had nothing to do 
with Loch Leven, having been dead some time at the 
period of the Ctueen's confinement : and, fourthly, I am 
not sure that he was the Q,ueen's paramour or no, for 
Robertson does not allude to this, though JVatier Scott 
does, in the list he gives of her admirers (as unfortunate) 
at the close of ' the Abbot.' 

" I must have made all these mistakes in recollecting 
my mother's account of the matter, although she was 
more accurate than I am, being precise upon points of 
genealogy, like all the aristocratical Scotch. She had a 
long list of ancestors, like Sir Lucius O'Trigger's, most 
of whom are to be found in the old Scotch Chronicles, 
Spalding, &c. in arms and doing mischief. I remember 
well passing Loch Leven, as well as the Q,ueen's Ferry : 
we were on our way to England in 1798. 

" Yours. 

"You had better not publish Blackwood and the 
Roberts' prose, except what regards Pope ; — ^you have 
let the time slip by." 



LETTER CCCCLXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, 9^»« 4, 1820. 

♦•I have received from Mr. Galignani the enclosed let- 
ters, duplicates, and receipts, which will explain them- 
selves.* As the poems are your property by purchase, 
right, and justice, all matters of publication, &c. &c. are fur 
you to decide upon. I know not how far my compliance 
with Mr. Galignani's request might be legal, and I doubt 
that it would not be honest. In case you ciioose to ar- 
range with him, I enclose the permits to you, and in so 
doing I wash my hands of the business altogether, I sign 
them merely to enable you to exert the power yo»i justly 
possess more properly. I will have nothing to do with it 
farther, except, in my answer to Mr. Galignani, to state 
that the letters, &c. &c. are sent to you, and the causes 
thereof. 

"If you can check those foreign pirates, do ; if not, put 
the permissive papers in the fire. I can have no view nor 
object whatever, but to secure to you your properly. 

"Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I have read part of the duarlcrly just arrived ; 
Mr. Bowles shall be answered : — h»^ is not i/ui7e correcl 



* Mr. (iaiignnni had n[)|)lip(l to Iiorfl Uyroii with tho viow (if |ironirtng 
from him siicli \e\^a\ light over thoiir woilm olhin nf which he had hllhcrlo 
been tho noln pulilUhrr in Pi-uiice,nH wuiilil unable lilm to ji|«vciit utheri, 
ill future, from uturpiiig the iuma |irlvlli)|{i-. 



in his statement about English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers. They support Pope, I see, in the (Quarterly ; 
let them continue to do so: it is a sin, and a shame, and 
a damnation to think that Pope!! should require it — but he 
does. Those miserable mountebanlis of the day, the 
poets, disgrace themselves and deny God in running down 
Pope, the most faiMess of poets, and almost of men. 



LETTER CCCCLXn. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

« Ravenna, Nov. 5, 1820. 

" Thanks for your letter, which hath come somewhat 
costively, — but better late than never. Of it anon. Mr. 
Galignani, of the Press, hath, it seems, been supplanted 
and sub-pirated by another Parisian publisher, who has 
audaciously printed an edition of L, B.'s Works, at the 
ultra-liberal price of 10 francs, and (as GaUgnani pite- 
ously observes) 8 francs only for booksellers ! 'horresco 
referens.' Think of a man's whole works producing so 
little ! 

"Galignani sends me, post haste, a permission ^br him, 
from m£, to publish, &c. &c., which permit I have signed 
and sent to Mr. Murray, of Albemarle-street. Will you 
explain to G. thai I have no right to dispose of Murray's 
works without his leave ? and therefore I must refer him 
to M. to get the permit out of his claws — no easy matter, 
I suspect. I have written to G. to say as much ; but a 
word of mouth from a ' great brother author' would con- 
vince him tliat I could not honestly have complied with 
his wish, though I might legally. What I could do I 
have done, viz. signed the warrant and sent it to Murray. 
Let the dogs divide tlie carcass, if it is killed to their 
liking. 

" I am glad of your epigram. It is odd that we should 
both let our wits run away with our sentiments ; for I am 
sure that we are both Q,ueen's men at bottom. But there 
is no resisting a clinch — it is so clever ! Apropos of that 
— we have ' a dipthong' also in this part of die world — not 
a Greek, but a Spanish one — do you understand me ? — 
which is about to blow up the whole alphabet. It was 
first pronounced at Naples, and is spreading ; — but we 
are nearer the Barbarians ; who are in great force on the 
Po, and will pass it, with the first legitimate pretext. 

" There will be the devil to pay, and there is no saying 
who will or who will not be set down in his bill. If 
'honour should come unlooked for' to any of your ac- 
(iuaint<ance, make a Melody of it, that his ghost, like poor 
Yorick's, may have the satisfaction of being plaintively 
pitied — or still more nobly commemorated, like 'Oh 
breatlie not his name.' In case you should not think him 
wortli it, here is a Chant for you instead — 

" When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 
Lcttiim combat for thai of his nrlghbours ; 
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
And get knock'd on tho head for bia Inbouri. 

" To do good to mankind Is the chivalron* plan, 
And is always as nobly requited ; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can, 
And, if not shot or hang'd, you 'II get knighte<1, 

" So you have gotten the letter of * Epigrams' — I am 
glad of it.* You will not bo so, for I shall send you more. 
Here is one I wrote for tJie endorsement of ' tJie Deed of 
Separation' in 1816; but tlie lawyers t^hjectcd to it, as 
superfluous. It was written as wo wore getting up tho 
signing and sealing. * * has tlie original. 
^ Endoracmetit to tlic Dectl of Scparatioiu, in the April of 
1816. 

" A yoar ngu yon xworn, fond the I 

' To love, to honoiu',' and lo forth : 
Such WB« the vow yuu pledgwl lo me, 

And hero '■ exactly wimi 't ii worth. 



LalUr 419, 



164 



LETTERS, 1 820. 



" For the aiuiiversary of January 2, 1821, 1 have a small 
grateful anticipation, which, in case of accident, I add — 
« To Pendope, January 2, 1821. 

" This day, of all our days, hae done 

The worst for me and you : — 
'T is just six years since we were one, 

Aadfioe since we were tico. 

«Pray, excuse all this nonsense ; for I must talk non- 
sense just now, for fear of wandering to more serious 
topics, which, in the present state of things, is not safe by 
a foreign post. 

" I told you, in my last, that I had been going on with 
the ' Memoirs,' and have got as far as twelve more sheets. 
But I suspect they will be interrupted. In that case I 
will send them on by post, though I feel remorse at mak- 
ing a friend pay so much for postage, for we can't frank 
here beyond tlie frontier. 

" I shall be glad to hear of the event of the Clueen's 
concern. As to the ultimate effect, the most inevitable 
one to you and me (if they and we live so long) will be 
that the Miss Moores and Miss Byrons will present us 
with a great variety of grandchildren by different fathers. 

" Pray, where did you get hold of Goethe's Florentine 
husband-killing story ? upon such matters, in general, I 
may say, witli Beau Clincher, in reply to Errand's wife — 

" 'Oil the villain, he hath murdered my poor Timotliy! 

" ' Clincher. Damn your Timothy ! — I tell you, womeui, 
your husband has murdered me — he has caiTied away my 
fine jubilee clothes.' 

" So Bowles has been telling a story, too, ('t is in the 
Quarterly,) about the woods of 'Madeira,' and so forth. 
I shall be at Bowles again, if he is not quiet. He mis- 
states, or mistakes, in a point or two. The paper is 
finished, and so is the letter. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, 9bre9j 1820. 
" The talent you approve of is an amiable one, and 
might prove a ' national service,' but unfortunately I must 
be angry with a man before I draw his real portrait ; and 
I can't deal in ^generals^ so that I trust never to have pro- 
vocation enough to make a Gallery. If ' the paison' had 
not by many little dirty sneaking traits provoked it, I 
should have been silent, though I Jiad observed him. Here 
follows an alteration : put — 

" Devil, with such delight in damning, 
That if at the resurrection 
tJoto him the free election 
Of big future cnuld be given, 
'T would be ratljer Hell than Heaven ; 

that is to say, if these two new lines do not too much 
lengthen out and weaken tlie amiability of the original 
thought and expression. You liave a discretionary power 
al)out showing. I should think that Croker would not 
disrelish a sight of these light httle humorous things, and 
may be indulged now and then. 

" Why, I do like one or tw^o vices, to be sure ; but I can 
back a horse and fire a pistol 'without thinking or blink- 
ing' like Major Sturgeon; I have fed at times for two 
months together on sheer biscuit and water, (without me- 
taphor;) t can get over seventy or eighty miles a day 
nding post, and swim Jive at a stretch, as at Venice, in 
1818, or at least I coulfl do, and have done it once. 

" I know Henry Matthews ; he is the image, to the 
very voice, of his brother Charles, only darker — his cough 
his in particular. The first time I ever met him was in 
Scrope Davies's rooms after his brother's death, and I 
nearly dropped, thinking that it was his ghost. I have 
also dined with him in his rooms at King's College. 
Hobhouse once purposed a similar Memoir; but I am 



afraid the letters of Charles's correspondence with me 
(which are at Whitton with my other papers) would 
hardly do for the public ; for our lives were not over strict, 
and our letters somewhat lax upon most subjects. 
+ + + * ♦ 

"Last week I sent you a correspondence with Galig- 
nani, and some documents on your property. You have 
now, I think, an opportunity of checking^ or at least limit- 
ing, those French republications. You may let all your 
authors publish what they please against me and mine. 
A publisher is not, and cannot be, responsible for all the 
works that issue from his printer's. 

" The 'White Lady of Avenel,' is not quite so good as 
a real well authenticated (' Donna Bianca') White Lady 
of Colalto, or spectre in the Marca Trivigiana, who has 
been repeatedly seen. There is a man (a huntsman) 
now alive who saw her also. Hoppner could tell you all 
about her, and so can Rose, perhaps. I myself have no 
doubt of the fact, historical and spectral. She always 
appeared on particular occasions, before the deaths of the 
family, &c. &c. I heard Madame Benzoni say, that she 
knew a gentleman who had seen her cross his room at 
Colalto Castle. Hoppner saw and spoke with the hunts- 
man, who met her at the chase, and never hunted after- 
ward. She was a girl attendant, who, one day dressing 
the hair of a Countess Colalto, was seen by her mistress 
to smile upon her husband in the glass. The Countess 
had her shut up in the wall of the castle, like Constance 
de Beverly. Ever after, she haunted them and all the 
Colaltos. She is described as very beautiful and fair. 
It is well authenticated. 



LETTER CCCCLXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, Qbre 18,1820. 
" The death of Waite* is a shock to the — teeth, as well 
as to the feelings of all who knew him. Good God, he 
and Blake^ both gone ! I left them both in the most ro- 
bust health, and little thought of the national loss in so 
short a time as five years. They were both as much 
superior to Wellington in rational greatness, as he who 
preserves tlie hair and the teeth is preferable to 'the 
bloody blustering warrior' who gains a name by breaking 
heads and knocking out grinders. Who succeeds him ? 
Where is tooth-powder, mild, and yet efficacious — where 
is tirKture — where are clearing-roots and brushes now to 
be obtained? Pray obtain what information you can 
upon these ' Ttwculan questions.' My jaws ache to think 
on 't. Poor fellows ! I anticipated seeing both again ; 
and yet they are gone to that place where both teeth and 
hair last longer than they do in this life. I have seen a 
thousand graves opened, and always perceived, that what- 
ever was gone, die teeth and hair remain with those w^ho 
had died with them. Is not this odd ? They go the very 
first things in youth, and yet last the longest in the dust, 
if people will but die to preserve them ! It is a queer life, 
and a queer death, that of mortals. 

" I knew that Waite had married, but little thought that 
the other decease was so soon to overtake him. Then 
he was such a delight, such a coxcomb, such a jewel of a 
man! There is a tailor at Bologna so like him I and 
also at the top of his profession. Do not neglect this 
commission. JVho or what can replace him? What 
says the public ? 

"I remand you the Preface. Don't forget that the 
Italian extract from the Chronicle must be translated. 
With regard to what you say of retouching the Juans and 
the Hints, it is all very well ; but I can't /ur6w^. I am 
like the tiger, (in poesy,) if I miss the first spring I go 



t A celebrated bair-drcMer. 



LETTERS, 1820. 



165 



growling back to my jungle. There is no second : I can't 
correct ; I can't, and I won't. Nobody ever succeeds in 
it, great or small. Tasso remade the whole of his Jeru- 
salem ; but who ever reads that version ? all the world 
goes to the first. Pope added to ' The Rape of the Lock,' 
but did not reduce it. You must take my things as they 
happen to be. If they are not likely to suit, reduce their 
estimate accordingly. I would rather give them away 
than hack and hew them. I do n't say Uiat you are not 
right ; I merely repeat that I cannot better them. I must 
' either make a spoon or spoil a horn 5' and there 's an 
end. " Yours. 

" P. S. Of the praises of that Uttle * * * Keats, I 
shall observe, as Johnson did when Sheridan the actor 
got a pensiariy ' What ! has he got a pension ? Then it is 
time that I should give up mineP Nobody could be 
prouder of the praise of the Edinburgh than I was, or 
more alive to their censure, as I showed in English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers. At present, all the men they have 
ever praised are degraded by that insane article. Why 
do n't they review and praise ' Solomon's Guide to 
Health ?' it is better sense and as much poetry as Johnny 
Keats. 

" Bowles must be bowled down. 'T is a sad match at 
cricket if he can get any notches at Pope's expense. If 
he once get into ' Lard's ground,' (to continue the pun, be- 
cause it is foolish,) I think I could beat him in one inn- 
ings. You did not know, perhaps, thai I was once {not 
metapliarically^ but really) a good cricketer, particularly in 
batting, and I played in the Harrow match against the 
Etonians in 1803, gaining more notches (as one of our 
chosen eleven) than any, except Lord Ipswich and Brook- 
man, on our side." 



LETTER CCCCLXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, Q^re 12, 1830. 

" What you said of the late Charles Skinner Matthews 
has set me to my recollections ; but I have not been able 
to turn up any thing which would do for the purposed Me- 
moir of lus brother, even if he had previously done enough 
during his life to sanction the introduction of anec- 
dotes so merely personal. He was, however, a very ex- 
traordinary man, and would have been a great one. No 
one ever succeeded in a more surpassing degree than he 
did, as far as he went. He was indolent too ; but when- 
ever he stripped, he overthi-ew all antagonists. His con- 
quests will be found registered at Cambridge, particularly 
his Dawning one, which was hotly and highly contested, 
and yet easily vxm. Hobhouse was his most intimate 
friend, and can tell you more of him than any man. Wil- 
ham Bankes also a great deal. I myself recollect more 
of his oddities than of his academical qualities, for we lived 
most together at a very idle period of my life. When I 
went up to Trinity in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a 
half, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was 
wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I had become at- 
tached during the last two years of my stay there ; wretched 
at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford, (there were no 
rooms vacant atChristchurch,) wretched from some private 
domestic circumstances of different kinds, and consequently 
about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop. So that, 
although I knew Matthews, and met him often then at 
Bajikes's, (who was my collegiate pastor, and master, and 
patron,) and at Rhode's, Milne's, Price's, Dick's, Mac- 
namara's, Farrcll's, Galley Knif^ht's, and others of that set 
of contemporaries, yet I was neither intimate with iiim nor 
with any else, except my old schoolfellow Edward I^ong, 
(with whom I used to pass the day in riding and swim- 
ming,) and William Bankes, who was good-naturedly 
tolerant of my ferocities. 

" It was not till 1807, after I had been upwards of a year 



away Com Cambridge, to which I had returned again to 
reside for my degree, that I became one of Matthews's 
familiars, by means of Hobhouse, who, after hating me for 
two years, because I ' wore a white hat and a gray coat, 
and rode a gray horse,' (as he says himself) took me into 
his good graces because I had written some poetry. I 
had always lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, 
in their company ; but now we became really friends in a 
morning. Matthews, however, was not at this period re- 
sident in college. I met him chiefly in London, and at 
uncertain periods at Cambridge. Hobhouse, in the mean 
time, did great things: he founded the Cambridge 'Whig 
Club,' (which he seems to have forgotten,) and the 'Ami- 
cable Society,' which was dissolved in consequence of the 
members constantly quarrelling, and made himself very 
popular with 'us youth,' and no less formidable to all 
tutors, professors, and heads of colleges . William Bankes 
was gone ; while he stayed, he ruled the roast, or rather the 
roasting, and was father of all mischiefs. 

" Matthews and I, meeting in London, and elsewhere, 
became great cronies. He was not good-tempered — nor 
am I — but witli a little tact his temper was manageable, 
and I thought liim so superior a man, that I was willing to 
sacrifice something to his humours, which were often, at 
the same time, amusing and provoking. What became of 
his papers, (and he certainly had many,) at the time of his 
death, was never known. I mention this by the way fear- 
ing to skip it over, and as he wrote remarkably well, both 
in Latin and English. We went down to Newstead to- 
gether, where I had got a famous cellar, and monhf 
dresses from a masquerade warehouse. We were a com- 
pany of some seven or eight, with an occasional neighbour 
or so for visiters, and used to sit up late in our friars' 
dresses, drinking Burgundy, claret, champagne, and what 
not, out of the skull-cup, and all sorts of glasses, and buf- 
fooning all round the house, in our conventual garments. 
Matthews always denominated me ' the Abbot,' and never 
called me by any other name in his good humours, to the 
day of his death. The harmony of these our symposia 
was somewhat interrupted, a few days after our assembling, 
by Matthews's threatening to throw 'bold Webster,' (as he 
was called, from winning a foot-match, and a horse-match, 
the first from Ipswich to London, and the second from 
Brighthelmstone,) by direatening to tlirow 'bold Web- 
ster ' out of a window, in consequence of I know not what 
commerce of jokes ending in this epigram. Webster came 
to me and said, that ' his respect and regard for me as host 
would not permit him to call out any of my guests, and 
that he should go to town next morning.' He did. It was 
in vain that I represented to him that the window was not 
high, and tliat the turf under it was particularly soft. 
Away he wetit. 

" Matthews and myself had travelled down from Lon- 
don together, talking all tlie way incessantly upon one 
single topic. When we got to Loughborough, I know 
not what chasm had made us diverge f )r a moment to 
some odier subject, at which he was indignant. ' Come,' 
said he, ' don't let us break through — let us go on as we 
began, to our journey's end ;' and so he continued, and was 
entertaining as ever to the very end. He had previously 
occupied, during my year's absence from Cambridge, my 
rooms in Trinity, with the furniture ; and Jones the tutqr, 
in his odd way, had said on putting liim in, ' Mr. Mat- 
thews, I recommend to your attention not to damage any 
of the njoveablos, for I^ord Byron, sir, is a young man of 
In multuovs passions' Matthews was delighted witli lliis ; 
and whenever any body came to visit him, begged tJjom to 
handle the very door with caution ; and used to repeat 
Jones's admonition, in his tone and manner. There was 
a large mirror in the room, on which lie remarked, 'tliut he 
tliought his friends were grown uncommonly assiduous ui 
coming to scr him, but he scxjn discovered that iJiey "ulv 
came to see thnnsvlfes.' Jones's phrase of ^ tumidtuou* 
paaaiwia,' and llio whole scene had put him into sucJi ti|ood 



166 



LETTERS, 1820. 



humour, that I verily believe, that I owed to it a portion of 
his good graces. 

"When at Newstead, somebody by accident rubbed 
against one of his white silk stockings, one day before 
dinner; of course the gentleman apologized. 'Sir,' an- 
swered Matthews, ' it may be all very ^vell for you, who 
have a great many silk stockings, to dirty other people's ; 
but to me, who have only this one pair, which I have put 
on in honour of the Abbot here, no apology can compen- 
sate for such carelessness ; besides the expense of wash- 
ing.' He had tlie same sort of droll sardonic way about 
every thing, A wild Irishman, named F * * , one even- 
ing beginning to say something at a large supper at Cam- 
bridge, Matthews roared out ' Silence ! ' and then, pointing 
to F * * , cried out, in the words of the oracle, ' Orson is 
endowed with reasonJ You may easily suppose that Or- 
son lost what reason he had acquired, on hearing this 
compliment. When Hobhouse published his volume of 
poems, the Miscellany (which Matthews would call the 
• Miss-seU-any^) all that could be drawn from him was, 
that the preface was ' extremely like Wahh^ Hobhouse 
thought this at first a complirnent ; but we never could 
make out what it was, for all we know of IValsh is his 
Ode to King Wilham, and Pope's epithet of ' hnoioing 
fVcdsh.' When the Newstead party broke up for Lon- 
don, Hobhouse and Matthews, who were the greatest 
fiiends possible, agreed, for a whim, to walk together to 
town. They quarrelled by the way, and actually walked 
the latter half of their journey, occasionally passing and 
repassing, without speaking. When Matthews had got 
to Highgate, he had spent all his money but threepence 
halfpenny, and determined to spend that also in a pint of 
beer, which I believe he was drinking before a public 
house, as Hobhouse passed him (still without speaking) 
for the last time on their route. They were reconciled in 
London again. 

"One of Matthews's passions was the 'the Fancy;' and 
he sparred uncommonly well. But he always got beaten 
in rows, or combats with the bare fist. In swimming too, 
he swam well ; but with ^ort and labour, and too Mgh out 
of the water; so that ScropeDavies and myself, of whom 
he was therein somewhat emulous, always told him that 
he would be drowned if ever he came to a difficult pass 
in the water. He was so ; but surely Scrope and my- 
self would have been most heartly glad that 

" ' The Dean had lived, 
And our predicliou proved a lie.' 

•'His head was uncommonly handsome, very like what 
Papers was in his youth. 

" His voice, and laugh, and features, are strongly re- 
sembled by his brother Henry's, if Henry be he of King's 
College. His passion for boxing was so great, that he ac- 
tually wanted me to match him with Dogherty, (whom I 
had backed and made the match for against Tom Bel- 
cher,) and I saw them spar together at my own lodgings 
with the gloves on. As he was bent upon it, I would have 
backed Dogherty to please him, but die match went oflT. 
It was of course to have been a private fight in a private 
room. 

" On one occasion, being too late to go home and dress, 
he was equipped by a friend, (Mr. Bailey, I behevc,) in a 
magnificently fashionable and somewhat exaggerated shirt 
and neckcloth. He proceeded to the Opera, and took his 
station in Fop's Alley. During the interval between die 
opera and the ballet, an acquaintance took his station by 
him, and saluted him: 'Come round,' said Matthews, 
•come round.' 'Why should I come round?' said the 
other ; ' you have only to turn your head — I am close by 
you.' 'That is exactly what I cannot do,' answered 
Matthews: 'don't you see the state I am in?' pointing to 
his buckram shirt-collar, and inflexible cravat ; and there 
he stood with his head always in the same perpendicular 
position during the whole spectacle. 

• One evening, after dining together, as we were going 



to the Opera, I happened to have a spare Opera ticket, 
(as subscriber to a box,) and presented it to Matthews. 
'Now, sir,' said he to Hobhouse afterward, 'this I call 
courteous in die Abbot — another man would never have 
thought that I might do better with half a guinea than 
throw it to a doorkeeper; but here is a man not only 
asks me to dinner, but gives me a ticket for the theatre. 
These were only his oddities, for no man was more liberal, 
or more honourable in all his doings and dealings than 
Matthews. He gave Hobhouse and me, before we set 
out for Constantinople, a most splendid entertainment, to 
which we did ample justice. One of his fancies was dining 
at all sorts of out of the way places . Somebody popped upon 
him, in I know not what coffee-house in the Strand — and 
what do you think was the attraction? Why, that he 
paid a shilling (I think) to dine with his hat on. This he 
called his 'hat house,' and used to boast of the comfort of 
being covered at meal-times. 

" When Sir Heni^ Smith was expelled from Cambridge 
for a row with a tradesman named 'Hiron,' Matthews 
solaced himself with shouting under Hiron's windows 
every evening, 

' Ah me 1 What perils do environ 
The man who meddles with hot Hiron.' 

"He was also of that band of profane scoffers, who, 
under the auspices of * * * * , used to rouse Lort Man- 
sel (late bishop of Bristol) from his slumbers in the lodge 
of Trbity, and when he appeared at the window foaming Ai 
with wrath, and crying out, 'Iloiow you, gentlemen, I ■ 
know you!' were wont to reply, 'We beseech thee to 
hear us, good Lort — good Lort, deliver us!' (Lort was 
his Christian name.) As he was very free in his specu- 
lations upon all kinds of subjects, although by no means 
either dissolute or intemperate in his conduct, and as I 
was no less independent, our conversation and correspon- 
dence used to alarm our friend Hobhouse to a considerable 
degree. 

+ + ♦ + * + * 

" You must be almost tired of my packets, which will 
have cost a mint of postage. 

" Salute GifTord and all my friends. 

" Yours, &€." 



LETTER CCCCLXVI. 

TO MK. MURRAr. 

" Ravenna, Sbre 23, 1820. 

" The ' Hints,' Hobhouse says, will require a good deal 
of slashing to suit the times, which will be a work of time, 
for I do n't feel at all laborious just now. Whatever 
effect they are to have would perhaps be greater in a 
separate forai, and they also must have my name to them. 
Now, if you publish them in the same volume with Don 
Juan, they identify Don Juan as mine, which I do n't think 
worth a chancery suit about my daughter's guardianship, 
as in your present code a facetious poem is sufficient to 
take away a man's right over his family. 

" Of the state of things here it would be difficult and 
not very prudent to speak at large, the Huns opening all 
letters. I wonder if they can read them when they have 
opened them ; if so, they may see, in my most legible 

HAND, THAT I THINK THEW DAMNED SCOUNDRELS AND 

BARBARIANS, and THEIR EMPEROR a FOOL, and thcm- 
selves more fools than he ; all which tliey may send to 
Vierma for any thing I care. They have got themselves 
masters of the Papal police, and are bullying away : but 
some day or other they will pay for all : it may not be very 
soon, because these unhappy Italians have no consistency 
among themselves ; but I suppose Uiat Providence will 
get tired of them at last, ****** 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTERS, 1820. 



167 



m- 



LETTER CCCCLXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



«Ravenna,Dec. 9, 1820. 

" Besides this letter, you will receive three packets, con- 
taining, in all, 18 more sheets of Memoranda, which, I 
fear, will cost you more in postage than they will ever pro- 
duce by being printed in the next century. Instead of 
waiting so long, if you could make any thing of them 
now in the way of reversion, (that is, after my death,) I 
should be very glad, — as, with all due regard to your 
progeny, I prefer you to your grandchildren. Would not 
Longman or Murray advance you a certain sum now, 
pledging themselves not to have them published till after 
my decease, think you ? — and what say you? 

" Over these latter sheets I would leave you a discre- 
tionary power ; because they contain, perhaps, a thing or 
two which is too sincere for the public. If I consent to 
your disposing of the reversion now, where would be the 
harm ? Tastes may change. I would, in your case, 
make my essay to dispose of them, not publish, now ; and 
if you (as is most likely) survive me, add what you please 
from your own laiowlcdge, and, above all, contradict any 
thing, if I have wis-stated ; for my first object is the 
truth, even at my own expense. 

" I have some knowledge of your countryman, Muley 
Moloch, the lecturer. He wrote to me several letters 
upon Christianity, to convert me ; and, if I had not been 
a Christian already, I should probably have been now, in 
consequence. I thought there was something of wild 
talent in him, mixed with a due leaven of absurdity, — as 
there must be in all talent let loose upon the world with- 
out a martingale. 

" The ministers seem still to persecute the dueen * 
* * * * ♦ * *but they won't go out, the sons 
of b— es. Daixm reform — I want a place — what say 
you ? You must applaud the honesty of the declaration, 
whatever you may think of the intention. 

"I have quantities of paper in England, original and 
translated — tragedy, &c. &c. ; and am now copying out a 
Fifth Canto of Don Juan, 149 stanzas. So that there 
will be near three thin Albemarle, or two thick volumes of 
all sorts of my Muses. I mean to plunge thick, too, into 
the contest upon Pope, and to lay about me like a dragon 
till I make manure of * * * for the top of Parnassus. 

" Those rogues are right — we do laugh at <' others — eh ? 
— do n't we ?+ You shall see — you shall see what things 
I '11 say, 'an it pleases Providence to leave us leisure. 
But in these parts they are all going to war ; and there is 
to bo liberty, and a row, and a constitution — .when they 
can get them. But I won't talk politics — it is low. Let 
us talk of the Gtueen, and her bath, and her bottle — that 's 
the only motley now-a-days. 

" If there arc any acquaintances of m'me, salute them. 
The priests here arc trying to persecute me, — but no 
matter. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXVIIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Dec. 9, 1820. 
" I open my letter to tell you a fact, which will show tlic 
state of this country better than I ran. The commau- 
dantf of the troops is 71010 lying dead in my liouso. He 
was shot at a little pa.st eight o'clock, about two hundred 
paces from my door. I was putting on my grtat-coat In 
visit Madame la Coutossa G. wlu>n I heard llx^ shot. On 
coming into tlio hall, I found all tny servants on iho balcony, 



• Hohcrealliuluii to a humorous arlicio, of wliiili I liiul loM him, in 
niackwood'B MnRixzinn, where Ihc |ioe(» of Ihc diiy wrrr nil e'"iip"l 
«o(;elher inn variety of fanlii»ilc, ahaiicii, willi " r.oiil Hvroii iiii.l hiile 
Mooro Inufihing hfiiind, an if lh«y wouM niilil," ill lh« reit of iho fraWr- 
filty. — Moore. 

tSecDonJiitn Canto V. Stanza 83. 



exclaiming that a man was murdered. I immediately ran 
down, calling on Tita (the bravest of them) to follow me. 
The rest wanted to hinder us from going, as it is the custom 
for every body here, it seems, to run away from 'the 
stricken deer.' 

" However, down we ran, and found him lying on his 
back, almost, if not quite, dead, with five wounds, one in 
•the heart, two in the stomach, one in the finger, and the 
other in the arm. Some soldiers cocked their gvms, and 
wanted to hinder me from passing. However, we passed, 
and I found Diego, the adjutant, crying over him Uke a 
child — a surgeon, who said nothing of his profession — a 
priest, sobbing a frightened prayer — and the commandant, 
all this time, on his back, on the hard, cold pavement, with- 
out hght or assistance, or any thing around him but confu- 
sion and dismay. 

"As nobody could, or would, do any thing but howl and 
pray, and as no one would stir a finger to move him, for 
fear of consequences, I lost my patience — made my 
servant and a couple of the mob take up the body — sent 
off two soldiers to the guard — despatched Diego to the 
Cardinal with the news, and had the commandant carried 
up stairs into my own quarter. But it was too late, he was 
gone — not at all disfigured — bled inwardly — not above an 
ounce or two came out. 

"I had him partly stripped — ^made the surgeon examine 
him, and examined him myself. He had been shot by cut 
balls, or slugs. I felt one of the slugs, which had gone 
through him, all but the skin. Every body conjectures 
why he was killed, but no one knows how. The gun was 
found close by him — an old gun, half filed down. 

" He only said, * O Dio !' and ' Gesu !' two or three times, 
and appeared to have suffered little. Poor fellow ! he was 
a brave officer, but had made himself much disliked by 
the people. I knew him personally, and had met him often 
at conversazioni and elsewhere. My house is full of 
soldiers, dragoons, doctors, priests, and all kinds of per- 
sons, — though I have now cleared it, and clapped senti- 
nels at the doors. To-morrow the body is to be moved. 
The town is in the greatest confusion, as you may suppose. 

"You arc to know that, if I had not had the body 
moved, they would have left him there till morning in the 
street, for fear of consequences. I would not choose to 
let even a dog die in such a manner, withotit succour ; — 
and, as for consequences, I care fijr none in a duty. 

« Yours, &c. 

" P. S. The lieutenant on duty by the body is smoking 
his pipe with great composure. — A queer people this." 



LETTER CCCCLXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



« Ravenna, Dec. 25, 1820. 

" You will or ought to have received the packet and let- 
ters which I remitted to your address a fortnight ago, (or it 
may be more days,) and I shall be glad of an answer, as, in 
these times ami |)laces, packets per post are in some risk of 
not reaching tlu-ir destination. 

"I have been thinking of a project for you and mr, in 
case wo both get to London again, which (if a Ni\tpolilan 
war do n't suscitato) may be calculated as possible for one 
of us about tlio spring of 1821. I prosimie that yon, too, 
will b(^ hark by llial l\\\v\ or never ; hut on that yon will 
give mo some index. Th(> project, tlirn, is fiv you and mo 
to sot up jointly a nnntpaprr — nothing more nor less — 
weekly, or so, with sonio imjirovenirnf or modifionlions 
upon tli«> plan of the present scournlrols, who tlograde that 
(leparlniiiil, — but a neivsjinjirr, which \vc will wlit indue 
form, and, n<»vrrthel»>ss, with somr attention. 

"TlnrtMuust always bi> in it apiece of pt)esy from ono 
or olhir of \u tiifi, leaving room, however, for such dilet- 
tanti rhymer.'! iis may bo doemcd worthy of appearing in the 
same column ; but this must be a nne ifvA noti ; and alio 



168 



LETTERS, 1820- 



as much prose as we can compass. We will take an 
qfflce— our Dames not announced, but suspected — and, by 
the blessing of Providence, give the age some nevi^ lights 
upon policy, poesy, biography, criticism, morality, theology, 
and all other ism, ality, and ology whatsoever. 

" Why, man, if we were to take to this in good earnest, 
your debts would be paid off in a twelvemonth, and by dint 
of a Uttle diligence and practice, I doubt not that we could 
distance the commonplace blackguards, who have so long 
disgraced common sense and the common reader. They 
have no merit but practice zmd impudence, both of which 
we may acquire, and, as for talent and culture, the devil 's 
in 't if such proofs as we have given of both can't furnish 
out something better tlian the ' funeral baked meats' which 
have coldly set forth the breakfast table of all Great Britain 
for so many years. Now, what think you? Let me 
know ; and recollect that, if we take to such an enterprise, 
we must do so in good earnest. Here is a hint, — do you 
make it a plan. We will modify it into as literary and 
classical a concern as you please, only let us put out our 
powers upon it, and it will most likely succeed. But you 
must live in London, and I also, to bring it to bear, and we 
must keep it a secret. 

"As for the Uving in London, I would make that not 
difficult to you, (if you would allow me,) until we could see 
whether one means or other (the success of the plan, for 
instance) would not make it quite easy for you, as well as 
your family ; and, in any case, we should have some fun, 
composing, correcting, supposing, inspecting, and supping 
together over our lucubrations. If you think this worth a 
thought, let me know, and I will begin to lay in a small 
literary capital of composition for the occasion. 

" Yours ever affectionately, 
«B. 

** P. S . If you thought of a middle plan bet^veen a Spec- 
tator and a newspaper, why not? — only not on a Sunday. 
Not that Sunday is not an excellent day, but it is engaged 
already. We vvill call it the 'Tenda Rossa,' the name 
Tassoni gave an answer of his in a controversy, in allu- 
sion to the delicate hint of Timour the Lame, to his ene- 
mies, by a ' Tenda' of that colour, before he gave battle. 
Or we will call it 'Gli,' or 'I Carbonari,' if it so please 
you — or any other name full of ' pastime and prodigality,' 
which you may prefer. + ♦** + * Let me 
have an answer. I conclude poetically, with the bellman, 
* A merry Christmas to you !' " 



ADDRESS 

TO THE NEAPOLITAN GOVERNMENT. 

[^Translation from the original Italian.'] 

" An Englishman, a friend to liberty, having understood 
that the Neapolitans permit even foreigners to contribute 
to the good cause, is desirous that they should do him the 
honour of accepting a thousand louis, which he takes the 
liberty of offering. Having already, not long since, been 
an ocular witness of the despotism of the Barbarians in 
the States occupied by them in Italy, he sees, with the 
enthusiasm natural to a cultivated man, the generous deter- 
mination of the Neapolitans to assert their well-won 
independence. As a member of the English House of 
Peer.-?, he would be a traitor to the principles which placed 
the reigning family of England on the throne, if he were 
not grateful for the noble lesson so lately given both to 
people and to kings. The offer wliich he desires to make 
is small in itself, as must always be that presented from an 
individual to a nation ; but he trusts lliat it will not be the 
last they will receive from his countrj'men. His distance 
from the frontier, and the feeling of liis personal incapacity 
to contribute efficaciously to the service of the nation, 
prevents him from proposing himself as worthy of the 
lowest commission, for which experience and talent might 
Ic requisite. But if, as a mere volunteer, his presence 



were not a burden to whomsoever he might serve under 
he would repair to whatever place the Neapolitan govern- 
ment might point out, there to obey the orders andparti- | 
cipate in the dangers of his commanding officer, without I 
any other motive than that of shaiing the destiny of a 
brave nation, defending itself against the self-called Holy 
Alliance, which but combines tlie vice of hypocrisy with 
despotism." 



LETTER CCCCLXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, Jan. 2, 1821. 
Your entering into my project for the Memoir is 
pleasant to me. But I doubt (contrary to my dear Mad^ 
MacF * *, whom I always loved, and always shall — not 
only because I really did feel attached to her personaUy, 
but because she and about a dozen others of that sex 
were all who stuck by me in the grand conflict of 1815) 

but I doubt, I say, whether the Memoir could appear 
in my lifetime ; — and, indeed, I had rather it did not , 
for a man always hoks dead after his Life has appeared, 
and I should certes not survive the appearance of mine. 
The first part I cannot consent to alter, even although 
Made de Stael's opinion of Benjamm Constant, and my 
remarks upon Lady Caroline's beauty, (which is surely 
great, and I suppose that I have said so — at least, I 
ought,) should go down to our grandchildren in unsophis- 
ticated nakedness. 

" As to Madame de Stael, I am by no means bound to 
be her beadsman — she was always more civil to me in 
person than during my absence. Our dear defunct friend, 
Matthew Lewis, who was too great a bore ever to lie, 
assured me, upon his tiresome word of honour, that, at 
Florence, the said Madame de Stael was o\yen-moui.hed 
against me ; and, when asked, in Switzerland, why she had 
changed her opinion, replied, with laudable sincerity, 
that I had named her in a sonnet with Voltaire, Rous- 
seau, &c. &c. and that she could not help it, through 
decency. Now, I have not forgotten this, but I have 
been generous, — as mine acquaintance, the late Captain 
Whitby of the navy, used to say to his seamen (when 
'married to the gunner's daughter') — 'two dozen, and 
let you off easy.' The ' two dozen' were with the cat-- 
nine-tails ; — the ' let you off easy' was rather his own 
opinion than that of the patient. 

"My acquaintance with these terms and practices 
arises from my having been much conversant with ships 
of war and naval heroes in the years of my voyages in 
the Mediterranean. Whitby was in the gallant action 
ofFLissa in 1811. He was brave, but a disciplinarian. 
When he left his frigate, he left a.parrot, which was taught 
by the crew the following sounds — (It must be remarked 
that Captain Whitby was the image of Fawcett the actofj 
in voice, face, and figure, and that he squinted.) 
* The Parrot loquitur. 

" ' Whitby ! Whitby ! furmy eye ! funny eye ! two do« 
zen, and let you off easy. Oh you I' 

" Now, if Madame de B. has a parrot, it had better bo 
taught a French parody of the same sounds. 

" With regard to our purposed Journal, I will call it 
what you please, but it should be a newspaper, to mako 
itpay. We can call it ' The Harp,' if you like — or any 
tiling. 

" I feel exactly as you do about our * art,' but it comes 
over me in a kind of rage every now and then, like ♦ 

* * * and then, if I don't write to empty 
my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted 
love of writing, which you describe in your friend, I do 
not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must 
get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I 
think composition a great pain. 

" I wish you to think seriously of the Journal scheme — 
for I am as serious as one can be, in this world, about 



LETTERS, 1821. 



169 



any thing. As to matters here, they are high and mighty 
—but not for paper. It is much about the state of things 
between Cain and Abel. There is, in fact, no law or 
government at all ; and it is wonderful how well things 
go on without them. Excepting a few occasional mur- 
ders, (every body killing whomsoever he pleases, and 
bemg killed, in turn, by a friend, or relative, of the de- 
funct,) there is as quiet a society and as merry a Carni- 
val as can be met with in a tour through Europe. There 
is nothing lilie habit in these things. 

"I shall remain here till May or June, and, unless 
•honour comes unlooked-for,' we may perhaps meet, in 
France or England, within the year. 

« Yours, &c. 

« Of course, I cannot explain to you existing circum- 
stances, as they open all letters. 

" Will you set me right about your cursed ' Champs 
Elysees ?' — are they ' es' or ' ees' for the adjective ? I 
know nothing of French, being all Italian. Though I 
can read and understand French, I never attempt to 
speak it ; for I hate it. From the second part of the 
Memoirs cut what you please." 



LETTER CCCCLXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, January 4, 1821. 

**I just see, by the papers of Galignani, that there is a 
new tragedy of great expectation by Barry Cornwall.* 
Of what I have read of his works I liked the Dramatic 
Sketches, but thought his Sicilian story and Marcian 
Colonna, in rhyme, quite spoiled, by I know not what 
affectation of Wordsworth, and Moore, and myselfj — all 
mixed up into a kind of chaos. I think him very likely 
to produce a good tragedy, if he keep to a natural style, 
and not play tricks to form harlequinades for an audience. 
As he (Barry Cornwall is not his true name) was a 
schoolfellow of mine, I take more than common interest 
in his success, and shall be glad to hear of it speedily. 
If I had been aware that he was in that line, I should 
have spoken of him in the preface to Marino Faliero. 
He will do a world's wonder if he produce a great tragedy. 
I am, however, persuaded, that this is not to be done by 
following the old dramatists, — who are full of gross faults, 
pardoned only for the beauty of their language, — ^but by 
writing naturally and regularly^ and producing regular 
tragedies, like the Greeks ; but not in imitation, — merely 
the outline of their conduct, adapted to our own times 
and circumstances, and of course no chorus. 

" You will laugh, and say, ' Why do n't you do so ?' I 
have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino Faliero; but 
many people think my talent ' essentially undramatic^ and 
I am not at all clear that they are not right. If Marino 
Faliero don't fall — in the perusal — I shall, perhaps, try 
again, (but not for the stage ;) and as I think that love is 
not the principal passion for tragedy, (and yet most of 
ours turn upon it,) you will not find me a popular writer. 
Unless it is love, /wriows, criminal, and hapless, it ought 
not to make a tragic subject. When it is melting and 
maudlin, it does, but it ought not to do ; it is then for the 
gallery and second-price boxes. 

" If you want to have a notion of what I am trying, 
take up a translation of any of the Greek tragedians. If 
I said the original, it would be an impudent presumption 
ofmine ; but the translations are so inferior to the origi- 
nals that I think I may risk it. Then judge of the ' sim- 
plicity of plot,' &c. and do not judge mo by your old mad 
dramatists, which is like drinking usquebaugh and then 
proving a fountain. Yet, after all, I suppose tliat you 
do not mean that spirits is a nobler clement than a clear 



' Sm Don Juan, Canto XI . SUnza ( 

22 



spring bubbhng in the sun ? and this I take to be the dif- 
ference between the Greeks and those turbid mounte- 
banks — always excepting Ben Jonson, who was a scho- 
lar and a classic. Or, take up a translation of Alfieri, 
and try the interest, &c. of these my new attempts in 
the old Une, by him in English ; and then tell me fairly 
your opinion. But do n't measure me by your own old 
or new tailors' yards . Nothing so easy as intricate con- 
fusion of plot and rant. Mrs. Centlivre, in comedy, has 
ten times the bustle of Congreve ; but are they to be com- 
pared ? and yet she drove Congreve from the theatre." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, January 19, 1821. 

" Yours of the 29th ultimo hath arrived. I must really 
and seriously request that you will beg of Messrs. Harris 
or Elliston to let the Doge alone : it is not an acting 
play ; it will not serve their purpose ; it will destroy yours, 
(the sale ;) and it vwll distress me. It is not courteous, 
it is hardly even gentlemanly, to persist in this appropria- 
tion of a man's writings to their mountebanks. 

" I have already sent you by last post a short protest 
to the public, (against this proceeding ;) in case that they 
persist, which I trust that they wll not, you must then 
publish it in the newspapers. I shall not let them off 
with that only, if they go on ; but malte a longer appeal 
on that subject, and state what I think the injustice of 
their mode of behaviour. It is hard that I should have 
all the buffoons in Britain to deal with — -pirates who vnll 
publish, and players who will act — when there are thou- 
sands of worthy men who can neither get bookseller nor 
manager for love nor money. 

" You never answered me a word about Galignani. 
If you mean to use the two documents, do ; if not, burn 
them . I do not choose to leave them in any one's pos- 
session ; suppose some one found them without the let- 
ters, what would they think? why, that /had been doing 
the opposite of what I have done, to wit, referred the whole 
thmg to you — an act of civility, at least, which required 
saying, ' I have received your letter.' I thought that you 
might have some hold upon those publications by this 
means ; to me it can be no interest one way or tlie other. 

" The third canto of Don Juan is ' dull,' but you must 
really put up with it : if the first two and tlie two follow- 
ing are tolerable, what do you expect ? particularly as I 
neither dispute with you on it as a matter of criticism or 
as a matter of business. 

" Besides, what am I to understand ? you, and Dou- 
glas Kinnaird, and otJiers, write to me, that the first two 
published cantos are among the best tliat I ever vvTote, 
and are reckoned so ; Augusta writes that they aro 
thought 'execrable' (bitter word that for an author — eh, 
Murray?) as a composition even, and that she had heard 
so much against them that she would nei>er read them, 
and never has. Be that as it may, I can't alter ; tliat is 
not my forte. If you publish the three new ones without 
ostentation, they may perhaps succeed. 

"Pray publish the Daiite and the Pulci, (the Prophecy 
of ZJa?i/e, I mean.) I look upon the Pulci as my grand 
performance. The rcinaindor of the ' Hints,' whore be 
they ? Now, bring them all out about the same time, 
otherwise ' the variety' you wot of will bo less obvious. 

•I am in bad hiunour: — some obstructions in business 
with those J)laguy trustees, who object to an advontajjeous 
loan which I was to furnish to a nobleman on morfgogo 
because his property is in Irelarul-, have shown mo how a 
man is treated in his absence. Oh, if I <io como back, 
will make some of tJioso who little droam of it apin, — or 
they or I shall go down." ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

♦ ♦♦♦*♦ 



170 



LETTERS, 1S21. 



LETTER CCCCLXXm. 

TO MR. MtTRRAY. 

"January 20, 1821. 

« I did not think to have troubled you with the plague 
and postage of a double letter this time, but I have just read 
in an Italian paper, ' That Lord Byron has a tragedy com- 
ing out,' &c. &c. &c. and that the Courier and Morning 
Chronicle, &c. &c. are pulling one another to pieces about 
hiin,&c. 

« Now I do reiterate and desire, that every fhmg may 
be done to prevent it from coming out on any theatre, for 
which it never was designed, and on which (in the present 
state of the stage of London) it could never succeed. I 
have sent you my appeal by last post, which you jnust pub- 
lish in case of need; and I require you even in your own 
name (if my honour is dear to you) to declare that such re- 
presentation would be contrary to my wish and to my judg- 
ment. If you do not wish to drive me mad altogether, you 
will hit upon some way to prevent this. 

« Yours, &c. 

«P. S. I cannot conceive how Harris or Elliston should 
be so insane as to think of acting Marino Fahero; they 
might as well act the Prometheus of jEschylus. I speak 
of course humbly, and with the greatest sense of the dis- 
tance of time ajid merit between the two performances ; 
but merely to show the absurdity of the attempt. 

"The Itahan paper speaks of a 'paarty against it:' to be 
sure there would be a party. Can you imagine, that after 
having never flattered man, nor beast, nor opinion, nor po- 
litics, there would nothe a. party against a man, who is also 
a^ popular wrker — at least a successful? Why, all parties 
would he a party against." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, January 20, 1821. 

**If Harris or Elliston persist, after the remonstrance 
which I desired you and Mr.Kinnaird to make on my be- 
halij and which I hope will be sufficient — ^but if, I say, they 
do persist, then I pray you to present inpersonthe enclosed 
letter to the Lord Chamberlain : I have said in person, be- 
cause otherwise I shall have neither answer nor know- 
ledge that it has reached its address, owing to the'inso- 
solence of office.' 

" I wish you would speak to Lord Holland, and to aU ray 
friends and yours, to interest themselves in preventing 
this cursed attempt at representation. 

"God help me! at this distance, I am treated like a 
corpse or a fool by the few people that I thought I could 
rely upon ; and I was a fool to think any better of them 
than of the rest of mankind. 

" Pray write. " Yours, &c 

"P. S. I have nothing more at heart (that is, in Utera- 
ture) than to prevent this drama from going upon the 
stage: in short, rather than permit it, it must be sup- 
pressed altogether, and only forty copies struck off privately for 
presents to my friends. What cursed fools those specu- 
lating buffoons must be not to see that it is unfit for their 
fair^or their booth !" 



LETTER CCCCLXXV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

'Ravenna, January 22,1821. 
■Pray get well. I do not like your complaint. So, 
let me have a line to say you are up and doing again. To- 
day I am 33 years of age. 

• Through life'sroad,' &c. &c.* 

■Have you heard that the ' Braziers' Company' have, or 
* GiTcn In bis Journal, page 253. 



mean to present an address at Brandenburgh-house, 'in 
armour,' and with all possible variety and splmdour of 
brazen apparel 1 

" The Braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
Air address, and present it themselves all in brass—* 
A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry, 
They '11 find where they 're going much more than they carry. 
There's an Ode for you, is it not ? — ^worthy 

•' Of * * * *, the grand metaquizzical poet, 
A man of vast merit, though few people know it ; 
The perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri) 
I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry. 

Mestri and Fusina are the ' trajects, or common fer 
ries,' to Venice ; but it was from Fusina that you and I ■ 
embarked, though ' the wicked necessity of rhyming* has I 
made me press Mestri into the voyage. * 

" So, you have had a book dedicated to you ? I am 
glad of it, and shall be very happy to see the volume. 

"I am in a peck of troubles about a tragedy of mine, 
which is fit only for the (+ + ***) closet, and which it 
seems that the managers, assuming a right over published 
poetry, are determined to enact, whether I will or no, with 
their own alterations by Mr. Dibdin, I presume. I hav« 
written to Murray, to the Lord Chamberlain, and to others, 
to interfere and preserve me from such an exhibition. I 
want neither the impertinence of their hisses nor the in*- 
solence of their applause. I write only for the reader, and 
care for nothing but the silent approbation of those who 
close one's book with good-humour and quiet contentment. 

"Now if you would also write to our friend Perry, to 
beg of him to meditate with Harris and Elliston to for- 
bear this intent, you will greatly obhge me. The play is 
quite unfit for the stage, as a single glance will show them, 
and, I hope, has shown them ; and, if it wwe ever so fit, I 
will never have any thing to do willingly with the theatres. 
"Yours ever, in haste, fee," 



LETTER CCCCLXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, January 27, 1821. 

" I differ from you about the i)anie, which I think should 
be published with the tragedy. But do as you please : 
you must be the best judge of your own craft. I agree 
\vith you about the title. The play may be good or bad, 
but I flatter myself that it is original as a picture of that 
kind of passion, which to my mind is so natural, that I am 
convinced that I should have done precisely what the Doge 
did on those provocations. 

"•I am glad of Foscolo's approbation. 

"Excuse haste. I believe I mentioned to you that— 
I forget what it was ; but no matter. 

" Thaaiks for your compliments of the year. I hope 
that it will be pleasanter than the last. I speak with re- 
ference to England only, as far as regards myself, where I 
had every kind of disappointment — lost an important law- 
suit — and the trustees of Lady Byron refusing to allow of 
an advantageous loan to be made from my property to 
LordBlessington,&c.&c. by way of closing the four sea- 
sons. These, and a hundred other such things, made a 
year of bitter business forme in England. Luckily, things 
were a little pleasanter for me here, else I should have taken 
the Uberty of Harmibal's ring. 

"Pray thank Gifford for all his goodnesses. The win- 
ter is as cold here as Parry's polarities. I must now take 
a canter in the forest ; my horses are waiting. 

" Yours ever and truly. 

LETTER CCCCLXXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, February 2, I82I. 
" Your letter of excuses has arrived. I receive the let- 
ter, but do not admit the excuses, except in courtesy ; as 



ii 



LETTERS, 1821. 



171 



when a man treads on your toes and begs your pardon the 
pardon is granted, but the joint aches, especially if there be 
a corn upon it. However, I shall scold you presently, 

" In the last speech of the Doge, there occurs (I think 
from memory) the phrase — 

' And Thou who raak-est and unmakest suns :' 

change this to — 

' And Thou wfaoVindlest aud who quenchest suns';' 

that is to say, if the verse runs equally well, and Mr. Gif- 
ford thinks the expression improved. Pray have the bounty 
to attend to this. You are grown quite a minister of slate. 
Mind if some of these days you are not thrown out. * * 
will not be always a Tory, though Johnson says the first 
Whig was the Devil. 

"You have learned one secret from Mr. Galignani's 
(somewhat tardily acknowledged) correspondence: this 
is, that an English author may dispose of his exclusive 
copyright 'm Prance, — a fact of some consequence (in time 
of peace) in the case of a popular writer. Now I will tell 
you what ^ou shall do, and take no advantage of you, though 
you were scurvy enough never to acknowledge my letter 
for three months. Offer Galignani the refusal of the copy- 
right in France ; if he refuses, appoint any bookseller in 
France you please, and I will sign any assignment you 
please, and it shall never cost you a sou on my account. 

"Recollect that I will have nothing to do with it, except 
as far as it may secure the copyright to yourself. I will 
have no bargain but with the English booksellers, and I 
desire no interest out of that country. 

"Now, that 's fair and open, and a little handsomer than 
your dodging silence, to see what would come of it. You 
are an excellent fellow, mio caro Moray, but there is still 
a little leaven of Fleet-street about you now and then — a 
crum of the old loaf. You have no right to act suspiciously 
with me, for I have given you no reason. I shall always 
be frank with you ; as, for instance, whenever you talk 
wth the votaries of Apollo arithmetically, it should be in 
guineas, not pounds — to poets, as well as physicians, and 
bidders at auctions. 

" I shall say no more at this present, save that I am 

"Yours, &c. 

"P. S. If you venture, as you say, to Ravenna this year, 
I will exercise the rites of hospitality while you live, and 
bury you handsomely, (though not in holy ground,) if you 
get ' shot or slashed in a creagh or splore,' which are rather 
frequent here of late among the native parties. But per- 
haps your visit may be anticipated ; I may probably come 
to your country ; in which case write to her ladyship the 
duplicate of the epistle the king of France wrote to Prince 
John." 



LETTER CCCCLXXVin. 

TO MR. MURHAY. 

« Ravenna, Feb. 16, 182L 
" In the month of March will arrive from Barcelona 
Signor Cnrioni, engaged for the Opera. He is an ac- 
quaintance of mine, and a gentlemanly young man, liigli 
in his profession. I must request your personal kindness 
and patronage in his favour. Pray introduce him to such 
of the theatrical people, editors of papers, and others, as 
may be useful to him in lus profession, publicly and pri- 
vately. 

" The fifth is so far from being the last of Don Juan, 
that it is hardly the beginning. I meant to take him the 
tour of Europe^ with a proper mixture of siege, battle, and 
adventure, and to make hira finish as Anac^arsis ClooLt, 
in the French Revolution. To how many cantos tliis may 
extend, I know not, nor whether (even if I live) I shall 
complete it ; but tiiis was my notion. I meant to have 
made him a cavalier servenlo in Italy, and a cause for a 
divorce in England, and a sentimental ' Wertlior-faccd 
man' m Germany, so as to show the different ridirnlos of 



the society in each of those countries, and to have display- 
ed him gradually gdt6 and blasi as he grew older, as is 
natural. But I had not quite fked whether to make him 
end in hell, or in an unhappy marriage, not knowing which 
would be the severest: the Spanish tradition says hell ; 
but it is probably only an allegory of the other state. You 
are now in possession of my notions on the subject. 

"You say the Doge will not be popular: did I ever 
write for popularity 7 I defy you to show a work of mine 
(except a tale or two) of a popular style or complexion. 
It appears to me that there is room for a different style of 
the drama ; neither a servile following of the old drama, 
which is a grossly erroneous one, nor yet too French, Uke 
those who succeeded the older writers. It appears to me 
that good English, and a severer approach to the rules, 
might combine something not dishonourable to our litera- 
ture. I have also attempted to make a play without love ; 
and there are neither rings, nor mistakes, nor starts, nor 
outrageous ranting villains, nor melodrame in it. All tliis 
will prevent its popularity, but does not persuade me that 
it is therefore faulty. Whatever faults it has will arise 
from deficiency in the conduct, rather than in the concep- 
tion, which is simple and severe. 

" So you epigrammatize upon my epigram 7 I will pay 
you for that^ mind if I do n't, some day. I never let any 
one off in the long run, {who first begins.) Remember 
* * *, and see if I do n't do you as good a turn. You un- 
natural publisher ! wliat ! quiz your own authors ? you 
are a paper cannibal ! 

' In the letter on Bowles, (wluch I sent by Tuesday's 
post,) after the words * attempts had been made' (alluding 
to the republication of ' English Bards',) add tlie words, 
in Ireland ,*' for I believe tliat EngUsh pirates did not 
begin their attempts till after I had left England the second 
time. Pray attend to this. Let me know what you and 
your synod think on Bowles. 

I did not think the second seal so bad ; surely it is far 
better than the Sara<5eri's head with which you have 
sealed your last letttr; the larger, in profile, was surely 
much better than that. 

" So Foscolo says he will get you a seal cut better in 
Italy? he means a thoat — that is the only thing they do 
dexterously. The Arts — all but Canova's, and Mor- 
ghen'a, and Oiid!s (I do n't mean poetry) — are as low as 
need be: look at the seal which I gave to William 
Bathes, and own it. How came George Bankes to quote 
' English Bards' in the House of Commons ? All the 
world keep flinging that poem in my face. 

" Belzoni is a grand traveller, and his English is very 
prettily broken. 

" As for news, the Barbarians are marching on Naples, 
and if they lose a single battle, all Italy will be up. It will 
be like the Spanish row, if they h.ive any bottom. 

" ' Letters opened ?' — to be sure they are, and that 's the 
reason why I always put in my opinion of the German 
Austrian scoundrels. There is not an Italian who 
loathes them more than I do ; and whatever I could do to 
scour Italy and the earth of Iheir infamous oppression 
would be done con amove. 

"Yours, fcc.** 



LETTER CCCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, Feb. 21, 1821.* 
" In the forty-fourth page, volume first, of Turner's Tra- 
vels, (which you lately sent mo,) it is stated tliat *Lnid 
Byron, when lie expressed such confidence of its i)racti- 
cability, seems to have forgotten that Loander swam lK>th 
ways, with and against the tade ; whereas he (l.orA BjTivn) 
only performed tlio easiest part of tlic task by swimming 
with it from Europe to Asia.' I certainly eould not have 



R»« — Di n Jti»n, funto It, Sunn* lOa, *.c 



172 



LETTERS, 1821. 



forgotten, what is known to every schoolboy, that Leander 
crossed in the night, and returned towards the morning. 
My object was, to ascertain that tlie Hellespont could be 
crossed at all by swimming, and in this Mr. Ekenhead 
and myself both succeeded, the one in an hour and ten 
minutes, and the other in an hour and five minutes. The 
tide was not in our favour ; on the contrary, the great dif- 
ficulty was to bear up against the current, which, so far 
from helping us into the Asiatic side, set us down right to- 
wards the Archipelago. Neither Mr. Ekenhead, myself, 
nor, I will venture to add, any person on board the frigate, 
from Captain Bathurst downwards, had any notion of a 
difference of the current on the Asiatic side, of which Mr. 
Turner speaks. I never heard of it till this moment, or I 
would have talien the other course. Lieutenant Eken- 
head's sole motive, and mine also for setting out from the 
European side was, that the Uttle cape above Sestos was 
a more prominent starting-place, and the frigate, wliich 
lay below, close under the Asiatic castle, formed a better 
point of view for us us to swim towards ; and, in fact, we 
landed immediately below it. 

"Mr. Turner says, 'Whatever is thrown into the 
stream on this part of the European banl<, must arrive at 
the Asiatic shore.' This is so far from being the case, 
that it must arrive in the Archipelago, if left to the current, 
although a strong wind in the Asiatic direction might have 
such an effect occasionally- 

" Mr. Turner attempted the passage from the Asiatic 
side, and failed : 'After five-and-twenty minutes, in which 
he did not advance a hundred yards, he gave it up from 
complete exhaustion.' This is very possible, and might 
have occurred to him just as readily on the European 
side. He should have set out a couple of miles higher, 
and could then have come out below the European castle. 
I particularly stated, and Mr. Hobhouse has done so also, 
that we were obliged to make the real passsage of one 
mile extend to between three and /our, owing to the force of 
the stream. I can assure Mr. Turner, that his success 
would have given me great pleasure, as it would have 
added one more instance to the proofs of the probability. 
It is not quite fair in him to infer, that because he failed, 
Leander could not succeed. There are still four in- 
stances on record : a Neapolitan, a young Jew, Mr. Eken- 
head, and myself; the two last done in the presence of 
hundreds of English witness,es. 

" With regard to the difference of the current I perceived 
none ; it is favourable to the swimmer on neither side, but 
may be stemmed by plunging into the sea, a considerable 
way above the opposite point of the coast which the 
swimmer wishes to make, but still bearing up against it ; 
it is strong, but if you calculate well, you may reach land. 
My own experience and that of otliers bids me pronounce 
the passage of Leander perfectly practicable. Any young 
man, in good and tolerable sldll in swimming, might suc- 
ceed in it from either side. I was three houi-s in swim- 
ming across the Tagus, which is much more hazardous, 
being two hours longer than the Hellespont. Of what 
may be done in swimming, I will mention one more 
instance. In 1818, the Chevalier Mengaldo, (a gentleman 
of Bassano,) a good swimmer, wished to swim with my 
friend Mr. Alexander Scott and myself. As he seemed 
particularly anxious on the subject, we indulged him. We 
all three started from the island of the Lido and swam to 
Venice. At the entrance of the Grand Canal, Scott and 
I were a good way ahead, and we saw no more of our 
foreign friend, which, however, was of no consequence, as 
there was a gondola to hold his clothes and pick him up. 
Scott swam on till past the Rialto, where he got out, less 
from fatigue than from chill, having been four hours in the 
water, without rest or stay, except what is to be obtained 
by floating on one's back — this being the condition of our 
performance. I continued my course on to Santa Chiara, 
comprising the whole of the Grand Canal, (besides the 
distance from the Lido,) and got out where the Laguna 



once more opens to Fusina. I had been in the water, by 
my watch, without help or rest, and never touching ground 
or boat, four hours and twenty minutes. To this match, 
and during the greater part of its performance, Mr. 
Hoppner, the consul-general, was witness, and it is well 
known to many others. Mr. Turner can easily verify 
the fact, if he thinks it worth while, by referring' to Mr. 
Hoppner. The distance we could not accurately ascer- 
tain ; it was of course considerable. 

" I crossed the Hellespont in one hour and ten minutes 
only. I am now ten years older in time, and twenty in 
constitution, than I was when I passed the Dardanelles, 
cind yet two years ago I was capable of swimming four 
hours and twenty minutes ; and I am sure that I could 
have continued two hours longer, though I had on a pair 
of trowsers, an accoutrement which by no means assists 
the performance. My two companions were also four 
hours in the water. Mengaldo might be about thirty 
years of age ; Scott about six-and-twenty. 

" With this experience in swimming at different periods 
of life, not only upon the spot, but elsewhere, of various 
persons, what is there to make me doubt that Leander's 
exploit was perfectly practicable ? If three individuals 
did more than the passage of the Hellespont, why should 
he have done less ? But Mr. Turner failed, and, natu- 
rally seeking a plausible reason for his failure, lays the 
blame on the Asiatic side of the strait. He tried to swim 
directly across, instead of going higher up to take the 
vantage : he might as well have tried to fly over Mount 
Athos. 

That a young Greek of the heroic times, in love, and 
with his limbs in full vigour, might have succeeded in such 
an attempt is neither wonderful nor doubtful. Whether 
he attempted it or not is another question, because he might 
have had a small boat to save him the trouble. 

" I am yours very truly, 

"Byron. 
P. S. Mr. Turner says that the swimming from 
Europe to Asia was ' the easiest part of the task.' I doubt 
whether Leander found it so, as it was the return ; how- 
ever, he had several hours between the intervals. The 
argument of Mr. Turner ' that higher up, or lower down, 
the strait widens so considerably that he could save little 
labour by his starting,' is only good for indifferent swim- 
mers ; a man of any practice or skill will always consider 
the distance less than the strength of the stream. If 
Ekenhead and myself had thought of crossing at the 
narrowest point, instead of going up to the Cape above it, 
we should have been swept dovni to Tenedos. The 
strait, however, is not so extremely wide even where it 
broadens above and below the forts. As the frigate was 
stationed some time in the Dardanelles waiting for the fir- 
man, I bathed often in the straits subsequently to our tra- 
ject, and generally on the Asiatic side, without perceiving 
the greater strength of the opposite stream by which the 
diplomatic traveller palliates his own failure . Our amuse- 
ment in the small bay which opens immediately below the 
Asiatic fort was to dive for the land tortoises, which we 
flung in on purpose, as they amphibiously crawled along 
the bottom. TMs does not argue any greater violence of 
current than on the European shore . With regard to the 
modest insinuation that we chose the European side as ■ 
' easier,' I appeal to Mr. Hobhouse and Captain Bathurst 
if it be true or no, (poor Ekenhead being since dead.) 
Had we been aware of any such difference of current as 
is asserted, we would at least have proved it, and were 
not likely to have given it up in the twenty-five minutes 
of Mr. Turner's own experiment. The secret of all this 
is, that Mr. Turner failed, and that we succeeded ; and 
he is consequently disappointed, and seems not unwilling 
to overshadow whatever little merit there might be in our 
success. Why did he not try the European side ? If he 
had succeeded there, after failing on the Asiatic, his plea 
would have been more graceful and gracious. Mr. Tur- 



LETTERS, 1821. 



173 



ner may find what fault he pleases with my poetry, or my 
poUtics ; but I recommend him to leave aquatic reflec- 
tions till he is able to swim ' five-and-twenty minutes' 
without being 'exhausted,' though I believe he is the first 
modem Tory who ever swam ' agcdnst the stream' for half 
the time." 



LETTER CCCCLXXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, Feb. 22,1821. 

" As I v?ish the soul of the late Antoine Galignani to 
rest in peace, (you will have read his death published by 
himself, in his own newspaper,) you are requested parti- 
cularly to inform his children and heirs, that of their 
'Literary Gazette,' to which I subscribed more than two 
months ago, I have only received one number, notwith- 
standing I have written to them repeatedly. If they have 
no regard for me, a subscriber, they ought to have some 
for their deceased parent, who is undoubtedly no better 
off" in his present residence for this total want of atten- 
tion. If not, let me have my francs. They were paid by 
Missiaglia, the Venetian bookseller. You may also hint 
to them that when a gentleman writes a letter, it is usual 
to send an answer. If not, I shall make them ' a speech,' 
which will comprise an eulogy on the deceased. 

" We are here full of war, and within two days of the 
seat of it, expecting intelligence momently. We shall 
now see if our Italian friends are good for any thing but 
' shooting round a comer,' like the Irishman's gun. Excuse 
haste, — ^I write with my spurs putting on. My horses 
are at the door, and an Italian Count waiting to accom- 
pany me in my ride. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. Pray, among my letters, did you get one detail- 
mg the death of the commandant here ? He was killed 
near my door, and died in my house . 

"BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 
" To the air of ' How now, Madame Flirt,' in the Beg- 
gar's Opera. 

" Bowles, 
" Why , how now, saucy Tom, 
If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 
Remarks oa Mr. Campbell. 

" Campbell. 
" Why, how now, Billy Bowles, 
ftc. &c. &c. 



LETTER CCCCLXXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"March 2, 1821. 
** This was the beginning of a letter which I meant for 
Perry, but stopped short hoping that you would be able to 
prevent the theatres. Of course you need not send it ; 
but it explains to you my feelings on the subject. You 
say that ' there is nothing to fear, let them do what they 
please ,' that is to say, tliat you would see me damned 
with great tranquillity. You are a fine fellow." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXir. 

TO MR. PERRY. 

"Ravenna, Jan. 22, 1821. 
"dear sir, 
" I have received a strange piece of news, which can- 
not be more disagreeable to your public than it is to me. 
Letters and the gazettes do me the honour to say, that it 
is the intention of some of the London managers to bring 
forward on their stjige the poem of ' Marino Falicro,' &c. 



which was never intended for such an exhibition, and I 
tmst will never undergo it. It is certainly unfit for it. I 
have never written but for the solitary recwier, and require 
no experiments for applause beyond his silent approbation. 
Since such an attempt to drag me forth as a gladiator in 
the theatrical arena is a violation of all the courtesies of 
literature, I tmst that the impartial part of the press will 
step between me and this pollution. I say pollution, 
because every violation of a right is such, and I claim my 
right as an author to prevent what I have written from 
being turned into a stage-play. I have too much respect 
for the public to permit this of my own free will. Had I 
sought their favour, it would have been by a pantomime. 

" I have said that I write only for the reEider. Beyond 
this I cannot consent to any publication, or to the abuse of 
any publication of mine to the purposes of histrionism. 
The applauses of an audience would give me no pleasure ; 
their disapprobation might, however, give me pain. The 
wager is therefore not equal. You may, perhaps, say, 
' How can this be ? if their disapprobation gives pain, 
their praise might afford pleasure ?' By no means : the 
kick of an ass or the sting of a wasp may be painful to 
those who would find nothing agreeable in the braying of 
the one or the buzzing of the other. 

" This may not seem a courteous comparison, but I 
have no other ready ; and it occurs naturally. 



LETTER CCCCLXXXra. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Ravenna, Marzo, 1821. 

" DEAR MORAY, 

" In my packet of the 12th instant, in the last sheet, 
(not the half* sheet,) last page, omit the sentence which 
(defining, or attempting to define, what and who are gen- 
tlemen) begins ' I should say at least in hfe that most 
military men have it, and few naval ; that several men of 
rank have it, and few lawyers,' &c. &c. I say, omit the 
whole of that sentence, because, like the ' cosmogony, or 
creation of the world,' in the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' it is 
not much to the purpose. 

"In the sentence above, too, almost at the top of the 
same page, after the words ' that there ever was, or caJi 
be, an aristocracy of poets,' add and insert these words — 
' I do not mean that they should write in the style of the 
song by a person of quality, or parte euphuism ; but there 
is Si nobility of thought and expression to be found no less 
in Shakspeare, Pope, and Burns, than in Dante, Ajficri, 
&c. &c. and so on. Or, if you please, perhaps you had 
better omit the whole of the latter digression on the vul- 
gar poets, and insert only as far as the end of the sen- 
tence on Pope's Homer, where I prefer it to Cowper's and 
quote Dr. Clarke in favour of its accuracy. 

" Upon all these points, take an opinion ; take the sense 
(or nonsense) of your learned visitants, and act thereby. 
I am very tractable — in prose. 

" Whether I have made out the case for Pope, I know 
not ; but I am very sure that I have been zealous in the 
attempt. If it comes to the proofs, we sliall beat the 
blackguards. I will show more imagery in twenty lines 
of Pope than in any equal length of quotation in English 
poesy, and that in places where they least export it. For 
instance, in his lines on Sponis, — now, do just rend them 
over — the subject is of no consequence (whether it be 
satire or epic) — we are talking of poetry and imagery from 
nature and art. Now mark the images separately and 
arithmetically: — 

" 1 . The thing of silk, 

2 . Curd of O.M » milk . 

3. Thvbuttrrjly. 

4. The wheel. 



' Sccunrl lollf r iji aiiswei to Uowlcs. 



174 



LETTERS, 1821. 



6. Bug with gilded wings. 

6. Painted child of dirt. 

7. Whose buzz. 

8. Well-bred spanieZs. 

9. Shallow streams run dimpling. 

10. Florid impotence. 

11. Prompter. Puppet squeaks. 

12. The ear of Eve. 

13. Familiar toad. 

14. Halffroth,halfvenom^spitshimse\{ ahrodid. 

15. Fop at the toilet. 

16. Flatterer at the board. 

17. Amphibious thing. 

18. Now trips A lady. 

19. Now struts a lord. 

20. A cherub's face. 

21 . A reptile all the rest. 

22. The Rabbins. 

23. Pride that licks the dust— 

« Beauty that shocks you, part3 that none will trust, 
Wit that can creep, and pride tliat licks the dust.' 

"Now, is there a line of all the passage without the 
most forcible imagery, (for his purpose ?) Look at the 
variety — at the poetry of the passage — at the imagina- 
tion: there is hardly a line from which a painting might 
not be made, and is. But this is nothing in comparison 
with his higher passages in the Essay on Man, and many 
of his other poems, serious and comic. There never 
was such an unjust outcjy in this world as that which 
these fellows are trying against Pope. 

" Ask Mr. Gilford if, in the fifth act of the Doge,' you 
could not contrive (where the sentence of the Veil is 
passed) to insert the following lines in Marino Faliero's 
answer ? 

' But let it be so. It will be in vain : 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And bides, or seems to hide, these lineaments. 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraitB 
Which glitter round it in their painted trappings, 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants.'* 

"Yours truly, &c. 

"P. S. Upon public matters here I say little : you 
will all hear soon enough of a general row throughout 
Italy. There never was a more fooUsh step than the 
expedition to Naples by these fellows. 

" I wish to propose to Holmes, the miniature painter, to 
come out to me this sprmg. I will pay his expenses, and 
any sum in reason. I wish him to take my daughter's 
picture, (who is in a convent,) and the Countess G.'s, and 
the head of a peasant girl, which latter would make a 
study for Raphael. It is a com^Xete peasant face, but an 
Italian peasant's, and quite in the Raphael Fornarina 
style. Her figure is tall, but rather large, and not at all 
comparable to her face, which is really superb. She is 
not seventeen, and I am anxious to have her face while it 
lasts. Madame G. is also very handsome, but 't is quite 
in a different style— completely blonde and fair— very 
uncommon in Italy ; yet not an English fairness, but 
more likely a Swede or a Norwegian. Her figure, too, 
particularly the bust, is uncommonly good. It must be 
Holmes : I like him because ho takes such inveterate lilte- 
nesses. There is a war here ; but a solitary traveller, 
with litde baggage, and nothing to do with politics, has 
nothing to fear. Pack him up in the Diligence. Do n't 
forget." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

" Ravenna, April 3, 1821. 
" Thanks for the translation. I have sent you some 
books, which I do not know whether you have read or no 
— you need not return them, in any case. I enclose you 



Th««e linei wer^ nevtr in«art«l iji the TragedT. 



also a letter from Pisa. I have neither spared trouble nor 
expense in the care of the child ; and as she was now 
four years old complete, and quite above the control of the 
servants — and as a man hving without any woman at the 
head of his house cannot much attend to a nursery — ^I 
had no resource but to place her for a time (at a high 
pension too) in the convent of Bagna-CavalU, (twelve 
miles off.) where the air is good, and where she will, at 
least, have her learning advanced, and her morals and 
religion inculcated. I had also another reason ; — things 
were and are in such a state here, that I had no reason to 
look upon my own personal safety as particularly ensura- 
ble ; and I thought the infant best out of harm's way for 
the present. 

" It is also fit that I should add that I by no means 
intended, nor intend, to give a natural child an English 
education, because with the disadvantages of her birth, 
her after-settlement would be doubly difficult. Abroad, 
with a fair foreign education and a portion of five or six 
thousand pounds, she might and may marry very respec- 
tably. In England such a dowry would be a pittance, 
while elsewhere it is a fortune. It is, besides, my wish 
that she should be a Roman Catholic, which I look upon 
as the best religion, as it is assuredly the oldest of the 
various branches of Christianity. I have now explained 
my notions as to the place where she now is — it is the 
best I could find for the present : but I have no prejudices 
in its favour. 

" I do not speak of politics, because it seems a hopeless 
subject, as long as those scoundrels are to be permitted to 
bully states out of their independence. Believe me 

•' Yours ever and truly. 

" P. S. There is a report here of a change in France ; 
but with what truth is not yet known. 

"P. S. My respects to Mrs. H. I have the 'best 
opinion' of her countrywomen ; and at my time of life, 
(three-and- thirty, 22d January, 1821,) that is to say, after 
the Hfe I have led, a good opinion is the only rational one 
which a man should entertain of the whole sex : — up to 
thirty, the worst possible opinion a man can have of them 
in general, the better for himself. Afterward, it is a 
matter of no importance to them, nor to him eitlier, whai 
opinion he entertains — ^his day is over, or, at least 
should be. 

" You see how sober I am become." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Ravenna, April 21, 1821 . 

" I enclose you another letter on Bowles. But I pre- 
mise that it is not lilte the former, and that I am not at all 
sure how much, if any, of it should be published. Upon 
this point you can consult with Mr. Gifford, and think 
ttvice before you publish it at all. 

"Yours truly, 
"B. 

"P. S. You may make my subscription for Mr. Scott's 
widow, &c. thirty instead of the proposed ten pounds : but 
do not put down my name ; put down N. N. only. The 
reason is, that, as I have mentioned him in the enclosed 
pamphlet, it would look indelicate. I would give more, 
but my disappointments last year about Rochdale and 
the transfer from the funds render me more economical 
for the present." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

" Ravenna, April 26, 1821 . 
" The child contmues doing well, and the accounts 
are regular and favourable. It b gratifying to me that 



LETTERS, 1821. 



175 



you and Mrs. Shelley do not disapprove of the step 
which I have taken, which is merely temporary. 

" I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats — is it 
actually true ? I did not think criticism had been so 
killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your 
estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unne- 
cessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on 
the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such 
a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate 
self-love he would probably have not been very happy. 
I read the review of ' Endymion' in the (Quarterly . It 
was severe,— but surely not so severe as my reviews in 
that and other journals upon others. 

" I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my 
first poem ; it was rage, and resistance, and redress — but 
not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not 
amiable feelings ; but, in this world of bustle and broil, 
and especially in the career of writing, a man should 
calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes 
into the arena. 

' Expect not life from pain nor danger free, 
Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee.' 

" You know my opinion of that second-hand school of 
poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own 
poetry, — because it is of no school. I read Cenci — but, 
besides that I think the subject essentially wndramatic, I 
am not an admirer of our old dramatists, as nvodels. I 
deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all. 
Your Cenci, however, was a work of power and poetry. 
As to my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being 
as free as I have been with yours. 

" I have not yet got your Prometheus, which I long to 
see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do not know 
that it is yet published. I have published a pamphlet on 
the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I 
known that Keats was dead — or that he was alive and 
so sensitive — I should have omitted some remarks upon 
his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attack upon 
Pope, and my disapprobation of his oxim style of writing. 

" You want me to undertake a great Poem — I have not 
the inclination nor the power. As I grow older, the indif- 
ference— nof to life, for we love it by instinct— but to the 
stimuli of life, increases. Besides, this late failure of the 
Italians has latterly disappointed me for many reasons, — 
some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. 

" Yours ever. 

"P. S. Could not you and I contrive to meet this 
sununer ? Could not you take a run- here alone .^" 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Ravenna, April 26, 1821 . 

" I sent you by last pos^is a large packet, which will not 
do for publication, (I suspect,) being, as the apprentices 
say, ' damned low.' I put off also for a week or two 
sending the Italian scrawl which will form a note toil. 
The reason is, that letters being opened, I wish to 'bide 
a wee.' 

" Well, have you published the Tragedy ? and docs 
the Letter take? 

"Is it true what Shelley writes me, that poor John 
Keats died at Rome of the Q,uartcrly Review? I am 
very sorry for it, though I think he took the wrong lino as 
a poet, and was spoiled by Cockneyfying, and suburbing, 
and versifying Tooko's Pantheon and Lcmpricro's Dic- 
tionary. I know, by experience, that a savage review is 
hemlock to a sucking author ; and the one on me (whicli 
produced the English Bards, &o.) knocked mo down — 
but I got up again. Instead of bursting a blootl-vessel, 
I drank throe bottles of claret, and begun an answer, 
finding that there was nothing in the article for wlach I 



could lawfully knock Jeffrey on the head, in an honourable 
way. However, I would not be the person who wrote 
the homicidal article for all the honour and glory in the 
world, though I by no means approve of that school of 
scribbling which it treats upon. 

" You see the Italians have made a sad business of it, 
— all owing to treachery and disunion among themselves. 
It has given me great vexation. The execrations heaped 
upon the Neapolitans by the other Italians are quite in 
unison with those of the rest of Europe. 

"Yours, &c. 

" P. S. Your latest packet of books is on its way 
here, but not arrived. Kenilworth excellent. Thanks 
for the pocket-books, of which I have made presents to 
those ladies who like cuts, and landscapes, and all that. 
I have got an Italian book or two which I should like to 
send you if I had an opportunity. 

" I am not at present in the very highest health, — spring, 
probably ; so I have lowered my diet and taken to Epsom 
salts. 

" As you say my prose is good, why do n't you treat 
with Moore for the reversion of the Memoirs ? — condi- 
tionally, recollect ; not to be published before decease. He 
has the permission to dispose of them, amd I advised him 
to do so." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVm. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

« Ravenna, April 28, 1821. - 

" You cannot have been more disappointed than myself, 
nor so much deceived. I have been so at some personal 
risk also, which is not yet done away with. However, 
no time nor circumstances shall alter my tone nor my 
feelings of indignation against tyranny triumphant. The 
present business has been as much a work of treachery 
as of cowardice, — though both may have done their part. 
If ever you and I meet again, I will have a talk with you 
upon the subject. At present, for obvious reasons, I can 
write but little, as all letters are opened. In mine they 
shall always find my sentiments, but nothing that can 
lead to the oppression of others. 

" You will please to recollect that the Neapolitans are 
nowhere now more execrated than in Italy, and not blame 
a whole people for the vices of a province. That would 
be like condemning Great Britain because they plunder 
wrecks in Cornwall. 

" And now let us be literary ; — a sad falling off, but it is 
always a consolation. If ' Othello's occupation be gone,' 
let us take to the next best ; and, if we cannot contribute 
to make mankind more free and wise, we may amuse 
ourselves and those who like it. Wliat are you writing ? 
I have been scribbling at intervals, and Murray will be 
publishing about now. 

"liady Noel has, as you say, been dangerously ill ; but 
it may console you to learn tliat she is dangerously well 
again. 

" I have written a sheet or two more of Memoranda 
for you ; and I kept a little Journal for about a month or 
two, till I hail filled the paper-book. I then left it off, aa 
things grew busy, and, afterward, too gloomy to set down 
without a painful feeling. This I shouUl ho glad to send 
you, if I had an opportunity ; but a vokuue, hawevor 
small, do n't go well by such posts as exist in this Inquisi- 
tion of a country. 

" I have no news. Aa a very pretty woman said to me 
a few nights ago, with the tears in her eyes, as she sat at 
the harpsichord, 'Alas! the Italians must now ro turn to 
making operas.' I fear that and inaccaroni are Uieir forte, 
and ' motley their only wear.' However, there are i 
high spirits among them still. Pray write. 

" And believe rac, &c." 



176 



LETTERS, 1821, 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



«Ravenna,May3, 1821. 

"Though I wrote to you on the 28th ultimo, I must 
acknowledge yours of this day, with the lines.* They 
are sublime, as well as beautiful, and in your very best 
mood and manner. They are also but too true. How- 
ever, do not confound the scoundrels at the heel of the 
boot with their betters at the top of it. I assure you that 
there are some loftier spirits. 

"Nothing, however, can be better than your poem, or 
more deserved by the Lazzaroni. They are now abhor- 
red and disclaimed nowhere more than here. We will 
talk over these things (if we meet) some day, and I will 
recount my own adventures, some of which have been a 
little hazardous, perhaps. 

«So you have got the letter on Bowles? I do not 
recollect to have said any thing of you that could offend, — 
certainly, nothing intentionally. As for * *, I meant 
him a compliment. I wrote the whole off-hand, without 
copy or correction, and expecting then every day to be 
called into the field. What have I said of you ? I am 
sure I forget. It must be something of regret for your 
approbation of Bowles. And did you not approve, as he 
says ? Would I had known that before ! I would have 
given him some more gruel. My intention was to make 
fun of all these fellows ; but how I succeeded, I do n't 
know. 

" As to Pope, I have always regarded him as the great- 
est name in our poetry. Depend upon it, the rest are 
barbarians. He is a Greek Temple, with a Gothic Cathe- 
dral on one hand, and a Turkish Mosque and all sorts of 
fantastic pagodas and conventicles about him. You may 
call Shakspeare and Milton pyramids, if you please, but I 
prefer the Temple of Theseus or the Parthenon to a 
mountain of burnt brickwork. 

" The Murray has written to me but once, the day of its 
publication, when it seemed prosperous. But I have 
heard of late from England but rarely. Of Murray's 
other publications (of mine) I know nothing, — nor whe 
ther he has published. He was to have done so a month 
ago. I wish you would do something, or that we were 
together. 

• Ever yours and afTectionately, 

«BJ 



LETTER CCCCXC 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, May 10,1821. 
I have just got your packet. I am obliged to Mr. 
Bowles, and Mr. Bowles is obliged to me, for having 
restored him to good-humour. He is to write, and you to 
publish, what you please, — motto and subject. I desire 
nothing but fair play for all parties. Of course, after the 
new tone of Mr. Bowles, you vnll not publish my defence 
of Gilchrist : it would be brutal to do so after his urbanity, 
for it is rather too rough, like his ovra attack upon Gil- 
christ. You may tell him what I say there of his Mis- 
sionary, (it is praised, as it deserves.) However, and if 
there are any passages not personal to Bowles, and yet 
bearing upon the question, you may add them to the 
reprint (if it is reprinted) of ray first Letter to you. Upon 
this constdt Gifford ; and, above all, do n't let any thing be 
added which can personally affect Mr. Bowles, 

" In the enclosed notes, of course, what I say of the 
democracy of poetry cannot apply to Mr. Bowles, but to 
the Cockney and water washing-tub schools. 

" I hope and trust that EUiston won^t be permitted to 
act tlie drama ? Surely he might have the grace to wait 



* '* Ay, down to the duit with them, slavei as they are," &c. 4c. 



for Kean's return before he attempted it ; though, even 
then, I should be as much against the attempt as ever. 

" I have got a small packet of books, but neither Walde- 
grave, Oxford, nor Scott's novels among them. Why 
don't you republish Hodgson's Childe Harold's Monitor 
and Latino-mastix ? they are excellent. Think of this,— 
they are all for Pope. " Yours, &C.'' 



LETTER CCCCXCI. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Ravenna, May 11, 1821. 

If I had but known your notion about Switzerland 
before, I should have adopted it at once. As it is, I shaU 
let the child remain in her convent, where she seems 
healthy and happy, for the present ; but I shall fdW much 
obliged if you will inquire, when you are in the cantons, 
about the usual and better modes of education there for 
females, and let me know the result of your opinions. It 
is some consolation that botli Mr. and Mrs. Shelley have 
written to approve entirely my placing the child with the 
nuns for the present. I can refer to my whole conduct, as 
havmg neither spared care, kindness, nor expense, since 
the child was sent to me. The people may say what 
they please, I must content myself with not deserving (in 
this instance) that they should speak ill. 

" The place is a country town, in a good air, where • 
there is a large establishment for education, and many 
children, some of considerable rank, placed in it. As a 
country town, it is less liable to objections of every kind. 
It has always appeared to me, that the moral defect in 
Italy does not proceed from a conventual education, — 
because, to my certain knowledge, they came out of their 
convents innocent even to ignorance of moral evil, — but to 
the state of society into which they are directly plunged 
on coming out of it. It is like educating an infant on a 
mountain-top, and then taking him to the sea and throwing 
him into it and desiring him to s\vim. The evil, however, 
though still too general, is partly wearing away, as the 
women are more permitted to marry from attachment; 
this is, I believe, the case also in France. And, after aD, 
what is the higher society of England ? According to 
my own experience, and to all that I have seen and hear^ 
(and I have lived there in the very highest and what is 
called the best,) no way of life can be more corrupt. In 
Italy, however, it is, or rather was, more systematized; 
but now, they themselves are ashamed of regular Serven- 
tism. In England, the only homage which they pay to 
virtue is hypocrisy. I speak, of course, of the tone of high 
life,— the middle ranks may be very virtuous. 

" I have not got any copy (nor have yet had) of the 
letter on Bowles ; of course I should be delighted to send 
it to you. How is Mrs. H.? well again, 1 hope. Let me 
know when you set out. I regret tliat I cannot meet you 
in the Bernese Alps this summer, as I once hoped and 
intended. With roy best respects to Madam, 

"I am ever, &c. 

« P. S. I gave to a musicianer a letter f(w you sometime 
ago— has he presented himself? Perhaps you could 
introduce him to the Ingrams and other dilettanti. He is 
simple and unassuming — two strange things in his profes- 
sion — and he fiddles like Orpheus himself or Amphion : 
't is a pity that he can't make Venice dance away from 
the brutal tyrant who tramples upon it." 



LETTER CCCCXCU. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Mayl4,182L 

« A Milan paper states that the play has been repre- 
sented and universally condemned. As remonstrance 



LETTERS, 



1821. 



has been vain, complaint would be useless. I presume, 
however, for your own sake, (if not for mine,) that you 
and my other friends will have at least pubUshed my dif- 
ferent protests against its being brought upon the stage at 
all ; and have shown that Elliston (in spite of the writer) 
forced it upon the theatre. It would be nonsense to say 
that this has not vexed me a good deal, but I am not 
dejected, and I shall not take the usual resource of bla- 
ming the public, (which was in the right,) or my friends for 
not preventing — what they could not help, nor I neither — 
i. forced representation by a speculating manager. It is 
a pity, that you did not show them its uvfitntss for the 
Btage before the play was published, and exact a promise 
from the managers not to act it. In case of their refusal, 
we would not have published it at all. But this is too 
late. " Yours. 

" P. S. I enclose Mr. Bowles's letters ; thank him in 
my name for their candour and kindness. — Also a letter 
for Hodgson, which pray forward. The Milan paper 
states that I ' brought forward the play I ! .'' This is 
pleasanter still. But don't let yourself be worried about 
it; and if (as is likely) the folly of Elliston checks the 
sale, I am ready to make any deduction, or the entire 
cancel of your agreement. 

" You will of course not publish my defence of Gilchrist, 
as, after Bowles's good humour upon the subject, it would 
be too savage. 

" Let me hear from you the particulars ; for, as yet, I 
have only the simple fact. 

" If you knew what I have had to go through here, on 
account of the failure of these rascally Neapolitans, you 
would be amused : but it is now apparently over. They 
seemed disposed to throw the whole project and plans 
of these parts upon me chiefly." 



LETTER CCCCXOIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 14,1821. 

* If any part of the letter to Bowles has (unintention- 
ally, as far as I remember the contents) vexed you, you 
are fully avenged ; for I see by an Italian paper that, not- 
withstanding all my remonstrances through all my friends, 
(and yourself among the rest,) the managers persisted in 
attempting the tragedy, and that it has been ' unanimously 
hissed ! !' This is the consolatory phrase of the Milan 
paper, (which detests me cordially, and abuses me, on all 
occasions, as a Liberal,) with the addition, that I 'brought 
the play out' of my own good-will. 

"All this is vexatious enough, and seems a sort of dra- 
matic Calvinism — predestined damnation, without a sin- 
ner's own fault. I took all the pains poor mortal could to 
prevent this inevitable catastrophe — partly by appeals of 
all kinds up to the Lord Chamberlain, and partly to the 
fellows themselves. But, as remonstrance was vain, com- 
plaint is useless. I do not understand it — for Murray's 
letter of the 24th, and all his preceding ones, gave me the 
strongest hopes that there would be no representation. 
As yet, I know nothing but the fact, which I presume to 
be true, as the date is Paris, and the 30th. They must 
have been in a hell of a hurry for this damnation, since I 
did not even know that it was published ; and, without its 
being first published, the histrions could not have got hold 
of it. Any one might have seen, at a glance, that it was 
utterly impracticable for the stage ; and this little accident 
will by no means enhance its merit in the closet. 

" Well, patience is a virtue, and, I suppose, practice will 
make it perfect. Since last year (spring, that is) I have 
lost a lawsuit, of great importance, on Rochdale collieries 
— have occasioned a divorce — have had my poesy dis- 
paraged by Murray and the critics — my fortune refused 
to be placed on an advanta|;eous settlement (in Ireland) 

23 



177 



by the trustees— my life threatened last month (they pot 
about a paper here to excite an attempt at my assassina- 
tion, on account of politics, and a notion which the priests 
disseminated that I was in a league against the Germans) 
— and, finally, my mother-in-law recovered last fortnight, 
and my play was damned last week !* These are like 
'the eight-and-twenty misfortunes of Harlequin.' But 
they must be borne. If I give in, it shall be after keeping 
up a spirit at least. I should not have cared so much 
about it, if our southern neighbours had not bungled us all 
out of freedom for these five hundred years to come. 

" Did you know John Keats ? They say that he was 
killed by a review of him in the duarterly — if he be dead, 
which I really don't know.f I don't understand that 
yielding sensitiveness. What I feel (as at this present) is 
an immense rage for eight-and-forty hours, and then, as 
usual — unless this time it should last longer. I must get 
on horseback to quiet me. " Yours, &c. 

" Francis I. wrote, after the battle of Pavia, ' All is lost 
except our honour.' A hissed author may reverse it — 
'Nothing is lost, except our honour.' But the horses 
are waiting,* and the paper full. I wrote last week to 
you." 



LETTER CCCCXCIV. 

TO MR. MtTRRAV. 

*Ravenna,May 19, 1821, 

" By the papers of Thursday, and two letters of Mr. 
Kinnaird,! perceive thatthe Italian Gazette had lied most 
Italically, and that the drama had not been hissed, and 
that my friends had interfered to prevent the representa- 
tion. So it seems they continue to act it, in spite of us 
all : for this we must ' trouble them at 'size.' Let it by all 
means be brought to a plea: I am determined to try the 
right, and will meet the expenses. The reason of the 
Lombard lie was that the Austrians — who keep up an 
Inquisition throughout Italy, and a list of names of all who 
think or speak of any thing but in favour of their despo- 
tism — have for five years past abused me in every form 
in the Gazette of Milan, &c. I wrote to you a week ago 
on the subject. 

" Now, I should be glad to know what compensation 
Mr. Elliston would make me, not only for dragging my 
writings on the stage in Jive days, but fbr being the cause 
that I was kept for four days (from Sunday to Thursday 
morning, the only post days) in the belief that the tragedy 
had been acted and ' unanimously hissed ;' and this with 
the addition that / ' had brought it upon the stage,' and 
consequently that none of my friends had attended to my 
request to the contrary. Suppose that I had burst a blood- 
vessel, like John Keats, or blown my brains out in a fit of 
rage, — neither of which would have been unlikely a few 
years ago. At present I am, luckily, calmer than I used 
to be, and yet I would not pass those four days over again 
for — I know not what. 

"I wrote to you to keep up your spirits, for reproach is 
useless always, and irritating — but my feelings wore very 
much hurt, to be dragged likc'a gladiator to the fate ofa gla- 
diator by that ' retiarius,^ Mr. Elliston. As to his defence 
and offers of compensation, what is all this to the pur- 
pose ? It is like Louis the XIV. who insisted upon buy- 
ing at any price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, on his 
refusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his horse. I 
could not shoot my tragedy, but I would have flung it into 
the fire rather than have had it represented. 

" I have now written nearly three acts of another, (in- 
tending to complete it in five,) and am more anxious than 
over to bo preserved from such a broach of all literary 
courtesy and gentlemanly consideration. 



Htt I,«Ucr 499. I Sfe Don Juaii, C»n(o XI. Smnu 80. 



178 

« If we succeed, well ; if not, previous to any future publi- 
cation we will request a promise not to be acted, which I 
would even pay for, (as money is their object,) or I will 
not publish— which, however, you will probably not much 
regret. 

« The Chancellor has behaved nobly. You have also 
conducted yourself in the most satisfactory manner ; and 
I have no fault to find with any body but the stageplayers 
and their proprietor. I was always so civil to Elliston 
personally that he ought to have been the last to attempt 
to injure me. 

« There is a most rattling thunder-storm pelting away 
at this present writing ; so that I write neither by day, nor 
by candle, nor torchlight, but by lightning light : the flashes 
are as brilliant as the most gaseous glow of the gas-light 
company. My chimney board has just been thrown down 
by a gust of wind : I thought it was the ' Bold Thunder' 
and ' Brisk Lightning' in person.— Three of us would be 
too many. There it goes— flash again ! but 

' I tax not you, ye elements, wilh imkindness ; 
I never ^a.ve ye franks, nor caWd upon you :' 

as I have done by and upon Mr. Elliston. 

" Why do you not write ? You should at least send 
me a line of particulars : i know nothing yet but by Galig- 
nani and the Honourable Douglas. 

« Well, and how does our Pope controversy go on? and 
the pamphlet ? It is impossible to write any news : the 
Austrian scoundrels rummage all letters. 

"P. S. I could have sent you a good deal of gossip and 
some reed information, were it not that all letters pass 
through the Barbarians' inspection, and I have no wish to 
inform them of any thing but my utter abhorrence of them 
and theirs. They have only conquered by treachery, 
however." 



LETTER CCCCXCV. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"You will see here confirmation of what I told you the 
other day! I am sacrificed in every way, without know- 
ing the why or the wherefore. The tragedy in question is 
not (nor ever was) written for, or adapted to, the stage ; 
nevertheless, the plan is not romantic ; it is rather regular 
than otherwise ; — in point of unity of time, indeed, per- 
fectly regular, and failing but slightly in unity of place. 
You well know whether it was ever my intention to have 
it acted, since it was written at your side, and at a period 
assuredly rather more tragical to me as a man than as an 
author ; for you were in affliction and peril. In the mean 
time, I learn from your Gazette that a cabal and party 
has been formed, while I myself have never taken the 
slightest step in the business. It is said that the author 
read it aloud ! 1 1 — here, probably, at Ravenna ? — and to 
whom ? perhaps to Fletcher ! ! ! — that illustrious literary 
character, &c. &c." 



LETTER CCCCXCVL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

« Ravenna, May 20, 182L 
"Since I wrote to you last week I have received Eng- 
lish letters and papers, by which I perceive that what I 
took for an Iialian truth is, after all, a French lie of the 
Gazette de France. It contains two ultra-falsehoods in 
as manv lines. In the first place. Lord B. did not brine 
forward his play, but opposed the same ; and, secondly, it 
was not condemned, but is continued to be acted, in de- 
spite of publisher, author. Lord Chancellor, and (for aught 
1 know to the contrary) of audience, up to the first of 
May, at least — the latest date of my letters. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



«' You will oblige me, then, by causing Mr. Gazette of 
France to contradict himselfj which, I suppose, he is used 
to. I never answer a foreign criticism ; but this is a mere 
matter offact, and not of opinions. I presume that you 
have English and French interest enough to do this 
for me — though, to be sure, as it is nothing but the truth 
which we wish to state, the insertion may be more difficult. 

" As I have written to you often lately at some length, I 
won't bore you farther now, than by begging you to com- 
ply with my request ; and 1 presume the ' esprit du corps,' 
(is it ' du' or ' de ?' for this is more than I know) will suffi- 
ciently urge you, as one of ' ours,^ to set this affair in its 
real aspect. Believe me always yours ever and most 
affectionately, ~ 



«BVRON." 



LETTER CCCCXCVII. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Ravenna, May 25, 182L 
"I am very much pleased with what you say of Swit- 
zerland, and will ponder upon it. I would rather she 
married there than here for that matter. For fortune, 1 
shall make it all that 1 can spare, (if I live and she is cor- 
rect in her conduct,) and if I die before she is settled, I 
have left her by will five thousand pounds, which is a fair 
provision out of England for a natural child. I shall 
increase it all I can, if circumstances permit me ; but, of 
course (like all other human things) this is very uncertain. 
" You will oblige me very much by interfering to have 
the F.\cTs of the play-acting stated, as these scoundrels 
appear to be organizing a system of abuse against me 
because I am in their ' list.'' I care nothing for their cri- 
ticism, but the matter of fact. I have written four acts 
of another tragedy, so you see they canH bully me. 

" You know, I suppose, that they actually keep a list 
of all individuals in Italy who dislike them — it must bo 
numerous. Their suspicions and actual alarms, about 
my conduct and -presumed intentions in the late row, 
were truly ludicrous — though, not to bore you, I touched 
upon them lightly. They believed, and still believe here, 
or affect to believe it, that the whole plan and project of 
rising was settled by me, and the means furnished, &c. 
&c. All this was more fomented by the barbarian agents, 
who are numerous here, (one of them was stabbed yes- 
terday, by-the-way, but not dangerously :) — and although, 
when the Commandant was shot here before my door 
in December, I took him into my house, where he had 
every assistance till he died on Fletcher's bed ; and 
although not one of them dared to receive him into their 
houses but myself, they leaving him to perish in the night 
in the streets, they put up a paper about three months 
ago, denouncing me as the Chief of the Liberals, and 
stirring up persons to assassinate me. But this shall 
never silence nor bully my opinions. All this came from 
the German Barbarians." . 



LETTER CCCCXCVra. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 25, 182L 

" MR. MORAY, 

" Since I wrote the enclosed a week ago, and for some 
weeks before, I have not had a line from you : now, I 
should be glad to know upon what principle of common 
or uncommon feeling, you leave me without any informa- 
tion but what I derive from garbled gazettes in English, 
and abusive ones in Italian, (the Germans hating me, as a 
coal-heaver,) while all this kick-up has been going on about 
the play ? You shabby fellow ! ! ! Were it not for two 
letters from Douglas Kinnaird, I should have been as 
ignorant as you are negUgent. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



179 



"So, I hear Bowles has been abusing Hobhouse? if 
that 's the case, he has broken the truce, like Morillo's 
successor, and I will cut him out, as Cochrane did the 
Esmeralda. 

" Since I wrote the enclosed packet I have completed 
(but not copied out) four acts of a new tragedy. When 
I have finished the fifth I will copy it out. It is on the 
subject of ' Sardanapalus,' the last king of the Assyrians. 
The words Queen and Pavilion occur, but it is not an 
allusion to his Britannic Majesty, as you may tremulously 
imagine. This you will one day see, (if I finish it,) as 1 
have made Sardanapalus brave, (though voluptuous, as 
history represents him,) and also as amiable as my poor 
powers could render him : — so that it could neither be 
truth nor satire on any living monarch, 1 have strictly 
preserved all the unities hitherto, and mean to continue 
them in the fifth, if possible; but not for the stage. Yours, 
in haste and hatred, you shabby correspondent ! 



LETTER CCCCXCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 28, 1821. 

« Since my last of the 26th or 25th, I have dashed 
off my fifth act of the tragedy called 'Sardanapalus. 
But now comes the copying over, which may prove heavy 
work — heavy to the writer as to the reader. I have 
written to you at least six times sans answer, which 
proves you to be a — bookseller. I pray you to send 
me a copy of Mr. JVrangham's reformation of ' Lang- 
home's Plutarch.' I have the Greek, which is somewhat 
small of print, and the Italian, which is too heavy in style, 
and as false as a Neapolitan patriot proclamation. I pray 
you also to send me a Life, published some years ago, of 
the Magician Apollonius of Tyana. It is in English, 
and I think edited or written by what Martin Marprelate 
calls *a bouncing priest.^ I shall trouble you no farther 
with this sheet than with the postage. 

" Yours, &c. 
«N. 

"P. S. Since I wrote this, I determined to enclose it (as 
a half sheet) to Mr. Kinnaird, who will have the goodness 
to forward it. Besides, it saves sealing-wax." 



LETTER D. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 30, 1821. 

" DEAR MORAY, 

" You say you have written often : I have only re- 
ceived yours of the eleventh, which is very short. By 
this post, in Jive packets, I send you the tragedy of Sar- 
danapalus, which is written in a rough hand ; perhaps 
Mrs. Leigh can help you to decipher it. You will please 
to acknowledge it by return of post. You will remark 
that the unities are all strictly observed. The scene 
passes in the same Jiall always: the time, a summers 
night, about nine hours, or less, though it begins before 
sunset and ends after sunrise. In the third act, when 
Sardanapalus calls for a mirror to look at himself in his 
armour, recollect to quote the Latin passage from Juvenal 
upon Otho, (a similar character, who did the same thing :) 
GifTord will help you to it. The trait is perhaps too 
familiar, but it is historical, (of O^/io, at least,) and natural 
in an effeminate chai-acter." 



LETTER Dl. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Ravenna, May 31,1821. 
• I enclose you another letter, which will only confirm 
v^hat I have said to you. 



" About AUegra—I will take some decisive step in the 
course of the year ; at present, she is so happy where 
she is, that perhaps she had better have her alphabet im- 
parted in her convent. 

" What you say of the Dante is the first I have heard 
of it — all seeming to be merged in the rotu about the 
tragedy. Continue it I — Alas! what could Dante him- 
self naiw prophesy about Italy? 1 am glad you like it, 
however, but doubt that you will be singular in ycur 
opinion. My new tragedy is completed. 

" The Benzoni is right, — I ought to have mentioned 
her humour and amiability, but 1 thought at her sixty 
beauty would be most agreeable or least likely. How- 
ever, it shall be rectified in a new edition ; and if any 
of the parties have either looks or qualities which they 
wish to be noticed, let me have a minute of them. I 
have no private nor personal dislike to Venice, rather the 
contrary, but I merely speak of what is the subject of 
all remarks and all writers upon her present state. Let 
me hear from you before you start. Believe me, 

" Ever, &c. 

" P. S. Did you receive two letters of Douglas Kin- 
naird's in an endorse from me ? Remember me to Mcn- 
galdo, Soranzo, and all who care that I should remember 
them. The letter alluded to in the enclosed, ' to the 
Cardinal^ was in answer to some queries of the govern- 
ment, about a poor devil of a Neapohtan, arrested at 
Sinigaglia on suspicion, who came to beg of me Ijere : 
being without breeches, and consequently without pockets 
for halfpence, I relieved and forwarded him to his country 
and they arrested him at Pesaro on suspicion, and have 
since interrogated me (civilly and politr,ly, however,) 
about him. I sent them the poor man s petition, and such 
information as I had about him, which, I trust, will get 
him out again, that is to say, if they give him a fair 
hearing. 

"I am content with the article. Pray, did you receive, 
some posts ago, Moore's lines, which I enclosed to you, 
written at Paris ?» 



LETTER DIL 

TO MR MOORE. 

"Ravenna, June 4, 1821. 
■You have not written lately, as is the usual custom 
with literary gentlemen to console their friends with their 
observations in cases of magnitude. I do not know 
whether I sent you my 'Elegy on the recovery of Lady 
Noel;'— 

" Behold the blessinj^s of a lucky lot— 
My play is damn'd, and Lady Noel not. 

" The papers (and perhaps your letters) will have put 
you in possession of Muster Elliston's dramatic behaviour. 
It is to be presumed that the play was Jilted for the stage 
by Mr. Dibdin, who is the tailor upon such occasions, and 
will have taken measure with his usual accuracy. I hear 
that it is still continued to be performed — a piece of ob» 
stinacy for which it is some consolation to tliink that the 
discourteous histrio will be out of pocket. 

Y«u will be surprised to hear that I have finished 
another tragedy in ^ve acts, observing all the imitics 
strictly. It is called • Sardanapalus,' and was sent by 
last post to England. It is not for (he stag)', any more 
than the other was intended for if, — and I shall taltc bettor 
care this time that they do n't get hold on 't. 

I have also sent, two months ago, a farther letter on 
Bowles, &c. ; but ho seems to be so taken up with my 
'respect' (as ho calls it) towards him in the former rase, 
that I am not sure that it will be jmblishcd being some- 
what too full of 'pastime and prodigality.' I learn from 
some private letters of Bowlos'.o, tJiat yoti were 'liie gen- 
tleman in asterisks.' Who would have dreamod it ? you 



180 



LETTERS, 1821. 



see what mischief that clergyman has done by printing 
notes without names. How the deuse was I to suppose 
that the first four asterisks meant ' Campbell' and rwt 
'Pope,^ and that the blank signature meant Thomas 
Moore. You see what comes of being familiar with 
parsons. His answers have not yet reached me, but I 
understand from Hobhouse that he (H.) is attacked in 
them. If that be the case, Bowles has broken the truce, 
(which he himself proclaimed, by-the-way,) and I must 
have at him again. 

" Did you receive my letters with the two or three con- 
cluding sheets of Memoranda ? 

" There are no news here to interest much. A Ger- 
man spy {boasting himself such) was stabbed last week, 
but not mortally. The moment I heard that he went 
about bullying and boasting, it was easy for me, or any 
one else, to foretell what would occur to him, which I did, 
and it came to pass in two days after. He has got offj 
however, for a slight incision. 

"A row the other night, about a lady of the place, 
between her various lovers, occasioned a midnight dis- 
charge of pistols, but nobody wounded. Great scandal, 
however — planted by her lover — to be thrashed by her 
husband; for inconstancy to her regular Servente, who 
is coming home post about it, and she herself retired in 
confusion into the country, although it is the acme of the 
opera season. All the women furious against her (she 
herself having been censorious) for being found out. She 
is a pretty woman — a Countess + * * * — a fine old 
Visigoth name, or Ostrogoth. 

"The Greeks I what thmk you? They are my old 
acquaintances — ^but what to think I know not. Let us 
hope, howsomever. "Yours, 

« B." 



LETTER Din. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, June 22, 1821. 

'Your dwarf of a letter came yesterday. That is 
right ; — keep to your ' magnum opus' — magnoperate away. 
Now, if we were but together a little to combine our 
•Journal of Trevoux !' But it is useless to sigh, and yet 
very natural, — for I think you and I draw better together, 
in the social line, than any two other living authors. 

" I forgot to ask you, if you had seen your own pane- 
gyric in the correspondence of Mrs. Waterhouse and 
Colonel Berkeley? To be sure, their moral is not quite 
exact ; but your passion is fully effective ; and all poetry 
of the Asiatic kmd — I mean Asiatic, as the Romans 
called 'Asiatic oratory,' and not because the scenery is 
Oriental — must be tried by that test only. I am not 
quite sure that I shall allow the Miss Byrons (legitimate 
or illegitimate) to read Lalla Rookh — in the first place, 
on account of this said passion ; and, in the second, that 
they may n't discover that there was a better poet than 
papa. 

■You say nothing of politics — but alas! what can be 
said? 

" The world is a bundle of hay, 
Mankind are the nsses who pull, 
Each tugs it a different way,— 
And the greatest of all is John Bull I 

• How do you call your new project ? I have sent to 
Murray a new tragedy, ycleped ' Sardanapalus,' writ ac- 
cording to Aristotle — all, save the chorus — I could not 
reconcile me to that. I have begun another, and am in 
the second act ; — so you see I saunter on as usual. 

" Bowles's answers have reached me ; but I can't go 
on disputing for ever, — particularly in a polite manner. I 
suppose he will take being silettt for silenced. He has 
been so civil that I can't iind it in my liver to be facetious 



with him, — else I had a savage joke or two at his service. 
+ * ♦ * * ♦ % 

" I can't send you the little journal, because it is in 
boards, and I can't trust it per post. Do n't suppose it is 
any thing particular ; but it will show the intentions of 
the natives at that time — and one or two other things, 
chiefly personal, like the former one. 

"So, Longman don't bite. — It was my wish to have 
made that work of use. Could you not raise a sum upon 
it, (however small,) reserving the power of redeeming it 
on repayment? 

" Are you in Paris, or a villaging ? If you are in the 
city, you will never resist the Anglo-invasion you speak 
of. I do not see an Englishman in half a year; and, 
when I do, I turn my horse's head the other way. The 
fact, which you will find in the last note to the Doge, has 
given me a good excuse for quite dropping the least con- 
nexion with travellers. 

" I do not recollect the speech you speak of, but suspect 
it is not the Doge's, but one of Israel Bertuccio to Calen- 
daro. I hope you think that Elliston behaved shamefully 
— it is my only consolation. I made the Milanese fel- 
lows contradict their he, which they did with the grace of 
people used to it. " Yours, &c. 

«B." 



LETTER DIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, July 5, 1821. 
" How could you suppose that I ever would allow any 
thing that could be said on your account to weigh with 
me ? I only regret that Bowles had not said that you 
were the writer of that note until afterward, when out he 
comes with it, in a private letter to Murray, which Murray 
sends to me, D — n the controversy ! 

" D— n Twizzle, 
D— n the bell, 
And d— D the fool who rung it— Well ! 
From all such plagues I'll quickly be delivered. 

"I have had a friend of your Mr. Irving's* — a very 
pretty lad — a Mr. Coolidge, of Boston — only somewhat 
too full of poesy and ' entusymusy.' I was very civil to 
him during his few hours' stay, and talked vnth him much 
of Irving, whose writings are my delight. But I suspect 
that he did not take quite so much to me, from his having 
expected to meet a misanthropical gentleman, in wolf- 
skin breeches, and answering in fierce monosyllables, 
instead of a man of this world. I can never get people 
to understand that poetry is the expression of excited pas- 
sion, and that there is no such thing as a hfe of passion 
any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal 
fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in fsuch 
a state ? 

" 1 have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in Eng- 
land, (I never saw her,) who says she is given over of a 
decline, but could not go out of the world without thank- 
ing me for the deUght which my poesy for several years, 
&c. &c. &c. It is signed simply N. N. A. and has not 
a word of ' cant' or preachment in it upon any opinions. 
She merely says that she is dying, and that as I had 
contributed so highly to her existing pleasure, she thought 
that she might say so, begging me to burn her letter — 
whicli, by-the-way, I can not do, as I look upon such a 
letter, in such circumstances, as better than a diploma 
from Gottingen. I once had a letter from Drontheim, in 
Norway, (but not from a dying woman,) in verse, on the 
same score of gratulation. These are the things which 
make one at times believe one's self a poet.f But if I 
must believe that ***** *^ ^nj ^y^^ follows, are 
poets also, it is better to be out of the corps. 



• See Memomndums, r««e 26«. f 6«e do. 567- 



LETTERS, 1821. 



181 



"I am now in the fifth act of 'Foscari,' being the third 
tragedy in twelve month*, beside? proses; so you perceive 
that I am not at all idle. And are you, too, busy? I 
doubt that your life at Paris draws too much upon your 
time, which is a pity. Can't you divide your day, so as 
to combine both ? I have had plenty of all sorts of 
worldly business on my hands last year, — and yet it is 
not so difficult to give a few hours to the Muses. This 

sentence is so like * * * * that 

" Ever, &c. 

" If we were together, I should publish both my plays 
(periodically) in our joint journal. It should be our plan 
to publish all our best things in that way." 



LETTER DV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, July 6, 182L 
*In agreement with a wish expressed by Mr. Hob- 
house, it is my determination to omit the stanza upon the 
htrse of Semiramis* in the Fifth Canto of Don Juan. I 
mention this, in case you are, or intend to be, the publisher 
of the remaining Cantos. 

"At the particular request of the Contessa G. I have 
promised not to continue Don Juan. You will therefore 
look upon these three Cantos as the last of the poem. 
She had read the first two in the French translation, and 
never ceased beseeching me to write no more of it. The 
reason of this is not at first obvious to a superficial 
obser\'er of foreign manners ; but it arises from the 
wish of all women to exalt the sentiment of the p9.s- 
sions, and to keep up the illusion which is their empire. 
Now Don Jaan strips off this illusion, and laughs at that 
and most other things. I never knew a woman who did 
not protect Roussemty nor one who did not dislike De 
Grammont, Gil Bias, and all the comedy of the passions, 
when brought out naturally. But ' kings' blood must keep 
word,' as Serjeant Bothwell says." 



LETTER DVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"July 14, 1821. 

" I trust that Sardanapalus will not be mistaken for a 
political play, which was so far from my intention, that I 
thought of nothing but Asiatic history. The Venetian 
play, too, is rigidly historical. My object has been to 
dramatise, like the Greeks, (a modest phrase,) striking 
passages of history, as they did of history and mythology., 
You will find all this very unlike Shakspeare ; and so 
much the better in one sense, for T look upon him to be 
the umst of models, though the most extraordinary of 
writers. It has been my object to be as simple and 
severe as Alfieri, and I have broken down the poetry as 
nearly as I could (o common language. The hardship 
is. that in these times one can neither speak of kings or 
queens without suspicion of politics or personalities. I 
intended neither. 

« I am not very well, and I write in the midst of un- 
pleasant scenes here : they have, without trial or process, 
banished several of the first inhabitants of the cities — here 
and all around the Roman states — among them many of 
my personal friends — so that every thing is in confusion 
and grief: it is a kind of thing which cannot be described 
without an equal pain as in beholding it. 

" You ai-e very niggardly in your letters. 

" Yours truly. 



LETTER DVn. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, July 22, 1821. 

" The printer has done wonders ;— he has read what I 
cannot — my own handwriting. 

" I op2)ose the ' delay till winter :' I am particularly 
anxious to print while the vjinter theatres are closed, to gain 
time, in case they try their former piece of politeness. 
Any loss shall be considered in our contract, whether 
occasioned by the season or other causes ; but print away 
and publish. 

" I think they must own that J have more styles than 
one. ' Sardanapalus' is, however, almost a comic charac- 
ter : but for that matter, so is Richard the Third. Mind 
the unities, which are my great object of research. I am 
glad that Gifford likes it ; as for ' the million,' you see I 
have carefully consulted any thing but the taste of the day 
for extravagant ' coups de threatre.' Any probable loss, 
as I said before, will be allowed for in our accompts. 
The reviews (except one or two, Blackwood's, for in- 
stance) are cold enough; but never mind those fellows: 
I shall send them to the right about, if I take it into my 
head. I always found the English baser in some things 
than any other nation. You stare, but it 's true as to 
gratitude, — perhaps, because they are prouder, and proud 
people hate obligations. 

" The tyranny of the Government here is breaking out. 
They have exiled about a thousand people of the best 
families all over the Roman states. As many of my 
friends are among them, I think of moving too, but not till 
I have had your answers. Continue your address to me 
here, as usual, and quickly. What you will not be sorry 
to hear is, that the poor of the place, hearing that 1 meant 
to go, got together a petition to the Cardinal to request 
that he would request me to remain. I only heard of it a 
day or two ago, and it is no dishonour to them nor to me ; 
but it will have displeased the higher powers, who look 
upon me as a Chief of the Coal-heavers. They arrested 
a servant of mine for a street-quarrel with an officer, (they 
drew upon one another knives and pistols,) but as the 
officer was out of uniform, and in the wrong besides, on 
my protesting stoutly, he was released. I was not pre- 
sent at the affi-ay, which happened by night near my 
stables. My man, (an Italian,) a very stout and not over- 
patient personage, would have taken a fatal revenge after- 
wards, if I had not prevented him. As it was, he drew 
his' stiletto, and, but for passengers, would have carbonadoed 
the captain, who, I understand, made but a poor figure in 
the quarrel, except by beginning it. He applied to me, 
and I offered him any satisfaction, either by turnin2 away 
the man, or otherwise, because he had drawn a knife. He 
answered that a reproof would be sufficient. I reproved 
him ; and yet, after this, the shabby dog complained to 
the Government, — afier being quite satisfied, as he said. 
This roused me, and I gave them a remonstrance, which 
had some effect. The captain has been reprimanded, 
the servant released, and the business at present rests 
tliere." 



LETTER DVIIL 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



"Ravenna, July 23, 1821. 
"This country being in a slate of proscription, and all 
my friends exiled or arrested — the whole family of Ganiba 
obliged to go to Florence for the present — iho father and 
son for politics — (and iho Guiccioli bocauso menaced 
with a convciU, as her father is not here,) I have dotor- 
mined to rcmovo to Switzerland, and tlioy also. Indeed 
my life here is not supposed to bo particularly safo — but 
that has been the case for tliis twelvemonth |>asl, and is 
therefon) not the primary consideration . 



182 



LETTERS, 1821. 



* I have written by this post to Mr. Hentsch, junior, the 
banker of Geneva^ to provide (if possible) a house for 
me, and another for Gamba's family, {the father, son, and 
daughter,) on the Jura side of the lake of Geneva, furnish- 
ed, and with stabUng (for me at least) for eight horses. I 
shall bring AUegra with me. Could you assist me or 
Hentsch in his researches? The Gambas are at Flo- 
rence, but have authorized me to treat for them. You 
know, or do not know, that they are great patriots — and 
both — but the son in particular — very fine fellows. This 
I know, for I have seen them lately in very awkward 
situations — not pecuniary, but personal — and they be- 
haved like heroes, neither yielding nor retracting. 

"You have no idea what a state of oppression this 
country is in — they arrested above a thousand of high and 
low throughout Romagna — banished some and confined 
others, without trial, process, or even accusation !! Every 
body says they would have done the same by me if they 
dared proceed openly. My motive, however, for remain- 
ing, is because every one of my acquaintance, to the 
amount of hundreds almost, have been exiled. 

" Will you do what you can in looking out for a couple 

of houses furnished, and conferring with Hentsch for us ? 

We care nothing about society, and are only anxious for 

a temporary and tranquil asylum and individual freedom. 

" Believe me, &c. 

"P. S. Can you give me an idea of the comparative 
expenses of Switzerland and Italy ? which I have for- 
gotten. I speak merely of those of decent living, horses, 
&c. and not of luxuries or high living. Do not, however, 
decide any thing positively till I have your answer, as I 
can then know how to think upon these topics of trans- 
wiigration, &c. &c. &c." 



LETTER DIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, July 30, 1821. 

'''Enclosed is the best account of the Doge Faliero, 
which was only sent to me from an old MS. the other 
day. Get it translated, and append it as a note to the 
next edition. You will perhaps be pleased to see that my 
conceptions of his character were correct, though I regret 
not having met with this extract before. You will perceive 
that he himself said exactly what he is made to say about 
the Bishop of Treviso. You will see also that ' he spoke 
very little, and those only words of rage and disdain,' after 
his arrest, which is the case in the play, except when he 
breaks out at the close of Act Fifth. But his speech to 
the conspirators is better in the MS. than in the play. 1 
wish that I had met with it in lime. Do not forget this 
note, with a translation. 

" In a former note to the Juans, speaking of Voltaire, I 
have quoted his famous ' Zaire, tu pleures,' v.'hich is an 
error ; it should be ' Zaire,* vous plcurez.' Recollect this. 

" I am so busy here about those poor proscribed exiles, 
who are scattered about, and with trying to get some of 
them recalled, that I have hardly time or patience to write 
a short preface, which will be proper for the two plays. 
However, I will make it out on receiving the next proofs. 
" Yours ever, &c. 

"P. S. Please to append the letter about the Hellespont 
as a note to your next opportunity of the verses on Lean- 
der, &c. &c. &c. in Childe Harold. Do n't forget it amid 
your multitudinous avocations, which I thinly of celebrating 
in a Diihyrambic Ode to Albemarle-street. 

"Are you aware that Shelly has written an Eleory on 
Keats,f and accuses the Quarterly of killing him ? 

' Who kill'dJohn Keats?' 

' 1,'says tlieduarlerly, 

So savage and T.irterly ; 
' 'T was one of my fents.' 



Sm Letter 490. 



t Thit note wM omitted. 



' Who shot the arrow ? 
' The poet-piiest Milman, 
(So ready to kill man,) 
Or Sou they or Barrow.' 

" You know very well that I did not approve of 
Keats's poetry, or principles of poetry, or of his abuso 
of Pope ; but, as he is dead, omit all that is said about 
him in any MSS. of mine, or publication. His Hype- 
rion is a fine monument, and will keep his name. I 
do not envy the man who wrote the article ; — ^you Re- 
view-people have no more right to kill than any other 
footpads. However, he who would die of an article in a 
Review would probably have died of something else 
equally trivial. The same thing nearly happened to Kirka 
White, who died eifterward of a consumption." 



LETTER DX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, August 2, 1821. 

"I had certamly answered your last letter, though but 
briefly, to the part to which you refer, merely saying, 
' damn the controversy :' and quoting some verses of 
George Colman's, not as allusive to you, but to the dis- 
putants. Did you receive this letter? It imports me 
to know that our letters are not intercepted or mislaid. 

" Your Berlin drama* is an honour, imknown since the 
days of Elkanah Settle, whose ' Emperor of Morocco' 
was represented by the Court ladies, which was, as John- 
son says, ' the last blast of inflammation' to poor Dryden, 
who could not bear it, and fell foul of Settle without 
mercy or moderation, on account of that and a frontispiece, 
which he dared to put before his play. 

" Was not your showing the Memoranda to * * some- 
what perilous ? Is there not a facetious allusion or two 
which might as well be reserved for posterity ? 

"I know Schegel well — that is to say, I have met him 
occasionally at Copet. Is he not also touched lightly in 
the Memoranda? In a review of Childe Harold, Canto 
4th, three years ago, in Blackwood's Magazine, they quote 
some stanzas of an elegy of Schegefs on Rome, from which 
they say that I might have taken some ideas. I give you 
my honour that I never saw it except in that criticism, 
which gives, I think, three or four stanzas, sent them (they 
say) for the nonce by a correspondent — perhaps himself. 
The fact is easily proved ; for I do n't understand German, 
and there was, I believe, no translation — at least, it was 
the first time that I ever heard ofj or saw, either transla- 
tion or original. 

" I remember having some talk with Schegel about 
Alfieri, whose merit he denies. He was also wroth about 
the Edinburgh Review of Goethe, which was sharp 
enough, to be sure. He went about saying, too, of the 
French — 'I meditate a terrible vengeance against the 
French — I will prove that Moliere is no poet.' * * 

" I do n't see why you should talk of 'declining.' When 
1 saw you, you looked thinner, and yet younger, than you 
did when we parted several years before. You may rely 
upon this as fact. If it were not, I should say nothing^ 
for I would rather not say unpleasant personal things to 
any one — but, as it was the pleasant truth, I tell it you. 
If you had led my life, indeed, changing climates and con- 
nexions— </iznnmo yourself with fasting and purgatives— 
besides the wear and tear of the vulture passions, and a 
very bad temper besides, you might talk in this way — but 
you ! I know no man who looks so well for his years, or 
who deserves to look better and to be better, in all re- 
spects. You are a + * *, and, what is perhaps better for 



• There had been, a short time before, performed at the Court of 
Berlin, a spectacle founded on the Peom of LallaRookh, In which th« 
present Emperor of Ruuia personated Feramorz, and the EniprcM 
LaUa Rookb. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



183 



your friends, a good fellow. So, do n't talk of decay, but 
put in for eighty, as you well may. 

"I am, at present, occupied principally about these 
unhappy proscriptions and exiles, which have taken place 
here on account of politics. It has been a miserable 
sight to see the general desolation in families. I am doing 
what I can for them, high and low, by such interest and 
means as I possess or can bring to bear. There have 
been thousands of these proscriptions within the last 
month in the Exarchate, or (to speak modernly) the 
Legations. Yesterday, too, a man got his back broken, in 
extricating a dog of mine from under a mill-wheel. The 
dog was killed, and the man is in the greatest danger. I 
was not present — it happened before I was up, owing to 
a stupid boy taking the dog to bathe in a dangerous spot. 
I must, of course, provide for the poor fellow while he 
lives, and his family, if he dies. I would gladly have given 
a much greater sum than that will come to that he had 
never been hurt. Pray, let me hear from you, and 
excuse haste and hot weather. 

• Yours, &c, 
*♦ + *** 

" You may have probably seen all sorts of attacks upon 
me in some gazettes in England some months ago. I 
only saw them, by Murray's bounty, the other day. They 
call me ' Plagiary,' and what not. I think I now, in my 
time, have been accused of every thing. 

" I have not given you details of little events here ; but 
they have been trying to make me out to be the chief of a 
conspiracy, and nothing but their want of proofs for an 
English investigation has stopped them. Had it been a 
poor native, the suspicion were enough, as it has been for 
hundreds. 

"Why don't you write on Napoleon? I have no 
spirits, nor 'estro' to do so. His overthrow, from the 
beginning, wjls a blow on the head to me. Since that 
period, we have been the slaves of fools. Excuse this 
long letter. Ecco a translation literal of a French epi- 
gram. 

" Egle, beauty and poet, has too little crimes, 
She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes. 
" I am going to ride, having been warned not to ride in 
a particular part of the forest, on account of the ultra- 
politicians. 

" Is there no chance of your return to England, and of 
OUT Journal ? I would have published the two plays in it 
—two or three scenes per number — and, indeed, aU of 
mine in it. If you went to England, I would do so still." 



LETTER DXL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



« Ravenna, August 10, 1821. 

* Your conduct to Mr. Moore is certainly very hand- 
some; and I would not say so if I could help it, for you 
are not at present by any means in my good graces. 

"With regard to additions, &c. there is a Journal which 
I kept in 1814 which you may ask him for; also a Jour- 
nal which you must get from Mrs. Leigh, of my journey 
in the Alps, which contains all the germs of Manfred. I 
have also kept a small Diary here for a few months last 
winter, which I would send you, and any continuation. 
You would find easy access to all my papers and letters, 
and do w)t neglect this (in case of accidents,) on account 
of the mass of confusion in which they are ; for out of 
that chaos of papers you will find some curious ones of 
mine and others, if not lost or destroyed. If circum- 
stances, however (which is almost impossible,) made tnc 
ever consent to a publication in my Ufctimc, you would in 
that case, I suppose, make Moore some advance, in pro- 
portion to the hkelihood or non-likelihood of success. You 
are both sure to survive mc, however. 



"You must also have from Mr. Moore the correspond- 
ence between me and Lady Byron, to whom 1 offered the 
sight of all which regards herself in these papers. This 
is important. He has her letter, and a copy of mv answer. 
I would rather Moore edited me than another. 

" I sent you Valpy's letter to decide for yourself, and 
Stockdale's to amuse you. / am always loyal with you, 
as I was in Galignani's affair, and you with me — now and 
then. 

"I return you Moore's letter, which is very creditable 
to him, and you, and me. "Yours ever." 



LETTER DXn. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, August 16, 1821. 

" I regret that Holmes can't or won't come : it is rather 
shabby, as I was always very civil and punctual with him. 
But he is but one * * more. One meets with none else 
among the English. 

"I wait the proofs of the MSS. with proper impa- 
tience. 

" So you have published, or mean to publish, the new 
.Tuans ? Ar' n t you afriad of the Constitutional Assas- 
sination of Bridge-street ? When first I saw the name 
of ISlurray I thought it had been yours ; but was solaced 
by seeing that your synonyme is an attorneo, and that you 
are not one of that atrocious crew. 

"I am in a great discomfort about the probable war,. 
and with my trustees not getting me out of the funds. If 
the funds break, it is my intention to go upon the highway. 
All the other English professions are at present so ungen- 
tlemanly by the conduct of those who follow them, that 
open robbing is the only fair resource left to a man of any 
principles ; it is even honest, in comparison, by being un- 
disguised. 

" J wrote to you by last post, to say that you had done 
the handsome thing by Moore and the Memoranda. You 
are very good as times go, and would probably be still 
better but for the ' march of events,' (as Napoleon called 
it,) which won't permit any body to be better than they 
should oe. 

"Love to Giffbrd. Believe me, &c. 

"P. S. I restore Smith's letter, whom thank for his good 
opinion. Is the bust by Thorvvjddsen arrived ?" 



LETTER DXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, August 23, 1821. 
" Enclosed are the two acts corrected. With re- 
gard to the charges* about the shipwreck, I think that I 
told both you and Mr. Hobh mse, years ago, that there 
was not a single circumstance of it not taken from fact; 
not, indeed, from any single shipwreck, but all from actual 
facts of different wrecks. Almost all Don Juan is real lite, 
either of my own, or from people 1 knew. By-the-way, 
much of the description of iho furniture, in Canto Third, 
is taken from TuUy^s Tripoli, (pray note this,) and the rest 
from my own observation. Remember, I novor meant to 
conceal this at all, and have only not stated it, because 
Don Juan had no preface nor name to it. If you think 
it worth while to make this statement, do so in your own 
way. /laugh at such charges, convinced that no writer 
ever borrowed less, or made his materials more his own.f 
Much is coincidence: for instance. Lady Morgan (in a 
really excellent book, 1 assure you, on Italy) calls Venice an 
()r4:an Rome: I have the very same expression in Foscori, 
and yet you know that the play was written months ago, 



• Scimr frUifnlmd nrciiifil lilmof plnRiiiriiro. 
t Sbo Ai>j)cnilix lo Ui« " Two Fowari." 



m^ 



184 



LETTERS, 1821. 



wis^'p^''-»KU'!P.f; 



and sent to England : the ' Italy' I received only on the 
16th inst. 

" Your friend, like the public, is not aware, that my dra- 
matic simplicity is studimsly Greek, and must continue so : 
no reform ever succeeded at first. I admire the old 
English dramatists ; but this is quite another field, and has 
nothing to do with theirs. I want to make a regular 
English drama, no matter whether for the stage or not, 
which is not my object, — but a mental theatre. 

"Yours. 

"P.S. Can't accept your courteous offer. 

" For Orford and for Waldegrave 
You give much more than me you gave ; 
Which is not fairly to behave, 

My Murrjiy. 

•• Because if a live dog, 't .3 said, 
Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth Uoo dead, 
My Murray. 

" >nd if, as the opinion goes. 
Verse hath a better sale than prose— 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
So, if you will, /sha' n't be shamm'd. 
And if you wun'/, you may be damn'd, 
My Murray. 

« These matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas 
Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of honour. To 
him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you 
might not lilce to state to me personally, such as, ' heavy 
season' — 'flat public' — 'don't go off' — 'lordship writes 
too much' — ' won't talce advice' — 'declining popularity' — 
'deduction for the trade' — 'make very little' — 'generally 
lose by him' — ' pirated edition' — ' foreign edition' — ' severe 
criticisms,' &c., with other hints and howls for an oration, 
which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer. 

" You can also state them more freely to a third per- 
son, as between you and me they could only produce 
some smart postscripts, which would not adorn our mu- 
tual archives. 

" I am sorry for the dueen, and that's more than you 
are." 



LETTER DXIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, August 24, 1821 
" Yours of the 6th only yesterday, while I had letters 
of the 8th from London. Doth the post dabble into our 
letters ? Whatever agreement you make with Murray, 
if satisfactory to you, must be so to me. There need be 
no scruple, because, though I used sometimes to buffoon 
to myself, loving a quibble as well as the barbarian him^ 
self, (Shakspeare, to wit) — ' that, like a Spartan, I would 
sell my life as dearly as possible' — ^it never was my inten- 
tion to turn it to personal, pecuniary account, but to be- 
queath it to a friend — yourself — in the event of survivor- 
ship. I anticipated that period, because we happened to 
meet, and I urged you to malce what was possible now by 
it, for reasons which are obvious. It heis been no possl 
ble privation to me, and therefore does not require the 
aclcnowledgments you mention. So, for God's sake, do n't 
consider it like ♦ * + + + 

"By-the-way, when you write to Lady Morgan, will 
you thank her for her handsome speeches in her book 
about my books ? I do not know her address. Her work 
is fearless and excellent on the subject of Italy — pray tell 
her so — and I know the country. I wish she had fallen 
in with me, I could have told her a thing or two that would 
have confirmed her positions. 

" I am glad that you are satisfied with Murray, who 
seems to value dead lords more than live ones. I have 



just sent hini the following answer to a proposition of 

his: — 

"For Orford and for Waldegrave, &c. 

"The argument of the above is, that he wanted to 
'stint me of my sizings,' as Lear says — ^that is to say, not 
to propose an extravagant price for an extravagant poem, 
as is becoming. Pray take his guineas by all means — 1 
taught him that. He made me a filthy offer of pounds 
once, but I told him that, like physicians, poets must be 
dealt with in guineas, as being the only advantage poets 
could have in the association with them, as votaries of 
Apollo. I write to you in hurry and bustle, which I will 
expound in my next. " Yours, ever, &c. 

" P. S. You mention something of an attorney on' his 
way to me on legal business. I have had no warning of 
such an apparition. What can the fellow want ? I have 
some lawsuits and business, but have not heard of any 
thing to put me to the expense of a travelling lawyer. 
They do enough, in that way, at home. 

' Ah, poor Q,ueen ! but perhaps it is for the best, if 
Herodotus's anecdote is to be believed * * 

Remember me to any friendly Angles of our mutuaL 
acquaintance. What are you doing ? Here I have had 
my hands full of tyrants and their victims. There never 
was such oppression, even in Ireland, scarcely !" 



LETTER DXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, August SI, 1821. 
" I have received the Juans, which are printed so care- 
lessly, especially the fifth canto, as to be disgraceful to me, 
and not creditable to you. It really must be gone over 
again with the manuscript, the errors are so gross ;— 
words added — changed — so as to make cacophony and 
nonsense. You have been careless of this poem because 
some of your squad do n't approve of it ; but I tell you 
that it will be long before you see any thing half so good 
as poetry or writing. Upon what principle have you 
omitted the note on Bacon and Voltaire ? and one of the 
concluding stanzas sent as an addition? — because it ended, 
I suppose, with — 

"And do not link two virtuous souls for life 
Into that moral centaur, man and wife? 

" Now, I must say, once for all, that I will not permit 
any human being to take such liberties with my writings 
because I am absent. I desire the omissions to be re» 
placed (except the stanza on Semiramis,) — particularly 
the stanza upon the Turkish marriages ; and I request 
that the whole be carefully gone over with the MS. 

"I never saw such stuff as is printed; — GuUeyaz m- 
stead of GuZteyaz, &c. Are you aware that Gulbeyaz 
is a real name and the other nonsense? I copied the 
cantos out carefully, so that there is no excuse, as the 
printer read, or at least pnnts, the MS. of the plays with- 
out error. 

" If you have no feeling for your own reputation, pray 
have some little for mine. I have read over tlie poem 
carefully, and I tell you, it is poetry. Your little envious 
knot of parson-poets may say what they please : time 
will show that I am not in this instance mistaken. 

"Desire my friend Hobhouse to correct the press, 
especially of the last canto, from the manuscript as it is. 
It is enough to drive one out of one's reason to see the 
infernal torture of words from the original. For instance 
the line — 

" And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her dorei— * 
is printed — 

" And praise their rhymes, 4c. 

Also 'precarious' for 'precocious f and this line, stanza 13S^ 

" And t/iis strong extreme effect to tire no longer. 



Corrected la this edition. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



185 



Now do turn to the manuscript and see if I ever wrote 
such a line; it is not verse. 

" No wonder the poem should fail, (which, however, it 
won't you will see,) with such things allowed to creep 
about it. Replace what is omitted, and correct what is 
so shamefully misprinted, and let the poem have fair 
play ; and 1 fear nothing. 

* I see in the last two numbers of the Quarterly a 
strong itching to assail me, (see the review of ' The Eto- 
nian ;') let it, and see if they sha' n't have enough of it. 1 
do not allude to Giflbrd, who has always been my friend, 
and whom I do not consider as responsible for the articles 
written by others. 

"You will publish the plays when ready. I am in such 
a humour about this printing of Don Juan so inaccurately 
that I must close this. " Yours. 

"P. S. I presume that you have not lost the stanza to 
which I allude ? It was sent afterward : look over my 
letters and find it." 

♦ * * * + * + + 

Jf * * * ♦ * ** 



LETTER DXVI.* 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" The enclosed letter is written in bad humour, but not 
without provocation. However, let it (that is, the bad 
homour) go for little ; but I must request your serious 
attention to the abuses of the printer, which ought never 
to have been permitted. You forget that all the fools in 
London (the chief purchasers of your publications) will 
condemn in me the stupidity of your printer. For instance, 
in the notes to Canto Fifth, ' the Adriatic shore of the 
Bosj)horus' instead of the Asiatic ! ! AW this may seem 
little to you, so fine a gentleman with your ministerial 
connexions, but it is serious to me, who am thousands of 
miles off, and have no opportunity of not proving myself 
the fool your printer makes me, except your pleasure and 
leisure, forsooth. 

" The gods prosper you, and forgive you, for I can't." 

4i )|c 4: * % H: * 



. LETTER DXVIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 3, 182L 
" By Mr. Mawman, (a paymaster in the corps, in which 
yoM and I are privates,) I yesterday expedited to your 
address, under cover one, two paper-books, containing the 
Gfiao«r-nal, and a thing or two. It won't all do— even 
for the posthumous public — but extracts from it may. It 
is a brief and faithful chronicle of a month or so — parts 
of it not very discreet, but sufficiently sincere. Mr. Maw- 
man saith that he will, in person or per friend, have it 
delivered to you in your Elysian fields. 

"If you have got the new Juans, recollect that there are 
some very gross printer's blunders, particularly in the 
Fifth Canto, — such as 'praise' for ' pair' — ' precarious' for 
' precocious' — ' Adriatic' for ' Asiatic' — ' case' for ' chase' — 
besides gifts of additional words and syllables, which make 
but a cacophonous rhythmus. Put the pen through the 
said, as I would mine through Murray's ears if 1 wore 
alongside of him. As it is, I have sent hin> a rattling 
letter, as abusive as possible. Though he is publisher to 
the ' Board of J^migiludcy he is in no danger of discover- 
ing it. 

" 1 am packing for Pisa — but direct your letters /if rr, 
till farther notice. " Yours ever, &c." 

[One of the " paper-books" mentioned in this letter as 



intrusted to Mr. Mawman for me, contained a portion, 
to the amount of nearly a hundred pages, of a prose stor}', 
relating the adventures of a young Andalusian nobleman, 
which had been begun by him, at Venice, in 1817, of 
which the following is an extract. — Moore.] 

" A few hours afterward we were very good friends^ 
and a few days after she set out for Arragon, with my 
son, on a visit to her father and mother. I did not ac- 
company her immediately, having been in Arragon before, 
but was to join the family in their Moorish chateau within 
a few weeks. 

"During her journey I received a very aflectionate 
letter from Donna Josepha, apprizing me of the welfare 
of herself and my son. On her arrival at the chateau, I 
received another still more affectionate, pressing me, in 
very fond, and rather foolish terms, to join her immedi- 
ately. As I was preparing to set out from Seville. I 
received a third — this was from her father, Don Jose di 
Cardozo, who requested me, in the politest manner, to 
dissolve my marriage. I answered him with equal polite- 
ness, that I would do no such thing. A fourth letter 
arrived — it was from Donna Josepha, in which she in- 
formed me that her father's letter was written by her 
particular desire. I requested the reason by return of 
post — she replied, by express, that as reason had nothing 
to do with the matter, it was unnecessary to give any — 
but that she was an injured and excellent woman. I then 
inquired why she had written to me the two preceding 
affectionate letters, requesting me to come to Arragon. 
She answered, that was because she believed me out of 
my senses — that, being unfit to take care of myself, I had 
only to set out on this journey alone, and make my way 
without difficulty to Don Jose di Cardozo's, I should there 
have found the tenderest of wives and — a straight waist- 
coat. 

" I had nothing to reply to this piece of affection but a 
reiteration of my request for some lights upon the subject. 
I was answered that they would only be related to the 
Inquisition. In the mean time, our domestic discrepancy 
had become a public topic of discussion ; and the world, 
which always decides justly, not only in Arragon but in 
Andalusia, determined that I was not only to blame, but 
that all Spain could produce nobody so blameable. My 
case was supposed to comprise all the crimes which could, 
and several which could not, be committed, and little less 
than an auto-da-fe was anticipated as tlie result. But 
let no man say that we are abandoned by our friends in 
adversity — it was just the reverse. Mine thronged around 
me to condenm, advise, and console me with their disap- 
probation. — They told me all that was, would, or could be 
said on the subject. They shook their hoad.s — they ex- 
horted me — deplored mc, with tears in tlieir eyes, and — 
went to dinner." 



LETTER DXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY 



WritUn in the envelope of the preceding T.ittrr. 

24 



"Ravenna, Scpt.4i 1821. 

" By Saturday's post, I sent you a fierce and fiiribund 
letter upon the subject of the printer's blunders in Don 
.luan. I must solicit your attention to the topic, though 
my wrath hath subsided into suUenness. 

"Yesterday I received Mr. , a friend of yours, 

and because ho is a friend of yours ; and that's more than 
I would do in an English case, except for lluise wlioni I 
honour. I was as civil as I cotild bo aniong pnika^oi 
even to the very chairs and tables, for I am going to i*i«i 
in a few weeks, and have sent and am sending oil' my 
chattels. It regretted mc that, my bwks and every thing 
being packed, 1 coukl not send you n fi'w things 1 meant 
for you ; but they were all sealed and bagg(ip«Hl, so as to 
have made it a month's work to grt at them again. 1 



1S6 



LET TE R S', 1821. 



gave him an envelope, with the Itahan scrap m it,* allud- 
ed to in my Gilchrist defence. Hobhouse will make it 
out for you, and it will make yovi laugh, and him too, the 
spelling particularly. The ' Mcricani,' of whom they call 
me the 'Capo,' (or Chief,) mean 'Americans,' which is 
the name given in Romagna to a part of the Carbonari; 
that is to say, to the popular part, the troops of the Carbo- 
nari. They are originally a society of hunters in the 
forest, who took the name of Americans, but at present 
comprise some thousands, &c. ; but I sha' n't let you far- 
ther into the secret, which may be participated with the 
postmasters. Why they thought me their Chief; I know- 
not: their Chiefs are lilte 'Legion, being many.' How- 
ever, it is a post of more honour than profit, for, now that 
they are persecuted, it is fit that I should aid them; and 
so I have done, as far as my means would permit. They 
will rise again some day, for these fools of the government 
are blundering : they actually seem to know mthing^ for 
they have arrested and banished many of their own party, 
and let others escape who are not their friends. 

" What think'st thou of Greece ? 

" Address to me here as usual, till you hear farther from 
me. 

* By Mawman I have sent a Journal to Moore ; but it 
won't do for the public, — at least a great deal of it won't ; 
— parts may. 

"I read over the Juans, which are excellent. Your 
squad are quite wrong ; and so you will find by-and-by. 
I regret that I do not go on with it, for I had all the plan 
for several cantos, and different countries and climes. 
You say nothing of the note I enclosed to you, which will 
explain why I agreed to discontinue it, (at Madame Guic- 
cioli's request ;) but you are so grand, and sublime, and 
occupied, that one would think, instead of pubhshing for 
' the Board of Longitude, that you were trying to dis- 
cover it. 

" Let me hear that Gifford is better. He can't be spared 
either by you or me." 



LETTER DXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 12, 182L 
" By Tuesday's post, I forwarded, in three packets, the 
drama of Cain in three acts, of which I request the 
acknowledgment when arrived. To the last speech of 
Eve, in the last act, (i. e. where she curses Cain,) add 
these three lines to the concluding ones — 

" May the grass wither from thy foot 1 the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A gra-ve 1 the sun his light ! and Heaven her God ! 

" There 's as pretty a piece of imprecation for you, 
when joined to the lines already sent, as yon may wish 
to meet with in the course of your business. But do n't 
forget the addition of the above three lines, which are 
clinchers to Eve's speech. 

•^Let me know what Gifford thinks, (if the play arrives 
in safety ;) for I have a good opinion of the piece, as 
poetry ; it is in my gay metaphysical style, and in the 
Manfred line. 

" You must at least commend my facility and variety, 
when you consider what I have done within the last fifteen 
months, with my head, too, full of other and of mundane 
matters. But no doubt you will avoid saying any good 
of it, for fear I should raise the price upon you : that 's 
right : stick to business. Let me know what your other 
ragamuffins are writing, for I suppose you do n't like start- 
ing too many of your vagabonds at once. You may give 
them the start for any thing I care. 

" Why do n't you publish my Pxdci — the very best thing 
I ever wrote, — with the Italian to it ? I wish I was along- 



• An anonymous letter which he had received, threalening him with 
tHMiinatioo. 



side of you ; nothing is ever done in a man's absence ; 
every body runs counter, because they can. If ever I 
do return to England, (which I sha' n't, though,) I will 
write a poem to which ' English Bards,' &c. shall be new 
milk, in comparison. Your present hterary world of 
mountebanks stands in need of such an Avatar. But I 
am not yet quite bilious enough: a season or two more, 
and a provocation or two, will wind me up to the point, 
and then have at the whole set ! 

"I have no patience with the sort of trash you send me 
out by way of books ; except Scott's novels, and three or 
four other things, I never saw such work, or works. Camp- 
bell is lecturing — Moore idling — Southey twaddling — 
Wordsworth drivelling — Coleridge muddhng — * * pid- 
dling — Bowles quibbling, squabbling, and snivelling. 
* * will do, if he do n't cant too much, nor imitate Southey ; 
the fellow has poesy in him ; but he is envious and unhappy, 
as all the envious are. Still he is among the best of the 
day. Barry Cornwall will do better by-and-by, I dare say, 
if he do n't get spoiled by green tea, and the praises of Pen- 
tonville and Paradise-row. The pity of these men is, that 
they never lived in high life, nor in solitude : there is no 
medium for the knowledge ofthe feztsy or the siiZ/ world. If 
admitted into high hfe for a season, it is merely as specta- 
tors — they form no part of the mechanism thereof. Now, 
Moore and I, the one by circumstances, and the other by 
birth, happened to be free of the corporation, and to have 
entered into its pulses and passions, yuarum por/es/ui/nus. 
Both of us have learned by this much which nothing else 
could have taught us. "Yours. 

"P. S. I saw one of your brethren, another of the allied 
sovereigns of Grub-street, the other day, Mawman the 
Great, by whom I sent due homage to your imperial self. 
To-morrow's post may perhaps bring a letter from you, 
but you are the most ungrateful and ungracious of corre- 
spondents. But there is some excuse for you, with your 
perpetual levee of politicians, parsons, scribblers, and loun- 
gers. Some day I will give you a poetical catalogue of 
them." 



\ 



LETTER DXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



« Ravenna, Sept. 17, 182L 
" The enclosed lines,* as you will directly perceive, are 
written by the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Of course it is for 
him to deny them if they are not. 
" Beheve me yours ever and most affectionately, 

«B. 
" P. S. Can you forgive this ? It is only a reply to your 
lines against my ItaUans. Of course I will stand by my 
lines against all men ; but it is heart-breaking to see such 
things in a people as the reception of that unredeemed 
**** *+inan oppressed country. Your apotheosis is 
now reduced to a level with his welcome, and their grati- 
tude to Grattan is cancelled by their atrocious adulation of 
this, &c. &c. &c." 



LETTER DXXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

« Ravenna, Sept. 19, 1821. 
"I am m all the sweat, dust, and blasphemy of a uni- 
versal packing of all my thmgs, furniture, &c. for Pisa, 
whether I go for the winter. The cause has been the 
exile of all my fellow Carbonics, and, among them, of the 



• " The Irish Avatar," Poems, p. 485. In this copy the following sen- 
tence (taken from aLetterof Curran,in the able Life of that true Irish- 
man, by his son) is prefixed as a motto to the Poem—" And Ireland, Hire 
a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider."— L«rrero/ 
Curran, Life, vol. ii. page 336. At the end of the verses are these wordi : 
" (Signed) W. L. B * *, M. A., and written with a view to a Biihop 
rick."— j\loor«. 



LETTERS, l&]i. 



187 



whole family of Madame G. who, you know, was divorced 
from her husband la:>t week, 'on account of P. P. clerk of 
this parish,' and who is obliged to join her father and rela- 
tives, now in exile there, to avoid being shut up in a mo- 
nastery, because the Pope's decree of separation required 
her to reside in casa paterna, or else, for decorum's sake, 
in a convent. As I could not say, with Hamlet, ' Get thee 
to a nunnery,' I am preparing to follow them. 

" It is awful work, this love, and prevents all a man's 
projects of good or glory. I wanted to go to Greece lately 
(as every thing seems up here) with her brother, who is 
a very fine, brave fellow, (I have seen him put to the 
proofj) and wild about liberty. But the tears of a woman 
who has left a husband for a man, and the weakness of 
one's own heart, are paramount to these projects, and I 
can hardly indulge them. 

" We were divided in choice between Switzerland and 
Tuscany, and I give my vote for Pisa, as nearer the 
Mediterranean, which I love for the sake of the shores 
which it washes and for my young recollections of 1809. 
Switzerland is a cursed, selfish, swinish country of brutes, 
placed in the most romantic region of the world. I never 
could bear the inhabitants, and still less their English 
visiters ; for which reason, after writing for some informa- 
tion about houses, upon hearing that there was a colony 
of English all over the cantons of Geneva, &c. I imme- 
diately gave up the thought, and persuaded the Gambas 
to do the same. 

" By last post I sent you ' the Irish Avatar,' — what 
think you ? The last line — ' a name never spoke but 
with curses or jeers' — must run either ' a name only 
uttered with curses or jeers,' or, * a wretch never named 
but with curses or jeers.' Becase as how, ' spoke' is not 
grammar, except in the House of Commons ; and I doubt 
whether we can say ' a name spokeii^ for mentiojicd. I 
have some doubts, too, about 'repay,' — 'and for murder 
repay with a shout and a smile.' Should it not be, ' and 
for murder repay him with shouts and a smile,' or ' reward 
him with shouts and a smile ?' 

" So, pray put your poetical pen through the MS. and 
take the least bad of the emendations. Also, if there be 
any farther breaking of Priscian's head, will you apply a 
plaster ? I wrote in the greatest hurry and fury, and sent 
it to you the day afier ; so, doubtless, there will be some 
awful constructions, and a rather lawless conception of 
rhythmus. 

" With respect to what Anna Seward calls ' the liberty 
of transcript,' — when complaining of Miss Matilda Mug- 
gleton, the accomplished daughter of a choral vicar of 
Worcester Cathedral, who had abused the said ' liberty 
of transcript,' by inserting in the Malvem Mercury, Miss 
Seward's ' Elegy on the South Pole,' as her own produc- 
tion, with her own signature, two years after having taken 
a copy, by permission of the authoress — with regard, 1 
say, to tlie 'liberty of transcript,' I by no means oppose an 
occasional copy to the benevolent few, provided it does 
not degenerate into such licentiousness of Verb and Noun 
as may tend to ' disparage my parts of speech' by the 
carelessness of the transcnbblers. 

" I do not think that there is much danger of the ' King's 
Press being abused' upon the occasion, if the publishers 
of journals have any regard for their remaining liberty of 
person. It is as pretty a piece of invective as ever put 
publisher in the way to 'Botany.' Therefore, if they 
meddle with it, it is at their peril. As for myself^ I will 
answer any jontlcman — though I by no means recognise 
a ' right of search' into an unpublished production and 
unavowed poem. The same ap[)lies to things published 
sans consent. I hope you liltc, at least, the concluiling 
lines of the Pume ? 

" What are you doing, and whero are you ? in England ? 
Nail Murray — nail him to his own counter, till ho slmils 
out the tliirtecns. Since I wrote to you, I liavc .sent him 
another tragedy — ' Cain' by name — making three in MS. 



now in his hands, or in the printer's. It is in the Man- 
fred, metaphysical style, and full of some Titanic decla- 
mation; — Lucifer being one of the dram. pers. who takes 
Cain a voyage among the stars, and, afterwards, to ' Hades,' 
where he shows him the phantoms of a former world, and 
its inhabitants. I have gone upon the notion ofCuvier, 
that the world has been destroyed three or four times, and 
was inhabited by mammoths, behemoths, and what not ; 
but not by man till the Mosaic period, as, indeed, is proved 
by the strata of bones found ; — those of all unknown 
animals, and known, being dug out, but none of mankind. 
I have, therefore, supposed Cain to be shown, in the 
rationed Preadamites, beings endowed with a higher in- 
telligence than man, but totally unlike him in form, and 
with much greater strength of mind and person. You 
may suppose the small talk which takes place between 
him and Lucifer upon these matters is not quite canonical. 
"The consequence is, that Cain comes back and kills 
Abel in a fit of dissatisfaction, partly with the politics of 
Paradise, which had driven them all out of it, and partly 
because (as it is written in Genesis) Abel's sacrifice was 
the more acceptable to the Deity. I trust that the 
Rhapsody has arrived — it is in three acts, and entitled 
' A Mystery,' according to the former Christian custom, 
and in honour of what it probably will remain to the 
reader. « Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"September 20, 182L 
"After the stanza on Grattan, concluding whh 'His 
soul o'er the freedom implored and denied,' will it please 
you to cause insert the following 'Addenda,' which 1 
dreamed of during to-day's Siesta ; 

" Ever glorious Grattan ! &c. &c. &c. 

I will tell you what to do. Get me twenty copies of the 
whole carefully and privately printed oflfj as your lines 
were on the Naples aifair. Send me six, and distribute 
the rest according to your own pleasure. 

" I am in a fine vein, ' so full of pastime and prodiga- 
lity I' — So, here 's to your health in a glass of grog. Pray 
write, that I may know by return of post — address to me 
at Pisa. The gods give you joy ! 

" Where are you ? in Paris ? Let us hear. You will 
take care that there he no printer's name, nor autlior's, as 
in tlwj Naples stanza?, at least for the present." 



[.ETTER DXXIII. 



TO MR. MUHRAY, 



" Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821. 

"You need not scud ' tho Blues,' which is a mere buf- 
foonery, never meant for publivotion.* 

"The papers to wliicli 1 alhido, in ca.<e of survivorship, 
are collections of Kttcrs, &.c. ^iuce I was sixteen years 
old, contained in the Iriinks in tl.e rare »if Mr. Hobhouse. 
This collection is at least doubU'd by those I have now 
here, all rcictived since my last ostracism. To these I 
should wish the editor to have access, nut for the purpose 
of id)using confidences, nor of hurting the feelings of cor- 
respondents living, nor the memories of tlio dead ; but 
there are tilings which would do neither, that I have lefl 
unnoticed or unexplained, and which (like all such things) 
time only can ptrinit to be noticed or o\pIaiiit<d, lliougii 
some are to my credit. The task will of rt>urse roquire 
delicacy; but that will not be wnniing, if Mooro and Hob- 
house survive me, and, I may add, yourself; and that you 



S»a Poomi. p. 407 



188 



LETTERS, 1821. 



may all three do so is, I assure you, my very smcere wish. 
I am not sure that long life is desirable for one of my 
temper and constitutional depression of spirits, which of 
course I suppress in society ; but which breaks out when 
alone, and in my writings, in spite of myself. It has been 
deepened, perhaps, by some long-past events, (I do not 
allude to my marriage, &c. — on the contrary, Uwi raised 
them by the persecution giving a fiUip to my spirits ;) but 
I call it constitutional, as I have reason to think it. You 
know, or you do not know, that my maternal grandfather, 
(a very clever man, and amiable, I am told,) \yas strongly 
suspected of suicide, (he was found drovraed in the Avon 
at Bath,) and that another very near relative of the same 
branch took poison, and was merely saved by antidotes. 
For the first of these events there was no apparent cause, 
as he was rich, respected, and of considerable intellectual 
resources, hardly forty years of age, and not at all addicted 
to any unhinging vice. It was, however, but a strong 
suspicion, owing to the manner of his death and his melan- 
choly temper. The second had a cause, but it ooes not 
become me to touch upon it : it happened when I was far 
too young to be aware of it, and I never heard of it till 
after the death of that relative, many years afterward. I 
think, then, that I may call this dejection constitutional. I 
had always been told that I resembled more my maternal 
grandfather than any of my father's family — that is, in 
the gloomier part of his temper, for he was what you call 
a good-natured man, and I am not. 

" The Journal here I sent to Moore the other day ; but 
as it is a mere diary, only parte of it would ever do for 
publication. The other Journal of the Tour in 1816, 1 
should think Augusta might let you have a copy of. 

" I am much mortified that Gifford do n't take to my 
new dramas. To be sure, they are as opposite to the 
EngUsh drama as one thing can be to another ; but I have 
a notion that, if xmderstood, they will in time find favour 
(though 710^ on the stage) with the reader. The simpli- 
city of plot is intentional, and the avoidance of rant also, 
as also the compression of the speeches in the more se- 
vere situations. What I seek to show in ' the Foscaris' 
is the suppressed passions, rather than the rant of the pre- 
sent day. For that matter — 

' Nay, if thou 'It mouth, 
I 'n rant as well as thou—' 

would not be difficult, as I think I have shown m my 
younger productions, — nx)i dramatic ones, to be sure. 
But, as I said before, I am mortified that GifFord do n't 
like them ; but I see no remedy, our notions on that subject 
being so different. How is he ? — well, I hope ; — let me 
know. I regret his demur the more that he has been 
always my grand patron, and I know no praise which 
would compensate me in my o\vn mind for his censure. I 
do not mind Reviexos^ as I can work them at their own 
weapons. « Yours, &c. 

"Address to me at Pisa, whither I am going. The 
reason is, that all my Italian friends here have been exiled, 
and are met there for the present, and I go to join them, 
as agreed upon, for the winter." 



LETTER DXXIV. 

TO MR, MURRjLY. 

« Ravenna, Sept. 24, 1821. 

• I have been thinking over our late correspondence, 
and vwsh to propose to you the following articles for our 
future : 

" Istly, That you shall write to me of yourself^ of the 
health, wealth, and welfare of all friends; but of me 
(quoad me) little or nothing. 

2dly. That you shall send me soda-powders, tooth- 
powder, tooth-brushes, or any such anti-odontalgic or 



chemical articles, as heretofore * ad libitum,' upon being 
reimbursed for the same. 

" 3dly. That you shall not send me any modem, or (as 
they are called) new publications, in English, whatsoever, 
save and excepting any writing, prose or verse, of (or 
reasonably presumed to be of) Walter Scott, Crabbe, 
Moore, Campbell, Rogers, Gifford, Joanna Baillie, Irving, 
(the American,) Hogg, Wilson, (the Isle of Palms man,) 
or any especial single work of fancy which is thought to 
be of considerable merit ; Voyages and Travels, provided 
that they are neither in Greece, Spain, Asia Minor, Al- 
bania, nor Italy, will be welcome. Having travelled the 
countries mentioned, I know that what is said of them can 
convey nothing farther which I desire to know about 
them. — No other English works whatsoever. 

"4thly. That you send me no periodical works what- 
soever — no Edinburgh, Quarterly, Monthly, nor any 
review, magazine, or newspaper, English or foreign, of 
any description. 

"5thly, That you send me no opinions whatsoever, 
either good, had, or indifferent, of yourself or your friends, 
or others, concerning any work, or works, of mine, past, 
present, or to come. 

"6thly. That all negotiations in matters of business 
between you and me pass through the medium of the 
Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, my friend and trustee, or Mr. 
Hobhouse, as ' Alter ego,' and tantamount to myself dur- 
ing my absence — or presence. 

"Some of these propositions may at first seem strange, 
but they are founded. The quantity of trash I have 
received as books is incalculable, and neither amused nor 
instructed. Reviews and magazines are at the best but 
ephemeral and superficial reading : — who thinks of the 
grand article of last year in any given Review 7 In the 
next place, if they regard myself^ they tend to increase 
egotism. If favourable, I do not deny that the praise 
elates, and if unfavourable, that the abuse irritates. The 
latter may conduct me to inflict a species of satire, which 
would neither do good to you nor to your friends : they 
may smile now, and so may you ; but if I took you all 
in hand, it would not be difficult to cut you up like 
gourds. I did as much by as powerful people at nine- 
teen years old, and I know litde as yet, in three-and- 
thirty, which should prevent me from making all your 
ribs gridirons for your hearts, if such were my pro- 
pensity : but it is not ; therefore let me hear none of 
your provocations. If any thing occurs so very gross 
as to require my notice, I shall hear of it from my legal 
friends. For the rest, t merely request to be left in 
ignorance. 

" The same applies to opinions, good, bad, or indifferent, 
of persons in conversation or correspondence. These 
do not interrupt, but they soil, the current of my mind. 
I am sensitive enough, but not till I am troubled ; and 
here I am beyond the touch of the short arms of literary 
England, except the few feelers of the polypus that crawl 
over the channels in the way of extract. 

"All these precautions in England would be useless ; 
the libeller or the flatterer would there reach me in spite 
of all ; but in Italy we know little of literary England, 
and think less, except what reaches us through some 
garbled and brief extract in some miserable gazette. 
For two years (excepting two or three articles cut out 
and sent to you by the post) I never read a newspaper 
which was not forced upon me by some accident, and 
know, upon the whole, as little of England as you do of 
Italy, and God knows that is little enough, with all your 
travels, &c. &c. &c. The EngUsh travellers know Italy 
as you know Guernsey : how much is that 7 

" If any thing occurs so violently gross or personal as 
requires notice, Mr. Douglas Kinnaird will let me know; 
but o{ praise, I desire to hear nothing. 

"■ You will say, ' to what tends all this ?' I will answer 
THAT ; — to keep my mind/ree and unbiased by all paltry 



LETTERS, 1821. 



189 



and personal irritabilities of praise or censure — to let 
my genius take its natural direction, while my feelings 
are like the dead, who know nothing and feel nothing of 
all or aught that is said or done in their regard. 

* If you can observe these conditions, you will spare 
yourself and others some pain ; let me not be worked 
upon to rise up ; for if I do, it will not be for a little. 
If you cannot observe these conditions, we shall cease 
to be correspondents, — but not friends, for I shall always 
be yours and ever truly, " Byron. 

" P. S. I have taken these resolutions not from any 
irritation against you or yours, but simply upon reflection 
that all reading, either praise or censure, of myself has 
done me harm. When I was in Switzerland and Greece, 
I was out of the way of hearing either, and how I ivrote 
there .'—In Italy I am out of the way of it too ; but lat- 
terly, partly through my fault, and partly through your 
kindness in wishing to send me the newest and most 
periodical publications, I have had a crowd of Reviews, 
&c. thrust upon me, which have bored me with their 
jargon, of one kind or another, and taken off my atten- 
tion from greater objects. You have also sent me a 
parcel of trash of poetry, for no reason that I can con- 
ceive, unless to provoke me to write a new 'English 
Bards.' Now this I wish to avoid : for if ever I do, it 
will be a strong production ; and I desire peace as long 
as the fools will keep their nonsense out of my way." 



LETTER DXXV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"September 27, 1821. 

« It was not Murray's fault. I did not send the MS. 
overture, but I send it now,* and it may be restored ; — 
or, at any rate, you may keep the original, and give 
any copies you please. I send it, as written, and as I 
read it to you — I have no other copy. 

" By last week's two posts, in two packets, I sent to 
your address, at Paris, a longish poem upon the late 
Irishism of your countrymen in their reception of * * *, 
Pray, have you received it? It is in 'the high Roman 
fashion,' and full of ferocious fantasy. As you could not 
well take up the matter with Paddy, (being of the same 
nest,) I have ; — but I hope still that I have done justice 
to his great men and his good heart. As for * * *, you 
will find it laid on with a trowel. I delight in your 'fact 
historical' — is it a fact ? " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. You have not answered me about Schlegel — 
why not ? Address to me at Pisa, whither I am going, 
to join the exiles — a pretty numerous body, at present. 
Let me hear how you are, and what you mean to do. Is 
there no chance of your recrossing the Alps? If the G. 
Rex marries again, let him not want an Epithalamium 
— suppose a joint concern of you and me, like Sternhold 
and Hopkins I" 



LETTER DXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



« September 28, 1821. 
" I add another cover to request you to ask Moore to 
obtain (if possible) my letters to tiic lato Lady Mel- 
bourne from Lady Cowpcr. They are very numerous, 
and ought to have been restored long ago, as I was ready 
to give back Lady Melbourne's in exchange. These 
latter are in Mr. Hobhouse's custody with my other 
papers, and shall be punctually restored if required. I 



• The linei "Oh Wellington," Don Juan, Canto IX. Slanra I, 
Ac. which I had mined in their original place at the o|niiin!; of ihn 
Third Canto, and took for graotod that Ihcy had boon iu|)preiicd by his 
publiiher.— Moor«, 



did not choose before to apply to Lady Cowper, as her 
mother's death naturally kept me from intruding upon 
her feelings at the time of its occurrence. Some years 
have now elapsed, and it is essential that I should have 
my own epistles. They are essential as confirming that 
part of the 'Memoranda' which refers to the two periods 
(1812 and 1814) when my marriage with her niece was 
in contemplation, and will tend to show what my real 
views and feelings were upon that subject. 

" You need not be alarmed ; the ' fourteen years'* will 
hardly elapse without some mortality among us : it is a 
long lease of life to speculate upon. So your calculation 
vdll not be in so much peril, as the ' argosie' will sink 
before that time, and ' the pound of flesh' be withered 
previously to your being so long out of a return. 

"I also wish to give you a hint or two, (as you have 
really behaved very handsomely to Moore in the busi- 
ness, and are a fine fellow in your Une,) for your advan- 
tage. If hy your own management you can extract any 

of my epistles from Lady (* * * + * * ♦^j 

they might be of use in your collection, (sinking of course 
the names, and all such circumstances as might hurt living 
feehngs, or those of suruvorsj) they treat of more topics 
than love occasionally. 

+ * + + + * 

" I will tell you who may happen to have some letters 
of mine in their possession : Lord Powerscourt, some to 
his late brother ; Mr. Long of — (I forget his place) — 
but the father of Edward Long of the Guards, who was 
drowned in going to Lisbon early in 1809 ; Miss Eliza- 
beth Pigot, of Southwell, Notts, (she may be Mistress 
by this time, for she had a year or two more than I:) 
they wore not love-letters, so that you might have them 
without scruple. There are, or might be, some to the 
late Rev. J. C. Tattersall, in the hands of his brother 
(half-brother) Mr. Wheatley, who resides near Canter- 
bury, I think. There are some of Charles Gordon, now 
of Dulwich ; and some few to Mrs. Chaworth ; but 
these latter are probably destroyed or inaccessible. 

"I mention these people and particulars merely as 
chances. Most of them have probably destroyed the 
letters, which in fact are of little import, many of them 
written when very young, and several at school and 
college. 

" Peel (the second brother of the Secretary) was a cor 
respondent of mine, and also Porter, the son of the Bishop 
of Clogher ; Lord Clare a very voluminous one ; William 
Harness (a friend of Milman's) anotlicr ; Charles Drum- 
mond, (son of the banker ;) William Bankes (the voyager) 
your friend ; R. C. Dallas, Esq. ; Hodgson ; Henry 
Drury ; Hobhouse you were already aware of. 

" I have gone through this long list of 

' The cold, the faithless, and Uie dead,' 

because I know tliat, lilte • the curious in fish-sauce,' you 
are a researcher of such things. 

" Besides these, tlicre are other occasional ones to Ute- 
rary men and so forth, compUmentary, &.c. &c. &c. not 
worth much more than llie rest. There are some hun- 
dreds, too, of Italian notes of mine, scribbled with a noblo 
contempt of the grammar and dictionary, in very English 
Etruscan ; for I speak Itahan very fluently, but write it 
carelessly and incorrectly to a degree." 



LETTER DXXVIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"September 29, 1821. 
I send you two rough things, praso and vorse, not 



* He here advert* to a t>BMinf[ remark in one of Mr. Alurniy'i lettert, 
Ihnt.Ri hii lordfhipi " Memoranda" wer« not to he published In hU 
lifetime, the sum now paid lor the work, QlUtl/. wmild moat probably, 
ii|ion aiiunonnlilc calculation of »urviToi»hiji, amuunl iiltin)»l«Jy to no 
l.-M than inmU—Muort. 



190 



LETTERS, 1S21. 



much iB themselves, but which will show, one of them 
the state of the country, and the olher of your friend's 
mind, when they were written. Neither of them were 
sent to the person concerned, but you will see, by tlie 
style of theni, that they were sincere, as I am in signing 
myself " Yours ever and truly, 

«B." 

[Of the two enclosures, mentioned in the foregoing 
note, one was a letter intended to be sent to Lady Byron, 
relative to his money invested in the fundsj of wliich the 
following are extracts.] 

"Ravenna, Marza Imo, 182L 

" I have received your message, through my sister's 
letter about English security, &c. &c. It is considerate, 
(and true, even,) that such is to be found — but not that I 
shall find it. Mr. + *, for his own views and purposes, 
will thwart all such attempts till he has accomphshed his 
own, viz. to make me lend my fortune to some chent of 
his choosing. 

"At this distance — after this absence, and with my 
utter ignorance of affairs and business — with my temper ■ 
and impatience, I have neither the means nor the mind to 
resist. * + * + * * 

Thinking of the funds as I do, and wishmg to secure a 
rcrvesion to my sister and her children, I should jump at 
most expedients. 

" What I told you is come to pass — the Neapolitan 
war is declared. Your fimds will fall, and I shall be in 
consequence ruined. That 's nothing — but my blood- 
relations will be so. You and your child are provided 
for. Live and prosper — I wish so mucJi to both. Live 
and prosper — you have the means. I think but of my 
real kin and kindred, who may be the victims of this ac- 
cursed bubble. 

" You neither know nor dream of the consequences of 
this war. It is a war of men with morfarchs, and will 
spread like a spark on the dry, rank grass of the vegeta- 
ble desert. What it is with you and your English, you 
do not know, for ye sleep. What it is with us here, I 
know, for it is before, and around, and within us. 

" Judge of my detestation of England and of all that it 
inherits, when I avoid returning to your country at a time 
when not only my pecuniary interest, but, it may be, even 
my personal security require it. I can say no more, for 
all letters are opened. A short time will decide upon 
what is to be done here, and then you will learn it without 
being more troubled with me or my correspondence. 
Whiitever happens an individual is little, so that the 
cause is forwarded. 

" I have no more to say to you on tlie score of affairs or 
on any other subject." 

[The second enclosure in the note consisted of some 
verses, written by him, December 10th, 1820, on seeing 
the following paragraph in a newspaper. " Lady Byron 
is this year the lady patroness at the annual Charity Ball 
given at the Town Hall at Hinckly, Leicestershire, and 
Sir G. Crewe, Bart, the principal steward." These 
verses are full of strong and indignant feeling, — every 
stanza concluding pointedly witli the words "Charity 
Ball," — and the thought that predominates through the 
whole may be collected from a few of the opening lines. — 
Moore.] 

" Whnl matter ihepnngrs of a husband and fattier, 

If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, 

So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, 

And the Saint patroniseB her ' Charily Ball,' 



What matters— a heart, which though faulty was feeling. 

Be driven to exresses which once could appal- 
That the Sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 

Ail the Saint keeps her charity UncU (ov ' the Ball.' fce. i-c,' 



LETTER DXXVJIL 

TO MR, MOORE. 

"September — no — October 1, 182L 

" I have written to you lately, both in prose and verse, 
at CTreat length, to Paris and London. I presume that 
Mrs. Moore, or whoever is your Pans deputy, will for- 
ward my packets to you in ^u^ondon. 

" I am setting off fjr Pisa, if a shght incipient intermit- 
tent fever do not prevent me. 1 fear it is not strong 
enough to give Murray much chance of realizing his thir- 
teens again. I hardly should regret it, I think, provided 
you raised your price upon him — as what Lady Holder- 
ness (my sister 's grandmother, a Dutchwoman) used to 
call Augusta, her Rcsidee Legaioo — so as to provide for 
us all ; my bones with a splendid aiid larmoyante ethtion, 
and you with double what is extractable during my 
lifetime. 

" I have a strong presentiment that (bating some out- 
of-the-way accident) you will survive me. The differ- 
ence of eight years, or whatever it is between our ages is 
nothing. I do not feel (nor am, indeed anxious to feel) 
the principles of life in me tend to longevity. My father 
and mother died, the one at thirty-five or six, and the other 
at forty-five ; and Doctor Rusli, or somebody else, says 
that nobody lives long, without having one parent^ at least, 
an old stager. 

" I should, to be sure, like to see out my eternal mother- 
in-law, not so much for her heritage, but from my natural 
antipathy. But the indulgence of this natural desire is 
too much to expect from the Providence who presides 
over old women. I bore you with all this about lives, 
because it has been put in my way by a calculation of 
ensurances which Murray has sent me, I really tlunk 
you should have more, if I evaporate within a reason- 
able time. 

"I wonder if my 'Cain' has got safe to England. I 
have written since about sixty stanzas of a poem, m octave 
stanzas,* (in the Pulci style, which the fools in England 
think was invented by Whistlecraf; — it is as old as the 
hills m Italy,) called ' The Vision of Judgment, by Q,ue- 
vcdo Redivivus,' with this motto — 

' A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel : 
I thank thee, Jew, for leaching me that word.' 

" In this it is my intent to put the said George's Apo- 
theosis in a Whig point of view, not forgetting the Poet 
Laureate for his preface and his other demerits. 

" I am just got to the pass where Saint Peter, hearing 
that the royal defunct had opposed Catholic Emanci- 
pation, rises up and, interrupting Satan's oration, de- 
clares he will change places wiih Cerberus sooner than 
let him into heaven, while he has the keys thereof. 

" I must go and ride, though rather feverish and chilly. 
It is the ague season ; but the agues do me rather good 
than haiTn. The feel after the Jit is as if one had got rid 
of one's body for good and all . 

"The gods go with you I — Address to Pisa. 

"Ever yours. 

" P. S. Since I came back I feci better, though I stayed 
out too late for this malaria season, under the thin cres- 
cent of a very young moon, and got off my horse to walk 
in an avenue with a Signora for an liour I thought of 
you and 

' When aleve thou rovcst 
By the star (liou lovesi.' 

But it was not in a romantic mood, as I should have been 
once ; and yet it was a new woman, (that is, new to 
me,) and, of course, expected to be made love to. But 
I merely made a few commonplace speeches. I feel 
as your poor friend Curran said, before his death,' a 
mountain of lead upon my heart,' which I believe to be 

♦ See Don Juan, Canto IV. Stanza 6. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



191 



constitutional, and tliat nothing will remove it but tlie 
same remedy." 



LETTER DXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

October 6, 182L 

" By this post I have sent my nightmare to balance the 
incubus of Southey's impudent anticipation of the Apo- 
theosis of George the Third. I should like you to take a 
look over it, as I think there are two or three things in it 
which might please ' our puir hill folk.' 

" By the last two or three posts I have written to you 
at length. My ague bows to me every two or three days, 
but we are not as yet upon intimate speaking terms. 1 
have an intermittent generally every two years, when the 
climate is favourable, (as it is here,) but it does me no 
harm. What I find worse, and cannnot get rid of, is the 
growing depression of my spirits, without sufficient cause. 
I ride — I am not intemperate in eating or drinking — and 
my general health is as usual, except a slight ague, which 
rather does good tlian not. It must be constitutional ; for 
I know nothing more than usual to depress me to that 
degree. 

" How do ymi manage ? I think you told me, at Ve- 
nice, that your spirits did not keep up without a little 
claret. I can drink and bear a good deal of wine, (as 
you may recollect in England ;) but it don't exhilarate — 
it makes me savage and suspicious, and even quarrel- 
some. Laudanum has a similar effect ; but I can take 
much of i< without any effect at all. The thing that gives 
me the highest spirits (it seems absurd, but true) is a dose 
of salts — I mean in the afternoon, after their effect. But 
one can't take them like champagne. 

« Excuse this old woman's letter ; but my lemancholy 
don't depend upon health, for it is just the same, well or 
ill, or here or there. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, October 9, 182L 
"You will please to present or convey the enclosed 
poem to Mr. Moore. 1 sent him another copy to Paris: 
but he has probably left that city. 

" Do n't forget to send nie my first act of ' Werner* (if 
Hobhouse can find it among my papers) — send it by the 
post to (Pisa ;) and also cut out Sophia Lee's ' German's 
Tale' from the ' Canterbury Tales,' and send it in a letter 
also. I began that tragedy m 1815. 

" By-the-way, you have a good deal of my prose tracts 
in MS. ? Let me have proofs of them all again — I mean 
the controversial ones, including the last two or three 
years of time. Another question'. — The Epistle of St. 
Paul, which I translated from the Armenian, for what 
reason have you kept it back, though you published that 
stuff which gave rise to the ' Vampire ?' Is it because 
you are afraid to print any thing in opposition to the cant 
of the duarterly about Manichcism ? Let me have a 
proof of that Epistle directly. T am a better Christian 
than those parsons of yours, though not paid for being so. 
"Send — Fabcr's Treatise on the Cabiri. 
"Sainte Croix's Myst&res du Pagaiiismc, (scarce, per- 
haps, but to be found, as Mitford refers to his work fre- 
quently.) 

" A common Bible, of good legible print, (bound in rus- 
sia.) I have one ; but as it was the last gift of my sister, 
(whom I shall probably never sec again,) I can only ust- 
it carefully, and less frequently, because I like to keep it 
in good order. Do n't forgot this, for I am a groat reader 
and admirer of those books, and had read iJiem thro»igh 
and through before I was eight years old, — that is to say. 



the Old Testament, for the New struck men as a task' 
but the other as a pleasure. I speak as a boy from the re- 
collected impression of that period at Aberdeen in 1796. 
"Any novels of Scott, or poetry of the same. Ditto cf 
Crabbe, Moore, and the Elect ; but none of your cursed 
commonplace trash, — unless something starts up of actual 
merit, which may very well be, for 't is time it should." 



LETTER DXXXI. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



"October 20, 1821. 

" If the errors are in the MS. write me down an ass : 
they are not, and I am content to undergo any penalty if 
they be. Besides, the omitted stanza, (last but one or 
two,) sent afterward, was that in the MS. too ? 

" As to ' honour,' I will trust no man's honour in affairs 
of barter. I will tell you why: a state of bargain is 
Hobbes's ' state of nature — a state of war.' It is so with 
all men. If I come to a friend, and say, ' Friend, lend me 
five hundred pounds,' — he either does it, or says that he 
can't or won't; but if I come to ditto, and say, 'Ditto, I 
have an excellent house, or horse, or carriage, or MSS. or 
books, or pictures, or &c. &c. &c. &c. honestly worth a 
thousand pounds, you shall have them for five hundred,' 
what does Ditto say? why, he looks at them, he hums, he 
has, — he humbugs, if he can, to get a bargain as cheaply 
as he can, because it is a bargain. — This is in the blood 
and bone of mankind ; and the same man who would 
lend another a thousand pounds without interest, would 
not buy a horse of him for half its value if he could help 
it. It is so : there 's no denying it ; and therefore I will 
have as much as I can, and you will give as little ; and 
there 's an end. All men are intrinsical rascals, and I am 
only sorry that, not being a dog, I can't bite them. 

" I am filling another book for you with little anecdotes, 
to my own knowledge, or well authenticated, of Sheridan, 
Curran, &c. and such other public men as I recollect to 
have been acquainted with, for I knew most of them more 
or less. I will do what I can to prevent your losing by 
my obsequies. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXXIL 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



" Ravenna, October 21, 1821. 

" I shall be (the gods willing) in Bologna on Saturday 
next. This is a curious answer to your letter ; but I have 
taken a house in Pisa for the winter, to which all my chat- 
tels, furniture, horses, carriages, and live stock arc already 
removed, and I am preparing to follow. 

" The cause of this removal is, shortly, the exile or pro- 
scription of all my friends' relations and connexions here 
into Tuscany, on account of our late politics ; and where 
they go, I accompany them. I merely remained till now 
to settle some arrangements about my daughter, and to 
give time for my furniture, &c. to precede me. I Irave 
not here a seat or a bed hardly, except some jury chairs, 
and tables, and a mattress for the week to come. 

"If you will go on w iih me to Pisa, I can lodge you for 
as long as you like, (they write that the hou.<e, the Palazzo 
Lanfranchi, is spacious: it is on the Anio;) and I have 
four carriages, and as many saddle horses, (such as they 
are in these parts,) with all other convonienees at your 
command, as also their owner. If yuu could do this, we 
may, at least, cn)ss tJio Apennines together; or if you 
are going by another road, we shall meet at Bolognu, I 
hope. I address this to the post-othre, (as you desire,) 
and you will probably find me at the Albergo d\ San 
Marco. If you arrive first, wait till I come up, which 
will br (hairing accidcnlw) on Saturday or Sunday at 
farthest. 



192 



LETTERS, 1821. 



mUM' 



* I presume you are alone in your voyages. Moore is 
in London incog., according to my latest advices from 
those climates. 

" It is better than a lustre (five years and six months 
and some days, more or less,) since me met ; and, like 
the man from Tadcaster in the farce, (' Love laughs at 
Locksmiths,') whose acquaintances, including the cat and 
the terrier, ' who caught a halfpenny in his mouth,' were 
all ' gone dead,' but too many of our acquaintances have 
taken the same path. Lady Melbourne, Grattan, Sheri- 
dan, Curran, &c. &c. almost every body of much name 
of the old school. But ' so am not I, said the foolish fat 
scullion,' therefore let us make the most of our remainder. 

" Let me find two lines from you at ' the hostel or inn.' 
"Yours ever, &c. 

«B." 



LETTER DXXXm. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, Oct. 28, 1821. 

« «'T is the middle of night by the casde clock,' and in 
three hours more I have to set out on my way to Pisa — 
sitting up all night to be sure of rising. I have just made 
them take off my bed-clothes — blankets inclusive — in case 
of temptation from the apparel of sheets to my eyelids. 

"Samuel Rogers is — or is to be — at Bologna, as he 
writes from Venice. 

"I thought our Magnifico would 'pound you,' if possi- 
ble. He is trying to * pound' me, too ; but I '11 specie the 
rogue — or, at least, I '11 have the odd shillings out of him 
in keen iambics. 

" Your approbation of ' Sardanapalus' is agreeable, for 
more reasons than one. Hobhouse is pleased to thi ,. ?s 
you do of it, and so do some others — but the ' Ariu„.spian,' 
whom, like ' a Gryphon in the wildernes? " I will ' follow 
for his gold,' (as I exhorted you to " before,) did or dotlf 
disparage it — 'stinting me in my sizings.' His notable 
opinions on the ' Foscari' and 'Cain' he hath not as yet 
forwarded ; or, at least, I have not yet received them, nor 
the proofs thereof though promised by last post. 

" I see the way that he and his Quarterly people are 
tending — they want a row with me, and they shall have it. 
I only regret that I am not in England for the nonce ; as, 
here, it is hardly fair ground for me, isolated and out of 
the way of prompt rejoinder and information, as I am. 
But, though backed by all the corruption, and infamy, and 
patronage of their master rogues and slave renegadoes, 
if they do once rouse me up, 

' They had better gall the devil, Salisbury.' 

" I have that for two or three of them, which they had 
better not move me to put in motion ; — and yet, after all, 
what a fool I am to disquiet myself about such fellows ! 
It was all very well ten or twelve years ago, when I was 
a ' curled darling,' and minded such things. At present, I 
rate them at their true value ; but, from natural temper 
and bile, am not able to keep quiet. 

" Let me hear from you on your return from Ireland, 
which ought to be ashamed to see you, after her Bruns- 
wick blarney. I am of Longman's opinion, that you 
should allow your friends to liquidate the Bermuda claim. 
Why should you throw away the two thousand pounds 
(of the TioTi-guinea Murray) upon that cursed piece of 
treacherous inveiglement ? I think you carry the matter 
a little too far and scrupulously. When we see patriots 
begging publicly, and know that Grattan received a for- 
tune from his country, I really do not see why a man, in 
no whit inferior to any or all of them, should shrink from 
accepting that assistance from his private friends, which 
every tradesman receives from his connexions upon much 
less occasions. For, after all, it was not yoiir debt — it 
was a piece of swindling against you. As to * * * +, 
and the ' what noble creatures !' &c. &c. it is all very fine 



and very well, but till you can persuade me that there is 
no credit and no self-applause to be obtained by being of 
use to a celebrated man, I must retain the same opinion 
of the human species, which I do of our friend M». Specie," 



LETTER DXXXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, November 3, 182L 

" The two passages cannot be altered without making 
Lucifer talk like the Bishop of Lincoln, which would not 
be in the character of the former. The notion is from 
Cuvier, (that of the old worlds,) as I have explained in 
an additional note to the preface. The other passage is 
also in character: if nonsense, so much the better, because 
then it can do no harm, and the sillier Satan is made, the 
safer for every body. As to ' alarms,' &c. do you really 
think such things ever led any body astray ? Are these 
people more impious than Milton's Satan ? or the Pro- 
metheus of ^schylus 7 or even than the Sadducees of 
Milman, the ' Fall of Jerusalem' * * ? Are not Adam, 
Eve, Adah, and Abel, as pious as the catechism ? 

" GifFord is too wise a man to think that such things can 
have any serious effect: who was ever altered by a poem? 
I beg leave to observe, that there is no creed nor personal 
hypothesis of mine in all this ; but I was obliged to 
make Cain and Lucifer talk consistendy, %jid surely this 
has always been permitted to poesy. Cain is a proud 
man : if Lucifer promised him kingdom, &c. it would ciarfe 
him : the object of the Demon is to depress him still farther 
in his own estimation than he was before, by shovraig him 
infinite things, and his own abasement, till he falls into the 
frame of mind that leads to tlae catastrophe, from mere 
internal irritation, not premeditation, or envy of Abel^ 
(which would have made him contemptible,) but from 
rage and fury against the inadequacy of his state to his 
conceptions, and which discharges itself rather against 
hfe, and the Author of Me, than the mere li\'ing. 

" His subsequent remorse is the natural effect of looking 
on his sudden deed. Had the deed been premeditated, liis 
repentance would have been tardier. 

" Either dedicate it to Walter Scott, or, if you think he 
would like the dedication of ' the Foscaris' better, put the 
dedication to ' the Foscaris.' Ask him which. 

" Your first note was queer enough ; but your two other 
letters, with Moore's and Gifford's opinions, set all right 
again. I told you before that I can never recast any thing. 
1 am like the tiger : if I miss the first spring, I go grumbling 
back to my jungle again ; but if I do hit, it is crushing. 
* * * You disparaged the last three cantos 

to me, and kept them back above a year ; but 1 have 
heard from England that (notwithstanding the errors of the 
press,) they are well thought of; for instance, by Ameri- 
can Irving, which last is a feather in my (fool's) cap. 

"You have received my letter (open) through Mr. 
Kinnaird, and so, pray, send me no more reviews of any 
kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. 
Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thir- 
teen years. 

"The bust is not my property, but Habhouse^s. I 
addressed it to you as an Admiralty man, great at the 
custom-house. Pray deduct the expenses of the same, 
and all others. « Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Pisa, Nov. 9, 1821. 

" I never read the Memoirs at all, not even since they 

were written ; and I never will : the pain of writing them 

was enough ; you may spare me that of a perusaL Mr. 

Moore has (or may have) a discretionary power to omit 



LETTERS, 1821. 



193 



any repetition, or expressions which do not seem good to 
Aim, who is a better judge than you or I. 

"Enclosed is a lyrical drama, (entitled 'a Mystery,' 
from its subject,) which, perhaps, may arrive in time for 
the volume. You will find it pious enough, I trust — at 
least some of the Chorus might have been written by 
Stemhold and Hopkins themselves for that, and perhaps 
for melody. As it is longer, and more lyrical and Greek 
than I intended at first, I have not divided it into acts, but 
called what I have sent Part First, as there is a suspen- 
sion of the action, which may either close there without 
impropriety, or be continued in a way that I have in view, 
I wish the first part to be published before the second, 
because, if it do n't succeed, it is better to stop there than 
to go on in a fruitless experiment. 

" I desire you to acknowledge the arrival of this packet 
by return of post, if you can conveniently, with a proof. 
" Your obedient, &c. 

"P. S. My wish is to have it published at the same 
time, and, if possible, in the same volume, with the others, 
because, whatever the merits or demerits of these pieces 
may be, it will perhaps be allowed that each is of a differ- 
ent land, and in a different style ; so that, including the 
prose and the Don Juans, &c. I have at least sent you 
variety during the last year or two." 



LETTER DXXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Pisa, Nov. 16, 1821. 
" There is here Mr. Taafe, an Irish genius, with whom 



« P. S. What I wrote to you about low spirits is, how- 
ever, very true. At present, ovmig to the climate, &c. (I 
can walk down into my garden, and pluck my own oranges; 
and, by-the-way, have got a diarrhoea in consequence of 
indulging in this meridian luxury of proprietorship,) my 
spirits are much better. You seem to think that I could 
not have written the 'Vision,' &c. under the influence of 
low spirits ; — but I think there you err. A man's poetry 
is a distinct faculty, or Soul, and has no more to do wdth 
the every-day individual than the Inspiration with the 
Pythoness when removed from her tripod." 

To Lord Byron. 

"Frome, Somerset, Nov. 21, 1821. 

" MY LORD, 

" More than two years since, a lovely cuid beloved wife 
was taken from me, by lingering disease, after a very short 
union. She possessed unvarying gentleness and fortitude, 
and a piety so retiring as rarely to disclose itself in words, 
but so influential as to produce uniform benevolence of 
conduct. In the last hour of life, after a farewell look on 
a lately born and only infant, for whom she had evinced 
inexpressible affection, her last whispers were, 'God's 
happbess ! God's happiness !' Since the second armi- 
versary of her decease, I have read some papers which no 
one had seen during her life, and which contain her most 
secret thoughts. I am induced to communicate to youi 
lordship a passage from these papers, which, there is no 
doubt, refers to yourself; as I have more tlian once heard 
the writer mention your agility on the rocks at Hastings. 

" ' Oh, my God, I take encouragement from the assur- 
ance of thy "Word, to pray to Thee in behalf of one for 
whom I have lately been much interested. May the 
we are acquainted. He hath written a really excelleyt JH;prson to whom I allude (and who is now, we fear, as 



Commentary on Dante, full of nev/ and true information, 
and much ingenuity. But his verse is such as it hath 
pleased God to endue him withal. Nevertheless, he is so 
firmly persuaded of its equal excellence, that he won't 
divorce the Commentary from the traduction, as I ventured 
delicately to hint, — not having the fear of Ireland before 
my eyes, and upon the presumption of having shotten very 
well in his presence (with common pistols too, not with my 
Manton's) the day before. 

" But he is eager to publish all, and must be gratified, 
though the Reviewers will make him suffer more tortures 
than there are in his original. Indeed, the Notes arc well 
worth publication ; but he insists upon the translation for 
company, so that they will come out together, like Lady 
C * * t chaperoning Miss * *. I read a letter of yours 
to him yesterday, and he begs me to write to you about his 
Poeshie. He is really a good fellow, apparently, and I 
dare say that his verse is very good Irish. 

"Now, what shall we do for him? He says that he 
will risk part of the expense with the publisher. He will 
never rest till he is published and abused — for he has a 
high opinion of himself — and I see nothing left but to 
gratify him so as to have him abused as little as possible ; 
for I think it would kill him. You must write, then, to 
Jeffrey to beg him not to review him, and I will do the 
same to Gilford, through Murray. Perhaps tiiey might 
notice the Comment without touching tlie text. But I 
doubt the dogs — the text is too tempting, * * 

* * * 

"I have to thank you again, as I believe I did before, 
for your opinion of 'Cain,' &c. 

" You arc right to allow to settle the claim ; but 

I do not see why you should repay him out of your lef^acy — 
at least not yet. If you feel about it, (as you are ticklish 
on such points,) pay him tlie interest now, ami the princi- 
pal when you arc strong in cash ; or pay iviin by instal- 
ments ; or pay him as I do my creditors — tliat is, not till 
they make mo. 

"I address this to you at Paris, as you desire. Reply 
■con, and believe me over. &c. 
25 



in«^.i.i distinguished for his neglect of Thee as for the 
transcendf*;:^ talents thou hast bestowed on him) be 
awakened to » «fise of his own danger, and led to seek 
that peace of rfj^id, in a proper sense of religion, which 
he has found this world's enjoyments unable to procure ! 
Do thou grant that his future example may he productive 
of far more extensive benefit than his past conduct and 
writings have been of evil ; and may the Sun of righteous- 
ness, which, we trust, will, at some future period, arise on 
him, be bright ui proportion to the darkness of tliose 
clouds which guilt has raised around him, and the balm 
which it bestows, healing and soothing in proportion to the 
keenness of that agony which the punishment of his vices 
has inflicted on him ! May the hope that the sincerity 
of my own efforts for the attainment of holiness, and the 
approval of my own love to the great Author of religion, 
will render this prayer, and every other for the welfare 
of mankind, more efficacious. — Cheer me in th.e path of 
duty ; — but let ine not forget, that, while we are permitted 
to animate ourselves to exertion by every innocent motive, 
these are but the lesser streams which may scn-e to 
increase the current, but which, deprived of the grand 
fountain of good, (a deep conviction of inborn sin, and 
firm belief in tiie efficacy of Christ's death for the salva- 
tion of those who trust in him, and really wish to servo 
him,) would soon dry up, and leave us barren of every 
virtue as before. 

«' July 31st, 18M. 
"'Hastings.'" 

" There is nothing, my lord, in liiis extract, wiiich, in a 
literary sense, can at all interest you ; but it may, per- 
haps, appear to you wortliy of relleciii>n how dei'i) and 
expansive a concern lor the happiness of otliei-s Uio 
Christian faith can awaken in the midst of youth and 
prosperity. Hero is nothing poetical and Kpleiulid, as in 
the expostulatory homage of I\I. Dtluinartine ? but hero 
is the sublime, my lord ; for this intertrssion was oU'ered, 
on your account, to the supreme Sourct' of lKi]ipini'ss. It 
sprang from a faith more connrnied than that of iho 
French poet ; and from a ehaiiiy whirh, in combination 



194 



LETTERS, 1821. 



with faith, showed its power unimpaired amid the lan- 
guors and pains of approacliing dissolution. I will hope 
that a prayer, which, I am sure, was deeply sincere, may 
not be always unavailing. 

"It would add nothing, my lord, to the fame >\ath which 
your genius has surrounded you, for an unknown and 
obscure individual to express his admiration of it. I had 
rather be numbered with those who wish and pray, that 
*■ wisdom from above,' and ' peace,' and ' joy,' may enter 
such a mind. " John Sheppard." 



LETTER DXXXVII. 

TO MR. SHEPPAHD. 

Pisa, December 8, 182L 
"sir, 

" I have received your letter. I need not say, that the 
extract which it contains has affected me, because it would 
imply a want of all feeling to have read it with indifference. 
Though I am not quite sure that it was intended by the 
writer for me, yet the date, the place where it was written, 
with some other circumstances that you mention, render 
the allusion probable. But for whomever it was meant, I 
have read it with all the pleasure which can arise from so 
melancholy a topic. I say pleasure — because your brief 
and simple picture of the life and demeanour of the ex- 
cellent person whom I trust you will again meet, cannot 
be contemplated without the admiration due to her virtues 
and her pure and unpretending piety. Her last moments 
were particularly striking ; and I do not know that, in tlie 
course of reading the story of mankind, and still less in my 
observations upon the existing portion, I ever met with any 
thing so unostentatiously beautiful. Indisputably, the firm 
believers in the Gospel have a great advantage over all 
others, — for this simple reason, that, if true, they will 
have their reward hereafter ; and if there be no here- 
after, they can be but with the infidel in his eternal sleep, 
having had the assistance of an exalted hope, through 
life, without subsequent disappointment, since (at the 
worst for them) ' out of nothing, nothing can arise,' not 
even sorrow. But a man's creed does not depend upon 
himself: who can say, I will believe this, that, or the other ? 
and, least of all, that which he least can comprehend. I 
have, however, observed, that those who have begun life 
with extreme faith, have in the end greatly narrowed it, as 
Chillingworth, Clarke, (who ended as an Arian,) Bayle, 
and Gibbon, (once a Catholic,) and some others ; while, 
on the other hand, nothing is more conmion than for the 
early skeptic to end in a firm behef, bke Maupertuis and 
Henry Kirk White. 

" But my business is to acknowledge your letter, and 
not to make a dissertation. I am obliged to you for your 
good wishes, and more than obliged by the extract from 
the papers of the beloved object whose qualities you have 
so well described in a few words. I can assure you, that 
all the fame which ever cheated humanity into higher no- 
tions of its own importance would never weigh in my mind 
against the pure and pious interest which a virtuous being 
may be pleased to take in my welfare. In this point of 
view, I would not exchange the prayer of the deceased in 
my behalf for the united glory of Homer, Cajsar, and Na- 
poleon, could such be accumulated upon a living head. Do 
me at least the justice to suppose, tliat 

' Video melioraproboque,* 

however the ' deteriora sequor,' may have been applied to 
my conduct. 

" I have the honour to be 

" your obliged and obedient servant, 
« Byrov. 

" P. S. I do not know that I am addressing a clergy- 
man ; but I presume that you will not be affronted by tlie 
mistake (if it is one) on the address of this letter. One 



who has so well explained, and deeply felt the doctrines of 
religion, will excuse the error which led me to believe him 
its minister." 



LETTER DXXXVIIL 



TO MK. MURRAY. 



Pisa, December 4, 1821. 

" By extracts in the English papers, — ^in your holy ally, 
Galignani's 'Messenger,' — I perceive that ' the two great- 
est examples of human vanity in the present age' are 
firstly, ' the ex-emperor Napoleon,' and, secondly, ' his lord- 
ship, &c. the noble poet,' meaning your humble servant, 
' poor guiltless I.' 

" Poor Napoleon ! he little dreamed to what vile com- 
parisons the turn of the wheel would reduce him ! 

" I have got here into a famous old feudal palazzo, on 
the Arno, large enough for a garrison, with dungeons b** 
low and cells in the walls, and so full of ghosts that the 
learned Fletcher (my valet) has begged leave to change 
his room, and then refused to occupy his new room, be- 
cause there were more ghosts there than in the other. It 
is quite true that there are most extraordinary noises, (as 
in all old buildings,) which have terrified the servjints so 
as to incommode me extremely. There is one place 
where people were evidently walled up, for there is but one 
possible passage, broken through the wall, and then meant 
to be closed again upon the inmate. The house belonged 
to the Lanfranchi family, (the same mentioned by Ugolino 
in his dream, as his persecutor with Sismondi,) and has 
had a fierce owner or two in its time. The staircase, &c. 
is said to have been built by Michel Agnolo. It is not yet 
cold enough for a fire. Wiiat a climate ! 

" I am, however, bothered about these spectres, (as they 
say the last occupants were, too,) of whom I have as yet 
seen nothing, nor, indeed, heard {myself) ; but all the other 
ears have been regaled by all kinds of supernatural sounds. 
The first night I thought I heard an odd noise, bat it has 
not been repeated. I have now been here more than a 
month. "Yours, &€." 



LETTER DXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Pisa, December 10, 1821. 
This day and this hour, (one, on the clock,) my daugh- 
ter is six years old. I wonder when I shall see her again, 
or if ever I shall see her at all. 

I have remarked a curious coincidence,* which almost 
looks like a fatality. 

" My mother, my wife, my daughter, my half-sister, my 
sister's mother, my natural daughter, (as far at least as / 
am concerned,) and myself, are all only children. 

" My father, by his first marriage with Lady Conyers, (an 
only child,) had only my sister ; and by liis second mar- 
riage with an only child, an only child again. Lady Byron, 
as you know, was one also, and so is my daughter, &c. 

" Is not this rather odd — such a complication of only 
children? By-the-way, send me my daugnter Ada's 
miniature. I have only the print, which gives little or 
no idea of her complexion. 

"Yours, &c. 



B." 



LETTER DXL. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, December 12, 1821. 
What you say about Galignani's two biographies is 
very amusing; and, if I were not lazy, I would certainly 



* See Memoianduins, page 261. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



195 



do what you desire. But I doubt my present stock of 
facetiousness — that is, of good serious humour, so as not 
to let the cat out of the bag.* I wish you would under- 
take it. I will forgive and indulge you (hke a pope) before- 
hand, for any thing ludicrous, that might keep those fools 
in their own dear behef that a man is a loup garou. 

" I suppose I told you that the Giaour story had actually 
some foundation on facts ; or, if I did not, you will one day 
find it in a letter of Lord Sligo's, written to me after the 
publication of the poem. I should not like marvels to rest 
upon any account of my own, and shall say nothing about 
it. However, the real incident is still remote enough from 
the poetical one, being just such as, happening to a man 
of any imagination, might suggest such a composition. 
The worst of any real adventures is that they involve 

living people — else Mrs. 's 's^&c. are as ' german 

to the matter' as Mr. Maturin could desire for his novels. 
***** 

" The consummation you mentioned for poor Taafe was 
near taking place yesterday. Riding pretty sharply after 
Mr. Medwin and myself, in turning the corner of a lane 
between Pisa and the hills, he wa.s spilt, — and, besides 
losing some claret on the spot, bruised himself a good deal, 
but is in no danger. He was bled, and keeps his room. 
As I was a-head of him some hundred yards, I did not see 
the accident ; but my servant, who was behind, did. and, 
says the Iwrse did not fall — the usual excuse of floored 
equestrians. As Taafe piques himself upon his horse- 
manship, and his horse is really a pretty horse enough, I 
long for his personal narrative, — as I never yet met the 
man who would /aiVZy claim a tumble as his own property 

•'Could not you send me a printed copy of the 'Irish 
Avatar?' — I do not know what has become of Rogers since 
we parted at Florence. 

" Do n't let the Angles keep you from writing. Sam 
told me that you were somewhat dissipated in Paris, which 
I can easily beheve. Let me hear from you at your best 
leisure. " Ever and truly, &c. 

"P.S. December 13. 

" I enclose you some lines, written not long ago, which 
you may do what you like \vith, as they arc very harm- 
less.f Only, if copied, or printed, or set, I could wish it 
more correctly than in the usual way, in which one's 
'nothings are monstered,' as Coriolanus says. 

*' You must really get Taafe published — he never will 
rest till he is so. He is just gone with his broken head to 
Luccea, at my desire, to try to save a man from being 
burnt. The Spanish * * *, that has her petticoats over 
Lucca, had actually condemned a poor devil to the stake, 
for stealing the wafer-box out of a church. Shelley and 
I, of course, were up in arms against this piece of piety, 
and have been disturbing every body to get the sentence 
changed. Taafe is gone to see what can be done. 

"B." 



LETTER DXLL 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

"December 12, 1R2L 

"my r>EAR SHELLEY, 

"Enclosed is a note for you from . His reasons 

arc all very true, T dare say, and it mi.'jlit and may be of 
personal inconvenience to us. But that does not appear 
to me to bo a reason to allow a being to be burnt vvithoiil 
trying to save him. To save him by any moans but renwn- 



* Mr. Gnlignnni hnving expreiicd a wiih to be runiiiihud with n dmrt 
Memoir of Lord Byron, fur the piirposi' of prolixiiig It to ihc Kn-mh 
e'lilion of hill work*, I hail mid jexlin^ly inn prri'i'dinir irltiM-to hit iord- 
■hip, thi\t itwoiiid lieliiitn fair Hiilii.' mi (lie dispoHinon of llir worid to 
" bemonntcr hia fi'utiireii," if li« woiild wiitr I'.ir tlio piiliiir , Kngliiih nn well 
Bi French, n lort of moclc-huroic iicroniil of liimnrll', oiililoiiif;, in horror* 
and wondtim, nil Ihnt hndhttcn ypl rclnledor hi-lievvd ofhiin, niid leiiving 
fven Ooelhe'i ilory of the douhlf minder nl Plore nee fiir hihind. 

Aloort. 

t Stantai written on th road between riorcncennd I'i«n, pngs ibl. 



strancc, is of course out of the question ; but I do not see 
why a temperate remonstrance should hurt any one. Lord 
Guilford is the man, if he would undertake it. He knows 
the Grand Duke personally, and might, perhaps, prevail 
upon him to interfere. But, as he goes to-morrow, you 
must be quick or it will be useless. Make any use of 
my name that you please. 

" Yours ever, &c.'' 



LETTER DXLII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" I send you the two notes, which will tell you the story 
I allude to of the Auto da Fe. Shelley's allusion to his 
'fellow-serpent' is a buffoonery of mine. Goethe's 
Mephistofilus calls the serpent who tempted Eve ' my 
aunt, the renowned snake ;' and I always insist that 
Shelley is nothing but one of her nephews, walking about 
on the tip of his tail." 

To Lord Byron. 

« 2 o'clock, Tuesday Morning. 
"my dear lord, 
" Although strongly persuaded that the story must be 
either an entire fabrication, or so gross an exaggeration 
as to be nearly so ; yet, in order to be able to discover 
the truth beyond all doubt, and to set your mind quite at 
rest, I have taken the determination to go myself to Lucca 
this morning. Should it prove less false than I am con- 
vinced it is, I shall not fail to exert myself in every way 
that I can imagine may have any success. Be assured 
of this. " Your lordship's most truly, 

«* +, 

" P. S. To prevent bavnrdage, I prefer going in person 
to sending my servant with a letter. It is better for you 
to mention nothing (except, of course, to Shelley) of my 
excursion. The person I visit there is one on whom I 
can have every dependence in every way, both as to au- 
thority and truth. 

To Lmd Byron. 

" Thursday Morning. 

"my dear lord BYRON, 

"I hear this morning that the design, which certainly 
had been in contemplation, of burning my fellow- serpent, 
has been abandoned, and that he has been condemned to 
the crallcys. Lord Guilford is at Leghorn ; and as your 
courier apjilied to mc to know whether he ought to leave 
your letter for him or not, T have thought it best since this 
information to tell him to take it back. 

" Ever faitlifully yours, 
"P.B.Shelley. 



LETTER DXLIII. 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

"Pisa, January 12,1822. 
"my dear sir wai.tei;, 
•* I need not sav how grat<>ful I am for your letter, but 
I mtist own my ingratitude in iu)t having written to you 
again long ago. Since I left England, (iuid it is not for 
all the usual term t)f transportation,) I have scribbled to 
five himdred blockheads on business, &c. williout difficul- 
ty, though with no great pleasur«» ; and yet, with the no- 
tion of addressing yoti a humlred times, in my heail, and 
always in my heart, I hav^ not done what I ought to have 
done. I can only arcoiml for it on the same principle of 
tremulous anxiety with which out* sometimes makes lovo 
to a beautiful woman of our own degree, with whom one 
is onamoiiretl in gotxl earnest ; wherca-s, we attack a fresh- 
coloiirod housemaid without (I "peak, of coiinie, of earlier 



196 



LETTERS, 1822. 



times) any sentimental remorse or mitigation of our vir- 
tuous purpose. 

« I owe to you far more than the usual obligation for 
the courtesies of literature and common friendship, for you 
went out of your way in 1817 to do me a service, when it 
required not merely kindness, but courage to do so ; to 
have been recorded by you in such a manner would have 
been a proud memorial at any time, but at such a time 
when ' all the world and his wife,' as the proverb goes, 
were trying to trample upon me, was something still higher 
to myself-esteem,— I allude to the Quarterly Review of 
the Third Canto of Childe Harold, which Murray told me 
was written by you, — and, indeed, I should have known 
it without his information, as there could not be two who 
cmdd and woidd have done this at the time. Had it been 
a common criticism, however eloquent or panegyrical, I 
should have felt pleased, undoubtedly, and grateful, but 
not to the extent which the extraordinary good-hearted- 
ness of the whole proceeding must induce in any mind 
capable of such sensations. The very tardiness of this 
acknowledgment will, at least, show that I have not for- 
gotten the obligation ; and I can assure you that my sense 
of it has been out at compound interest during the delay. 
I shall only add one word upon the subject, which is, that 
I think that you, and Jeffrey, and Leigh Himt, were the 
only literary men, of numbers whom I know, (and some of 
whom I have served,) who dared venture even an anony- 
mous word in my favour just then ; and that of those three, 
I had never seen one at all — of the second much less than 
I desired — and that the third was under no kind of obli- 
gation to me whatever ; while the other two had been ac- 
tually attacked by me on a former occasion ; one, indeed, 
with some provocation, but the other wantonly enough. 
So you see you have been heaping ' coals of fire,' &c. in 
the true Gospel manner, and I can assure you that they 
have burnt down to my very heart. 

" I am glad that you accepted the InscriptJon. I meant 
to have inscribed ' the Foscarini ' to you instead ; but 
first, I heard that ' Cain' Avas thought the least bad of the 
two as a composition ; and, 2dly, I have abused Southey 
like a pickpocket, in a note to tlie Foscarini, and I recol- 
lected that he is a friend of yours, (though not of mine,) 
and that it would not be the handsome thing to dedicate 
to one friend any thing containing such matters about 
another. However, I '11 work the Laureate before 1 nave 
done with him, as soon as I can muster Billingsgate there 
for. I Uke a ro'.v, and always did from a boy, in the course 
of which propensity, I must needs say, that I have found 
it the most easy of all to be gratified, personally and poeti- 
cally. You disclaim 'jealousies ;' but I would ask, as 
Boswell did of Johnson, 'of to/jom could you he jealous,^ — 
of none of the living, certainly, and (taking all and all into 
consideration) of which of the -dead ? I don't hke to bore 
you about the Scotch novels, (as they call them, though 
two of them are wholly English, and the rest half so,) but 
nothing can or could ever persuade mc, since I was the 
first ten minutes in your company, that you arc not the 
man. To mo those novels have so much of ' Auld iang 
sjrne, (I was bred a canny Scot till ten years old,) that I 
never move without thom; and when I removed from 
Ravenna to Pisa, the other day, and sent on my library 
before, they were the only books that I kept by me, al- 
though I already have them by heart. 

".January 27, 1822. 
"I delayed till now concluding, in the hope tliat I should 
have got ' the Pirate,' « ho is now under way for me, but 
has not yet hove in sight. I hear that your daughter is 
married, and I suppose by this time you are half a grand- 
father — a young one, by-'du>-'.vay. I have heard great 
things of Mrs. Lockhart's personal and mental charms, and 
much good of her lord : that you may live to see as manv 
novel Scotts as there are Scots' novels, is the very bad 
pun, but sincere viHish of 

"Yours ever most affectionately, &c. 



" P. S. Why do n't you take a turn in Italy ? You 
would find yourself as well known and as welcome as in 
the Highlands among the natives. As for the English, 
you would be with them as in London ; and I need not 
add, that I should be delighted to see you again, which is 
far more than I shall ever feel or say for England, or (with 
a few exceptions 'of kith, kin, and allies') any thing that it 
contains. But my 'heart warms to the tartan,' or to any 
thing of Scotland, which reminds m.e of Aberdeen and 
other parts, not so far from the Higlilands * as that town, 
about Invercauld and Braemar, where I was sent to drink 
goat's fey in 1795-6, in consequence of a threatened de- 
cline after the scarlet fever. But I am gossiping ; so, good 
night — and the gods be with your dreams ! 

" Pray, present my respects to Lady Scott, who may 
perhaps recollect having seen me in town in 1815. 

'I see that one of your supporters (for, like Sir Hilde- 
brand, I am fond of Guillin) is a mermaid; it is my crest 
too, and with precisely the same curl of tail. There 's 
concatenation for you ! — I am building a little cutter at 
Genoa, to go a-cruising in the summer. I Itnow you like 
the sea too." 



LETTER DXLIV. 



TO DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 



f'Pisa, February, 6, 1822. 
" ' Try back the deep lane,' till we find a publisher for 
' the Vision ;' and if none such is to be found, print fifty 
copies at my expense, distribute them among my acquaint- 
ance, and you will soon see that the booksellers mil pub- 
lish them, even if we oppose them. That they are now 
afraid is natural ; but I do not see that I ought to give way 
on that account. I know nothing of Rivingtons 'Remon- 
strance' by the 'eminent Churchman;' but I suppose he 
wants a living. I once heard of a preacher at Kentish 
Town against 'Cain.' The same outcry was raised 
against Priestley, Hume, Gibbon, Voltaire, and all the 
men who dared to put tithes to the question. 

" I have got Southey's pretended reply, to which I am 
surprised that you do not allude. What remains to be 
done is, to call him out. The question is, would he come ? 
for, if he would not, the whole thing would appear ridicu- 
lous, if I were to take a long and expensive journey to no 
purpose. 

" You must be my second, and, as such, I wish to con- 
sult you. 

"I apply to you as one well versed in the duello, or 
monomachie. Of course I shall come to England as pri- 
vately as possible, and leave it (supposing that I was the 
survivor) in the same manner ; having no other object 
which could bring me to that country except to settle 
quarrels accumulated during my absence. 

" By the last post I transmitted to you a letter upon 
some Rochdale toll business, from which there are moneys 
in prospect. My agent says tico thousand pound?, but sup- 
posing it to be only one, or even one hundred, still they be 
moneys ; and I have lived long enough to have an exceed- 
ing respect for the smallest current coin of any realm, or 
the least sum, which, although I may not want it myself, 
may do something for others who may need it more than I. 
" They say that ' Ivnowledge is Power ;'-— I used to 
think so ; but I now know that they meant ' money ;' and 
when Socrates declared, ' that all he knew was, that he 
knew nothing,' he merely intended to declare, that he had 
not a drachm in the Athenian world. 

" The circulars are arrived, and circulating like the vor- 
tices (or vortexes) of Descartes. Still I have a due care 
of the needful, and keep a look out a-head, as my notions 
upon the score of moneys coincide with yours, and with 
all men's who have lived to see Uiat every guinea is a 
philosopher's stone, or at least his touch-slone. You will 



See Note to " The Island. 



LETTERS, 1622. 



197 



doubt me the less, when I pronounce my firm belief] that 
Cash is Virtue. 

" I cannot reproach myself with much expenditure : my 
only extra expense (and it is more than I have spent upon 
myself) being a loan of two hundred and fifty pounds to 
Hunt; and fifty pounds' worth of furniture which I have 
bought for liim ; and a boat which I am building for myself 
at Genoa, which will cost about a hundred pounds more. 

"But to return. I am determined to have all the mo- 
neys I can, whether by my own funds, or succession, or 
lawsuit, or MSS., or any lawful means whatever. 

" I will pay (though with the sincerest reluctance) my 
remaining creditors, and every man of law, by instalments 
from the award of the arbitrators. 

" I recommend to you the notice in Mr. Hanson's letter, 
on the demand of moneys for the Rochdale tolls. 

"Above all, I recommend my interests to your honoura- 
ble worship. 

"Recollect, too, that I expect some moneys for the 
various MSS., (no matter what; and, in short, 'Rem, 
quocunque modo, Rem!' — the noble feehng of cupidity 
grows upon us with our years. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DXLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Pisa,Feb. 8, 1822. 

* Attacks upon me were to be expected, but I perceive 
one upon you in the papers, which I confess that [ did not 
expect. How, or in what manner, z/om can be considered 
resposible for what / publish, I am at a loss to conceive. 

"If 'Cain' be ' blasphemous,' Paradise Lost is blasphe- 
mous ; and the very words of the Oxford gentleman, ' Evil, 
be thou my good,' are from that very poem, fiom the 
mouth of Satan ; and is there anything more in that of 
Lucifer in the Mystery? Cain is nothing more than a 
drama, not a piece of argument. If Lucifer and Cain 
speak as the first murderer and the first rebel may be 
supposed to speak, surely all the rest of the personages 
talk also according to their characters — and the stronger 
passions have ever been permitted to the drama. 

"I have even avoided introducing the Deity as in Scrip- 
ture, (though Milton does, and not very wisely either,") 
but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain instead, on 
purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject by 
falling short of what all uninspired men must fall short in, 
viz. giving an adequate notion of the effect of the presence 
of Jehovah. The old Mysteries introduced him liberally 
enough, and all this is avoided in the now one. 

•* The attempt to hully you^ because they think it won't 
succeed with me, seoms to me as atrocious an attempt as 
ever disgraced the times. What! when Gibbon's, Hume's, 
Priestley's, and Drummond's publishers have been allowed 
to rest in peace for seventy years, are you to bo singled 
out for a work o(Jir,tioii, not of history or argument? 
There must be something at the bottom of this — som<^ 
private enemy of your own : it is otherwise incredible. 

"I can only say, 'Me, me; en adsum qui foci;' — that 
any proceedings directed against you, 1 beg, may be trans- 
ferred to me, who am willing, and oui^Iit, to endure tliom 
all ; that if you have lost money by the publication, I will 
refund any or all of the copyright; that I desire you will 
say that both you and Mr. G\fford remonstrated against 
the publication, as also Mr. ITabhonse ; that / alone oc- 
casioned it, and I alone am the person who, eillior legally 
or otherwise, should bear the burden. If they prosorute, 
I will como to England — that is, if, by m«^eting it in my 
own person, I can save yours. Lot me know. You sha' n't 
suffer for me, if I can help it. Make any use of this loiter 
you please. " Yours ovit, ^c." 

"P. S. I write to you about all this row of had passions 
and absurdities, with the mmmcr moon (for hero our win- 



ter is clearer than your dog-days) lighting the wincUng 
Arno, with all her buildings and bridges, — so quiet and 
still ! — What nothings are we before the least of these 

stars!" 



LETTER DXLVL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, Feb. 19,1822. 

"I am rather surprised not to have had an answer to 
my letter and packets. Lady Noel is dead, and it is not 
impossible that I may have to go to England to settle the 
division of the Wentvvorth property, and what portion 
Lady B. is to have out of it ; all which was left undecided 
by the articles of separation. But I hope not, if it can be 
done without, — and I have written to Sir Francis Burdett 
to be my referee, as he knows the property. 

" Continue to address here, as I shall not go if I can 
avoid it — at least, not on that account. But I may on 
another ; for I wrote to Douglas ICinnaird to convey a 
message of invitation to Mr. Soulhey to meet me, either 
in England, or (o.s less liable to interruption) on the coast 
of France. This was about a fortnight ago, and I have 
not yet had time to have the answer. However, you shall 
have due notice ; therefore continue to address to Pisa. 

" My agents and trustees have written to me to desire 
that I v.'ould take the name directly, so that I am yours 
very truly and affectionately, 

"Noel Byron'. 

"P. S. I have had no news from England except on 
business; and merely know, from some abuse in that 
faithful ex and c?€- tractor, Galignani, that the clergy are 
up against ' Cain.' There is (if I am not mistaken) some 
good church preferment on the Wentworth estates ; and 
I will show them what a good Christian I am by patronis- 
ing and preferring the most pious of their order, should 
opportunity occur. 

"M. and I are but Uttle in correspondence, and I know 
nothing of Uterary matters at present. I have been wri- 
ting on business only lately. What are you about ? Be 
assured that there is no such coalition as you apprehend." 



LETTER DXLVII. 



TO MR. MOfRE. 



«Pisa,Feb. 20, 1822.* 
" Your letter arrived since I wrote the enclosed. It is 
not likely, as I have appointed agents and arbitrators for 
the Noel estates, that I should proceed to England on 
that account, — though I may upon anoUier, within stated. 
At any rate, continue you to address here till you hear 
fiirther from me. I coidd wish you still to arrange for mt, 
either with a London or Paris publisher, for the tilings, 
&c. I shall not quarrel witli any arrangement you may 
please to make. 

"I have appointed Sir Francis Burdett my arbitrator 
to decide on Lady Byron's allowance out of tJie Noel 
estates, which are estiniatod at seven thousand a-ycar, 
and rents very well paid, — a rare; thing at this time. It 
is, however, owing to their consisting ohiody in pasture 
landr;, and therefore less aflocted by corn bills, &c. than 
pro|)erties in tillage. 

" Believe mo yours ever most afTootionatcly, 

"NoF.I. IhHON. 

" Between my own property in the funds, and my wifi^'s 
in land, I do not know winch side to cry out on in politics. 

"There is nothing against tho immortality of tho soul 
in 'Cain' that I rooolloot. I hoKI iu> siioh opinions; — 
hut, in a drama, the first robol an<l tho lirsl murderer must 
he mndo to talk accoiding to tlioir characters. However, 



|ireoe<liin letlcrcamc ri>cln«»Ml in lliii. 



198 

the parsons are all preachmg at it, from Kentish Town 
and Oxford to Pisa ; — the scoundrels of priests, who do 
more harm to religion than all the infidels that ever forgot 
their catechism ! 

"I have not seen Lady Noel's death announced in 
Galignani.— How is that ?" 



LETTERS, 1822. 



LETTER DXLVIIL 



TO MR MOORE. 



"Pisa, Feb. 28, 1822. 

« I begin to think that the packet (a heavy one) of five 
acts of 'Werner,' &c. can hardly have reached you, for 
your letter of last week (which I answered) did not al- 
lude to it, and yet I ensured it at the postoffice here. 

*=Ihave no direct news from England, except on the 
Noel business, which is proceeding quietly, as I have ap- 
pointed a gentleman (Sir F. Burdett) for my arbitrator. 
They, too, have said that they will recall the lavyyer whom 
they had chosen, and will name a gentleman too. This 
is better, as the arrangement of the estates and of Lady 
B.'s allowance will thus be settled without quibbling. 
My lawyers are taking out a license for the name and 
arms, which it seems T am to endue. 

"By another, and indirect quarter, I hear that 'Cain' 
has been pirated, and that the Chancellor has refused to 
give Murray any redress. Also, that G. R.* (j/owr friend 
'Ben,') has expressed great personal indignation at the 
said poem. All this is curious enough, I think, — after 
allowing Priestly, Hume, and Gibbon, and Bolingbroke, 
and Voltaire to be published, without depriving the book- 
sellers of their rights. I heard from Rome a day or two 
ago, and, with what truth I know not, that * * * , 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa^March 1,1822. 

* As I still have no news of my ' Werner,' &c. packet, 
sent to you on the 29th of January, I continue to bore you, 
(for the fifth time, I beUeve,) to know whether it has not 
miscarried. As it was fairly copied out, it will be vex- 
atious if it be lost. Indeed, I ensured it at the postoffice 
to make them take more care, and directed it regularly to 
you at Paris. 

"In the impartial Galignani I perceive an extract from 
Blackwood's Magazine, in which it is said that there are 
people who have discovered that you and I are no poets. 
With regard to one of us, I know that this northwest 
passage to my magnetic pole had been long discovered 
by some sages, and I leave them the full benefit of their 
penetration. I think, as Gibbon says of his History, ' that, 
perhaps, a hundred years hence it may still continue to be 
abused.' However. I am far from pretending to compete 
or compare with that illustrious literary character. 

"But, with regard to you, I thought tiiat you had al- 
ways been allowed to be a poet, even by the stupid as 
well as the envious — a bad one, to be sure — immoral, 
florid, Asiatic, and diabolically popular, — but still always 
B. poet, nem. con. This discovery, therefore, has to me all 
ihe grace of novelty, as well as of consolation (according 
to Rochefoucault) to find myself no-poetized in such good 
company. I am content to ' err with Plato ;' and can 
assure you very sincerely, that I would rather be received 
a non-poet with you, than be crowned with all the bays 
of (the jyrf-uncrowned) Lakers in their society. I believe 
you think better of those worthies than I do. I know 
them * ♦ * * ♦ 

*As for Soutliey, the answer to my proposition of a 

•The King. 



meeting is not yet come. I sent the message, with a 
short note, to him through Douglas Kinnaird, and Dou- 
glas's response is not arrived. If he accepts, I shall 
have to go to England ; but if not, I do not think the Noel 
affairs will take me there, as the arbitrators can settle 
them without my presence, and there do not seem to be 
any difficulties. The license for the new name and ar- 
morial bearings will be taken out by the regular applica- 
tion, in such cases, to the Crown, and sent to me. 

"Is there a hope of seeing you in Italy again ever? 
What are you doing ? — bored by me, I know ; but I have 
explained why before. I have no correspondence now 
with London, except through relations and laviryers and 
one or two friends. My greatest friend. Lord Clare, is 
at Rome : we met on the road, and our meeting was quite 
sentimental — really pathetic on both sides. I have al- 
ways loved him better than any mcde thing m the world." 

The preceding was enclosed in that which follows. 



LETTER DL. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Pisa, March 4, 1822. 

" Since I wrote the enclosed, I have waited another 
post, and now have your answer acknowledging the arrival 
of the packet — a troublesome one, I fear, to you in more 
ways than one, both from weight external and internal. 

" The unpublished things in your hands, in Douglas 
K.'s, and Mr. John Murray's, are, ' Heaven and Earth, a 
lyrical kind of Drama upon the Deluge, &c. ;' — ' Werner,' 
Tww with you ; — a translation of the first Canto of the 
Morgante Maggiore ; — ditto of an Episode in Dante ; — 
some stanzas to the Po, June 1st, 1819 ; — Hints from 
Horace, written in 1811, but a good deal, since, to be 
omitted ; — several prose things, which may, perhaps, as 
well remain unpublished ; — ' The Vision, &c. of duevedo 
Redivivus' in verse. 

"Here you see is 'more matter for a May morning;' 
but how much of this can be published is for considera- 
tion. The duevedo (one of my best in that line) has 
appalled the Row already, and must take its chance at 
Paris, if at all. The new Mystery is less speculative 
than 'Cain,' and very pious; besides, it is chiefly lyrical. 
The Morgante is the best translation that ever was or 
will be made ; and the rest are — whatever you please 
to think them. 

" I am sorry you think Werner even approaching to any 
fitness for the stage, which, vsith my notions upon it, is 
very far from my present object. With regard to the 
publication, 1 have already explained that I have no exor- 
bitant expectations of either fame or profit in the present 
instances ; but wish them pubHshed because they are 
written ; which is the common feeling of all scribblers. 

" With respect to ' Religion,' can 1 never convince you 
that / have no such opinions as the characters in that 
drama, which seems to have frightened everybody ? Yet 
they are nothing to the expressions in Goethe's Faust, 
(which are ten times hardier,) and not a whit more bold 
than those of Milton's Satan. My ideas of a character 
may run away with me : like all imaginative men, I, of 
course, imbody myself wth the character while I draw 
it, but not a moment after the pen is from off the paper. 

■ T am no enemy to religion, but the contrary. As a 
proof, I am educating my natural daughter a strict Catholic 

a convent of Romagna, for I think people can never 
have enough of religion, if they are to have any. I 
incline, myself, very much to the Catholic doctrines ; but 
if I am to write a drama, I must make my characters 
speak as I conceive them likely to argue. 

" As to poor Shelley, who is another bugbear to you 
and the world, he is, to my knowledge, the Zeosi selfish and 
the mildest of men — a man who has made more sacrifices 
of his fortune and feelings for others than any I ever heard 



LETTERS, 1822. 



199 



of. With his speculative opinions I have nothing in com 
mon, nor desire to have. 

"The truth is, my dear Moore, you live near the stove 
of society, where you are unavoidably influenced by its 
heat and its vapours. I did so once — and too much — and 
enough to give a colour to my vv^hole future existence. As 
my success in society was not inconsiderable, I am surely 
not a prejudiced judge upon the subject, unless in its 
favour ; but I think it, as now constituted,/afaZ to all great 
original undertakings of every kind. I never courted it 
then, when I was young and high in biood, and one of its 
' curled darlings ;' and do you thuik I would do so now, 
when I am living in a clearer atmosphere ? One thing 
only might lead me back to it, and that is, to try once more 
if I could do any good in politics ; but not in the petty 
politics I see now preying upon our miserable country. 

" Do not let me be misunderstood, however. If you 
speak your oum opinions, they ever had, and will have, the 
greatest weight with me. But if you merely echo the 
monde,' (and it is difficult not to do so, being m its favour 
and its ferment,) I can only regret that you should ever 
repeat any thing to which I cannot pay attention. 

" But I am prosing. The gods go with you, and as 
much immortality of all kinds as may suit your present 
and all other existence. 

"Yours, &c.'' 



LETTER DLL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Pisa, March 6, 1822. 

"The enclosed letter from Murray hath melted me ; 
though I think it is against his own interest to wish that 
I should continue his connexion. You may, therefore, 
send him the packet of ' Werner,' which will save you all 
further trouble. And pray, can you forgive me for the 
bore and expense I have already put upon you ? At 
least, say so — for I feel ashamed of having given you so 
much for such nonsense. 

" The fact is, I cannot keep my resentments, though vio- 
lent enough in their onset. Besides, now that all the 
world are at Murray on my account, I neither can nor 
ought to leave him ; unless, as 1 really thought, it were 
better for him that I should. 

" I have had no other news from England, except a 
letter from Barry Cornwall, the bard, and my old school- 
fellow. Though I have sickened you with letters lately, 
believe me " Yours, &;c. 

"P. S. In your last letter you say, speaking of Shelley, 
that you would almost prefer the 'damning bigot' to the 
'annihilating infidel.' Shelley believes in immortality, 
however — but this by-the-way. Do you remember 
Frederick the Great's answer to the remonstrance of the 
■wllagers whose curate preached against the eternity of 
hell's torments? It was thus: — 'If my faithful subjec'ts 
of Schrausenhaussen prefer being eternally damned, let 
them !' 

"Of the two, I should think the long sleep b(!tter than 
the agonized vigil. But men, miserable as they are, cling 
so to any thing like life, tliat they probably would preftT 
damnation to quiet. Besides, they think themselves so 
important in the creation, that nothing less can satisfy 
their pride — the insects !" 



LETTER DLII. 

TO MR. MURRAV. 

"Pisa, March 6, 1822. 
"You will long ago have received a letter from me, (or 
should,) declaring my opinion of the treatment you have 
met with about the recent publication. I think it dis- 
graceful to those who have pcrsocutod you. I make 



peace with you, though our war was for other reasons 
than this same controversy. I have written to Moore by 
this post to forward to you the tragedy of ' Werner.' I 
shall not make or propose any present bargain about it or 
the new Mystery till we see if they succeed. If they 
do n't sell, (which is not unhkely,) you sha' n't pay ; and I 
suppose this is fair play, if you choose to risk it. 

" Bartolini, the celebrated sculptor, wrote to me to desire 
to take my bust : I consented, on condition that he also 
took that of the Countess Guiccioh. He has taken both, 
and I think it will be allowed that hers is beautiful. I shall 
make you a present of them both, to show that I do n't 
bear maUce, and as a compensation for the trouble and 
squabble you had about Thorwaldsen's. Of my own I 
can hardly speak, except that it is thought very like what 
I now am, which is diflferent from what I was, of course, 
since you saw me. The sculptor is a famous one; and 
as it was done by his own particular request, will be done 
well, probably. 

" What is to be done about Taafe and his Commen- 
tary ? He will die, if he is not pubUshed ; he will be 
danmed if he is ; but that he do n't mind. We must 
publish him. 

" All the row about me has no otherwise affected me 
than by the attack upon yourself, which is ungenerous in 
Church and State : but as all violence must hi time have 
its proportionate reaction, you will do better by-and-by . 
" Yours very truly, 

Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLIII. 



to MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, March 8, 1822. 

" You will have had enough of my letters by this time — 
yet one word in answer to your present missive. You 
are quite wrong in thinking that your ' advice^ hsid offended 
me ; but I have already replied (if not answered) on 
that point. 

" With regard to Murray, as I really am the meekest 
and mildest of men since Moses, (though the public and 
mine ' excellent wife' cannot find it out,) I had already 
pacLlcd myself and subsided back to Albemarle-streel,as 
my yesterday's r/epistle will have informed you. But I 
thought that I had explained my causes of bile — at least 
to you . 

" Some instances of vacillation, occasional neglect, and 
troublesome sincerity, real or imagined, are sufficient to 
put your truly great author and man into a passion. But 
reflection, with some aid from hellebore, hath already 
cured me ' pro tempore ;' and, if it had not, a request from 
you and Hobhouse would have come upon me like two 
out of the ' tribus Anticyris,' — with whicli, however, 
Horace despairs of purging a poet. I really feel ashamed 
of having bored you so frequently and fully of late. But 
what could I do ? You are a friend — an absent one, 
alas ! — and as I trust no one more, I trouble you in pro- 
portion. 

" This war of 'Church and State' has astonished me 
more than it disturbs ; for I really thought ' Cain' a specu- 
lative and hardy, but still a harmless production. As I 
said before, I am really a great admirer of tangible reli- 
gion ; and am breeding one of my daughters a Catholic, 
Uiat she may iiave iier hands full. It is by fur th«" most 
elegant wursiiip, hardly excepting the (iroek mvthology. 
What with incence, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, 
and tho real presence, confession, absolution, — there is 
something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no 
possibility of doubt ; for those who swallow their l>eity, 
really and truly, in transubstantiiitioii, can hanlly fmd any 
thing else otherwise than easy of digestion. 

" I am afraid that tliis sounds llii)paiU, but 1 do n\ meaii 
it to be so ; only my turn of mind is so given to 



200 



LETTERS, 1822. 



things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in 
spite of me every now and then. Still, I do assure you 
that I am a very good Christian. Whether you will 
believe me in this, I do not know ; but I trust you will 
take my word for being 

" Very truly and affectionately yours, &c. 
" P. S. Do tell Murray that one of the conditions of 
peace is, that he publisheth (or obtaineth a publisher for) 
Taafe's Commentary on Dante, against which there 
appears in the trade an unaccountable repugnance. It 
will make the man so exuberantly happy. He dines v-ith 
me and half a dozen English to-day ; and I have not the 
heart to tell him how the bibliopolar world shrink from his 
Commentary ; — and yet it is full of the most orthodox 
religion and moraUty. In short, I make it a point that he 
shall be in print. He is such a good-natured, heavy * * 
Christian, that we must give him a shove through the 
press. He naturally thirsts to be an author, and has been 
the happiest of men for these two months, printing, cor- 
recting, collating, dating, anticipating, and adding to his 
treasures of learning. Besides, he has had another fall 
from his horse into a ditch the other day, while riding out 
with me into the country." 



LETTER DLIV. 



TO MK. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, March 15, 1822. 

"I am glad that you and your friends approve of my 
letter of the 8th ultimo. You may give it what publicity 
you think proper in the circumstances. I have smce 
written to you twice or thrice. 

" As to ' a Poem in the old way,' I shall attempt of that 
kind nothing further. I follow the bias of my own mind, 
without considering whether women or men are or are not 
to be pleased : but this is nothing to my publisher, who 
must judge and act according to popiJarity. 

" Therefore let the things take their chance : if thei/ 
pay, you will pay me m proportion ; and if they do n't, I 
must. 

" The Noel affairs, I hope, will not take me to England. 
I have no desire to revisit that country, unless it be to 
keep you out of a prison, (if this can be effected by my 
taking your place,) or perhaps to get myself into one, by 
exacting satisfaction from one or two persons who take 
advantage of my absence to abuse me. Further than 
this, I have no business nor connexion with England, nor 
desire to have, oui of my own family and friends, to whom 
I wish all prosperity. Indeed, I have lived upon the 
whole so little in England, (about five years since I was 
one-and-twenty,) that my habits are too continental, and 
your climate would please me as little as the society. 

"I saw the Chancellor's Report in a French paper. 
Pray, why do n't they prosecute the translation of Lucre- 
tius 7 or the original with its 

' Primus in orbe Deos fecit Timor,' 
' Tantum Religin potuit suadere malorum ?' 

" You must really get somethmg done for Mr. Taafe's 
Commentary ; what can I say to him ? 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«Pisa,April 13,1822. 

"Mr. Kinnaird writes that there has been an 'excel- 
lent Defence' of 'Cain,' against ' Oxoniensis :' you have 
sent me nothing but a not very excellent o/-fence of the 
same poem. If there be such a 'Defender of the Faith,' 
you may send me his thirty-nine articles, as a counter- 
balance to some of your late communications. 

" Are you to publish, or not, what Moore and Mr. Kin- 



naird have in hand, and the ' Vision of Judgment?' If 
you publish the latter in a very cheap edition, so as to 
baffle the pirates by a low price, you will find that it will 
do. The ' Mystery' I look upon as good, and ' Werner' 
too, and I expect that you will pubhsh them speedily. 
You need not put your name to Quevedo, but publish it as 
a foreign edition, and let it make its way. Douglas Kin- 
naird has it still, with the preface, I believe. 

"I refer you to him for documents on the late row here. 
I sent them a week ago. 

« Yours, fee." 



LETTER DLVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, April 18, 1822. 

"I have received the Defence of 'Cain.' Who is my 
Warburton ? — for he has done for me what the bishop did 
for the poet against Crousaz. His reply seems to me 
conclusive : and if you understood your own interest, you 
would print it together with the poem. 

" It is very odd that I do not hear from you. I have 
forwarded to Mr. Douglas Kinnaird the documents on a 
squabble here, which occurred about a month ago. The 
affair is still going on ; but they make nothing of it hith- 
erto. I think, what with home and abroad, there has been 
hot water enough for one while. Mr. Dawkins, the 
English minister, has behaved in the handsomest and 
most gentlemanly mamier throughout the whole business. 
" Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. I have got Lord Glenbervie's book, which is 
very amusing and able upon the topics which he touches 
upon, and part of the preface pathetic. Write soon." 



LETTER DLVn. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, April 22, 1822. 

" You will regret to hear that I have received intelli- 
gence of the death of my daughter Allegra of a fever, in 
the convent of Bagna Cavallo, where she was placed for 
the last year, to conunence her education. It is a heavy 
blow for many reasons, but must be borne, with time. 

"It is my present intention to send her remains to 
England for sepulture in Harrow church, (where I once 
hoped to have laid my own,) and this is my reason for 
troubling you with this notice. I wish the funeral to be 
very private. The body is embalmed, and in lead. It 
will be embarked from Leghorn. Would you have any 
objection to give the proper directions on its arrival ? 

" I am yours, &c. 
«N. B. 

"P. S. You are aware that Protestants are not allowed 
holy ground in Catholic countries." 



LETTER DLVIU. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

«AprU23,1822. 
" The blow was stunning and unexpected ; for I thought 
the danger over, by the long interval between her stated 
ameUoration and the arrival of the express. But I have 
borne up against it as I best can, and so far successfully, 
that I can go about the usual business of Ufe with the 
same appearance of composure, and even greater. There 
is nothing to prevent your coming to-morrow ; but, per- 
haps, to-day, and yester-evening, it was better not to have 
met. I do not know that I have any thing to reproach in 
my conduct, and certainly nothing in my feelings and 
intentions towards the dead. But it is a moment when 



LETTERS, 1822. 



201 



we are apt to think that, if this or that had be?n done, 
such event might have been prevented ; though every day 
and hour shows us that they are the most natural and 
inevitable. I suppose that Time will do his usual work — 
Death has done his. 

"Yours ever, 

«N.B." 



LETTER DLIX. 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

"Pisa, May 4j 1822. 

"my dear sir WALTER, 

* Your account of your family is very pleasing : would 
that I ' could answer this comfort with the like !' but I 
have just lost my natural daughter, AUegra, by a fever. 
The only consolation, save time, is the reflection, that she 
is either at rest or happy ; for her few years (only five) 
prevented her from having incurred any sin, except what 
we inherit from Adam. 

' Whom the gods love, die young.' 

•' I need not say that your letters are particularly wel- 
come, when they do not tax your time and patience ; and 
now that our correspondence is resumed, I trust it will 
continue. 

" I have lately had some anxiety, rather than trouble 
about an awkward affair here, which you may perhaps 
have heard of: but our minister has behaved very hand- 
somely, and the Tuscan Government as well as it is pos- 
sible for such a government to behave, which is not saying 
much for the latter. Some other English, and Scots, and 
myself^ had a brawl v^nith a dragoon, who insulted one of 
the party, and whom we mistook for an officer, as he was 
medalled and well mounted, &c. ; but he turned out to be 
a sergeant-major. He called out the guard at the gates 
to arrest us, (we being unarmed ;) upon which I and 
another (an Itahan) rode through the said guard ; but 
they succeeded in detaining others of the party. I rode 
to my house, and sent my secretary to give an account of 
the attempted and illegal arrest to the authorities, and 
then, without dismounting, rode back towards the gates, 
which are near my present mansion. Half way I met 
my man, vapouring away, and threatening to draw upon 
me, (who had a cane in my hand, and no other arms.) I, 
still believing him an officer, demanded his name and 
address, and gave him my hand and glove thereupon. A 
servant of mine thrust in between us, (totally without 
orders,) but let him go on my command. He then rode 
off at full speed ; but about forty paces further was stab- 
bed, and very dangerously, (so as to be in peril,) by some 
Callum Beg or other of my people,- (for I have some 
rough-handed folks about me,) I need hardly say without 
my direction or approval. The said dragoon had been 
sabring our unarmed countrymen, however, at the gate, 
after they were in arrest, and held by the guards, and 
wounded one, Captain Hay, very severely. However, he 
got his paiks, having acted like an assassin, and being 
treated like one. Wfio wounded him, though it was done 
before thousands of people, they have never been able to 
ascertain, or prove, nor even the weapon ; some said a 
pistol, an air-gun, a stiletto, a sword, a lance, a pitchfork, 
and what not. They have arrested and examined ser- 
vants and people of all descriptions, but can make out 
nothing. Mr. Dawkins, our minister, assures me, that no 
suspicion is entertained of the man who wounded him 
having been instigated by me, or any of the party. I 
enclose you copies of the depositions of those with us, 
and Dr. Craufurd, a canny Scot, {not an acquaintance,) 
who saw Uie latter part of tlie affair. They are in 
Italian. 

"These are the only literary matters in which T have 
been engaged since the publication and row al)out ' Cain ;' 
but Mr. Murray has several things of mine in his obslo- 

26 



tncal hands. Another Mystery — a Vision — a Drama — 
and the like. But you wonH tell me what you are doing ; 
however, I shall find you out, write what you will. You 
say that I should like your son-in-law ; it would be very 
difficult for me to dishke any one connected with you ; 
but I have no doubt that his own quahties are all that you 
describe. 

" I am sorry you do n't like Lord Orford's new work. 
My aristocracy, which is very fierce, makes him a favour- 
ite of mine. RecoUect that those 'little factions' com- 
prised Lord Chatham and Fox, the father, and that we 
Uve in gigantic and exaggerated times, which make all 
under Gog and Magog appear pigmean. After having 
seen Napoleon begin Uke Tamerlane and end like Bajazet 
in our own time, we have not the same interest in what 
would otherwise have appeared important histc»-y. But 
I must conclude. 

" BeUeve me ever and most truly yours, 

"Noel ByRON." 



LETTER DLX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



«Pisa,May, 17, 1822. 

"I hear that the Edinburgh has attacked the three 
dramas, which is a bad business for you ; and I do n't 
wonder that it discourages you. However, that volume 
may be trusted to time, — depend upon h. I read it over 
with some attention since it was published, and I tliink 
the time will come when it will be preferred to my other 
writings, though not immediately. I say this without irri- 
tation against the critics or criticism, whatever they may 
be, (for I have not seen them ;) and nothing that has or 
may appear in Jeffrey's Review can make me forget that 
he stood by me for ten good years without any motive to 
do so but his own good-will. 

" I hear Moore is in tovin ; remember me to him, and 
believe me " Yours truly, 

«N. B. 

"P. S. If you think it necessary, you may send me the 
Edinburgh. Should there be any thing that requires an 
answer, I will reply, but temperately and technically ; that 
is to say, merely with respect to the principles of the criti- 
cism, and not personally or offensively as to its literary 
merits." 



LETTER DLXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, May 17,1822. 

"I hear you are in London. You will have heard from 
Douglas Kinnaird (who tells me you have dined with 
him) as much as you desire to know of my affairs at home 
and abroad. I have lately lost my little girl AUegra by 
a fever, which has been a serious blow to me. 

" I did not write to you lately, (except one letter lo 
Murray's,) not knowing exactly your 'whereabouts. 
Douglas K. refused to forward my message to Mr. 
Sou they — why, he himself can explain. 

" You will have seen the statement of a squabble, &c. 
&c.* What are you about? Let mo hear from you at 
your leisure, and believe me ever yours, 

«N. B." 



LETTER DLXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Montenero,! May 26, 18l». 
• Near Leghorn. 
"The body is embarked, in what ship I know not, nei- 



• II.TO fi-llows c\ rcpolilion of Ihe del.nili gtrcn on Ihii tubjeft to Sir 
Walter Srotl Biiilolhor*. 

t A liill, tliri-o or fi.iir mile* (mm Leghorn, niiicti r««>r»»<1 Co •■ • piM* 
of rotidcnci- diirinji Uie lununvr months. 



202 



LETTERS, 1822. 



ther could I enter into the details ; but the Countess G. 
G. has had the goodness to give the necessary orders to 
Mr. Dunn, who superintends the embarkation, and will 
write to you. I wish it to be buried in Harrow church. 

« There is a spot in the churchyard, near tlie foot path, 
on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a 
tomb under a large tree, (bcarmg the name of Peachie, 
or Peachey,) where I used to sit for hours and hours 
when a boy. This was my favourite spot ; but as I wish 
to erect a tablet to her memory, the body had better be 
deposited in the church. Near the door, on the left hand 
as you enter, there is a monument with a tablet contain- 
ing these words : — 

« When Sorrow weeps o'er Virtue's sacred dust, 
Our tears bocome us, and our grief is just : 
Such were the tears she shed, who grateful pays 
This last sad tribute of her love and praise.' 

I recollect them, (after seventeen years,) not from any 
thing remarkable in them, but because from my seat in 
the gallery I had generally my eyes turned towards that 
monument. As near it as convenient I could wish AUe- 
gra to be buried, and on the wall a marble tablet placed, 
with these words : — 

" In Memory of 

Allegra, 

Daughter of G. G. Lord Byron, 

who died at Bagna Cavallo, 

in Italy, Aprn^20th, 1822, 

aged five years and three months. 

*^I shall go to her, but she shall not return tome.' 

2d Samuel, xii. 23. 

" The funeral I wish to be as private as is consistent 
with decency ; and I could hope that Henry Drury will, 
perhaps, read the service over her. If he should decline 
it, it can be done by the usual minister for the time being. 
I do not know that I need add more just now. 

" Since I came here, I have been invited by the Ameri- 
cans on board their squadron, where I was received with 
all the kindness which I could wish, and with more cere- 
mony than I am fond of. I found them finer ships than 
your own of the same class, well manned and officered. 
A number of American gentlemen also were on board at 
the time, and some ladies. As I was taking leave, an 
American lady asked me for a rose which I wore, for the 
purpose, she said, of sending to America som 
I had about me, as a memorial 



I went over the Constitution, (the Commodore's flag-ship,) 
and saw, among other things worthy of remark, a little 
boy born on board of her by a sailor's wife. They had 
christened him 'Constitution Jones.' I, of course, ap- 
proved the name; and the woman added, 'Ah, sir, if he 
turns out but half as good as his name !' 

"Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DLXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



« Montenero, near Leghorn, May 29, 1822. 

" I return you the proofs* re\ised. Your printer has 
made one odd mistake : — ' poor as a moused instead of 
' poor as a miser. ^ The expression may seem strange, 
but it is only a translation of ' semper avarus eget.' You 
will add the Mystery, and publish as soon as you can. 
I care nothing for your ' season,' nor the blue approbations 
or disapprobations. All that is to be considered by you 
on the subject is as a matter of business ; and if I square 
that to your notions, (even to the running the risk entirely 
myself,) you may permit me to choose my own time and 
mode of publication. With regard to the late volume, 
the present run against it or me may impede it for a time, 
but it has the vital principle of permanency within it, as 
you may perhaps one day discover. I wrote to you on 
another subject a few days ago. •* Yours, 

'•N.B. 

" P. S. Please to send me the Dedication of Sardana- 
palus to Goethe. I shall prefix it to Werner^ unless you 
prefer my putting another, stating that the former had 
been omi«;ed by thepubhsher. 

" On the titlepage of the present volume, put ' Published 
for the Author by J. M.'" 



LETTER DLXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



felt the compliment properly. Captain Chauncey showed 
me an American and very pretty edition of my poems, 
and offered me a passage to the United States, if I would 
go there. Commodore Jones was also not less kind and 
attentive. I have since received the enclosed letter, de- 
siring me to sit for my picture for some Americans. It 
is singular that, in the same jear that Lady Noel leaves 
by will an interdiction for my daughter to see her father's 
portrait for many years, the individuals of a nation not 
remarkable for their liking to the English in particular, 
nor for flattermg men in general, request me to sit for my 
• pourtraicture,' as Baron Bradwardine calls it. I am 
also fold of considerable literary honours in Germany. 
Goethe, I am told, is my professed patron and protector. 
At Lcipsic, this year, the highest prize was proposed for 
a translation of two cantos of Childe Harold. I am not 
sure that this was at Leipsic, but Mr. Rowcroft was my 
authority — a good German scholar, (a yotmg American,) 
and an acquaintance of Goethe's. 

"Gofthe and the Germans are particularly fond of 
Don Juan, which they judge of as a work of art. I had 
heard something of this before through Baron Lutzerode. 
The translations have been very frequent of several of 
the works, and Goethe made a comparison between 
Faust and Manfred. 

•* All this is some compensation for your English native 

bnitaUty, so fully displayed this year to its highest extent. 

" I forgot to mention a little anecdote of a different kind. 



" Montenero, Leghorn, June 6, 1822. 

" I return you the revise of Werner, and expect the rest. 

With regard to the Lines to the Po, perhaps you had 

better put them quietly in a second edition (if you reach 

ething which I one, that is to say) than in the first ; because, though they 

I need not add that I have been reckoned fine, and I wish them to be preserved, 



I do not wish them to attract immediate observation, 
on account of the relationship of the lady to whom they 
are addressed with the first families in Romagna and the 
Marches. 

"The defender of 'Cain' may or may not be, as you 
term him, 'a tyro in Uterature :' however, I think both you 
and I are under great obligation to him. I have read the 
Edinburgh Review in Galignani's Magazine, and have 
not yet decided whether to answer them or not; for, if I 
do, it will be difficult for me not ' to make sport for the 
Phihstines' by pulling down a house or two ; since, when 
I once take pen in hand, I must say what comes upper- 
most, or fling it away. I have not the hypocrisy to pre- 
tend impartiality, nor the temper (as it is called) to keep 
always from saying what may not be pleasing to the 
hearer or reader. What do tliey mean by ^ elaborate ?^ 
Why, you Icnow that they were written as fast as I could 
put pen to paper, and printed from the original MSS., 
and never revised but in the proofs : look at the dates and 
the MSS. themselves. Whatever faults they have must 
spring from carelessness, and not from labour. They said 
the same of 'Lara,' which I wrote while undressing, after 
coming home from balls and masquerades in the year of 
revelry, 1814. "Yours. 

"Junes, 1822. 

" You give me no explanation of your intention as to the 



Werner. 



K* 



LETTERS, 1822. 



203 



' Vision of Q,uevedo Redivivus,' one of my best things : 
indeed, you are altogether so abstruse and undecided 
lately, that I suppose you mean me to write ' John Mur- 
ray, Esq. a Mystery,' — a composition which would not 
displease the clergy nor the trade. I by no means wish 
you to do what you do n't like, but merely to say what you 
will do. The Vision mvst be published by some one. 
As to • clamours,' the die is cast ; and, ' come one, come 
all,' we will fight it out — at least one of us." 



LETTER DLXV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Montenero, Villa Dupoy, near Leghorn, 

"Junes, 1822. 

" I have written to you twice through the medium of 
Murray, and on one subject, trite enough, — the loss of 
poor little AUegra by a fever ; on which topic I shall say 
no more — there is nothing but time. 

"A few days ago, my earliest and dearest friend, Lord 
Clare, came over from Geneva on purpose to see me be 
fore he returned to England. As I have always loved 
him (since I was thirteen, at Harrow) better than any 
{male) thing in the world, I need hardly say what a me- 
lancholy pleasure it was to see him for a day only ; for 
he was obliged to resume his journey immediately. * 

* + + * * * 
I have heard, also, many other things of our acquaintances 
which I did not know ; among others, that * 

* * *. Do you recollect, in the year 
of revelry, 1814, the pleasantest parties and balls all over 
London ? and not the least so at * * 's. Do you recol- 
lect your singing duets with Lady * *, and my flirtation 
with Lady * *, and all the other fooleries of the time? 
while * * was sighing, and Lady * * ogling him with 
her clear hazel eyes. But eight years have passed, and 

since that time, * * has ****** 5 has run 

away with +* + **; and mysen (as my Nottingham- 
shire friends call themselves) might as well have thrown 
myself out of the window while you were singing, as in- 
termarried where I did. You and ***** have come 
oflf the best of us. I speak merely of my marriage, and 
its consequences, distresses, and calumnies ; for I have 
been much more happy, on the whole, since^ than I ever 
could have been with * * * * *. 

I have read the recent article of Jeffrey in a faithful 
transcription of the impartial Galignani. I suppose the 
long and short of it is, that he wishes to provoke me to 
reply. But I won't, for I owe him a good turn still for 
his kindness by-gone. Indeed,! presume that the present 
opportunity of attacking me again was irresistable ; and I 
can't blame him, knowing what human nature is. I shall 
make but one remark : — what does he mean by elaborate ? 
The whole volume was written with the greatest rapidity, 
in the midst of evolutions and revolutions, and perse- 
cutions, and proscriptions of all who interested me in 
Italy. They said the same of ' Lara,' which, yoti know, 
was written amid balls and fooleries, and after coming 
homo from masquerades and routs, in the summer of the 
sovereigns. Of all I have ever written, tJicy arc perhaps 
the most carelessly composed ; and their faults, whatever 
they may be, are those of negligence, and not of labour. 
I do not think this a merit, but it is a fact. 

" Yours ever and truly, 

« N. B. 

" P. S. You see the great advantage of my now sifjna- 
ture: — it may either stand for 'Nota Bene' or 'Noel 
Byron,' and, as such, will save much repetition, in writing 
cither books or letters. Since I came hero, I have been 
invited on board of the American s(iuadron, and treated 
with all possible honour and ceremony. TIk'V h-'tvf asked 
mo to sit for my picture ; and, as I vva;i going away, 



an American lady took a rose from me, (which had been 
given to me by a very pretty Italian lady that very morn- 
ing,) because she said, ' She was determined to send or 
take something which I had about me to America.' There 
is a kind of Lalla Rookh incident for you ! However, all 
these American honours arise, perhaps, not so much from 
their enthusiasm for my ' Poeshie,' as their belief in my 
dLslike to the English, — in which I have the satisfaction 
to coincide with them. I would rather, however, have a 
nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an em- 
peror." 



LETTER DLXVI. 

TO MR. ELLICE. 

"Montenero, Leghorn, June 12, 1822. 

" MY DEAR ELLICE, 

"It is a long time since 1 have written to you, but I 
have not forgotten your kindness, and I am now going to 
tax it — I hope not too highly — but do rCt be alarmed, it is 
not a loan, but information which I am about to solicit. 
By your extensive connexions, no one can have better 
opportunities of hearing the real state of South America — 
I mean Bolivar's country. I have many years had trans- 
atlantic projects of setdement, and what I couid wish 
from you would be some information of the best course to 
pursue, and some letters of recommendation in case I 
should sail for Angostura. I am told tliat land is very 
cheap there ; but though I have no great disposable funds to 
vest in such purchases, yet my income, such as it is, would 
be sufficient in any country, (except England,) for all the 
comforts of life, and for most of its luxuries. The war 
there is now over, and as I do not go there to speculate, 
but to settle withoutany views but those of independence 
and the enjoyment of the common civil rights, I should 
presume such an arrival would not be unwelcome. 

" All I request of you is, not to discourage nor encou- 
rage, but to give me such a statement as } ou think prudent 
and proper. I do not address my other friends upon this 
subject, who would only throw obstacles in my way, and 
bore me to return to England ; which I never will do, 
unless compelled by some insuperable cause. I have 
a quantity of furniture, books, &c. &c. &c. which I could 
easily ship fl-om Leghorn; but I wish to 'look before I 
leap' over the Atlantic. Is it true diat for a few diousand 
dollars a large tract of land may be obtained ? I speak 
of South America, recollect. I have read some publica- 
tions on the subject, but they seemed violent and vulgar 
party productions. Please to address your answer to me 
at this place, and believe me ever and truly yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXVIL 

TO MR. MURRAV. 

"Pisa, July 6, 1822. 
"I return you the revise.* I have s»)ftcnod the part 
to which Gifford objected, and changed the name of 
Mi(^liacl to Raphael, who was an angel of gentler sym- 
[)atliics. By-the-way, recollect to alter Michael to /io- 
jihad in the scene itself throughout, for I luive only liad 
lime to do so in the list of the dramatis persona", and ^-rutch 
out (dl the pencil-marks, to avoid puzzling the printers. 
I have given the ' Vision of Quevedo Reilitnt'us' to John 
Hunt, which will relievo you from a dilemma. Ho must 
publish it at his 01071 risk, a« it is at his own dosiro. Givo 
lim the corrected copy which Mr. Kiniiaird had, us it ia 
miligatod partly, and also the prcfaco. 

" Yours, &r." 



or *• lIuBVoii •ml KnrUi.' 



204 



LETTERS, 1822. 



LETTER DLXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, July 8, 1822. 

"Last week I returned you the packet of proofs. You 
had perhaps, better not publish in the same volume the 
Po and Rimini translation. 

" I have consigned a letter to Mr. John Hunt for the 
'Vision of Judgment,' which you will hand over to him. 
Also the ' Pulci,' original and Italian, and any prose tracts 
of mine ; for Mr. Leigh Hunt is arrived here, and thinks 
of commencing a periodical work, to wliich I shall con- 
tribute. 1 do not propose to you to be the publisher, 
because I know that you are unfriends ; but all things in 
your care, except the volume now in the press, and the 
manuscript purchased of Mr. Moore, can be given for 
this purpose, according as they are wanted. 

"With regard to what you say about your * want of 
memory,' I can only remark that you inserted the note to 
Marino Faliero against my positive revocation, and that 
you omitted the Dedication of Sardanapalus to Goethe, 
(place it before the volume now in the press,) both of 
•which were things not very agreeable to me, and which I 
could wish to be avoided in future, as they might be with 
a very little care, or a simple memorandum in your pocket 
book. 

"It is not impossible that I may have three or four 
cantos of Don Juan ready by autumn, or a httle later, as 
I obtained a permission from my dictatress to continue 
it, — provided always it was to be more guarded and deco- 
rous and sentimental in the continuation than in the com- 
mencement. How far these conditions have been fulfilled 
may be seen, perhaps, by-and-by ; but the embargo was 
only taken off upon these stipulations. You can answer 
at your leisure. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, July 12, 1822. 

" I have written to you lately, but not in answer to your 
last letter of about a fortnight ago. 1 wish to know (euid 
request an answer to that point) what became of the 
stanzas to Wellington,* (intended to open a canto of Don 
Juan with,) which I sent you several months ago. If 
they have fallen into Murray's hands, he and the Tories 
will suppress them, as those lines rate that hero at his real 
value. Pray be explicit on this, as I have no other copy, 
having sent you the original ; and if you have them, let 
me have that again, or a copy correct. ♦ * * 

" I subscribed at Leghorn two hundred Tuscan crowns 
to your Irishism committee : it is about a thousand francs, 
more or less. As Sir C. S.. who receives thirteen thou- 
sand a-year of the public money, could not afford more 
than a thousand livres out of his enormous salary, it would 
have appeared ostentatious in a private individual to pre- 
tend to surpass him ; and therefore I have sent but the 
above sum, as you will see by the enclosed receipt 

" Leigh Hunt is here, after a voyage of eight months, 
during which he has, I presume, made the Periplus of 
Hanno the Carthaginian, and with much the same speed. 
He is setting up a Journal, to which I have promised to 
contribute ; and in the first number the ' Vision of Judg- 
ment, by Quevedo Redivivus,' will probably appear, with 
other articles. 

"Can you give us any thing? He seems sanguine 
about the matter, but (entre nous) I am not. I do not, 
however, like to put him out of spirits by saying so ; for 
he is bilious and unwell. Do, pray, answer this letter 
immediately. 

" Do send Hunt any thing, in prose or verse, of yours. 



See Don Juan, Canto IX. Stanza 1. 



to Start him handsomely — any lyrical, meal, or what you 
please. 

"Has not your Potato Committee been blundering? 
Your advertisement says, that Mr. L. Callaghan (a queer 
name for a banker) hath been disposing of money in 
Ireland 'sans authority of the Committee.' I suppose it 
will end in Callaghan's calling out the Committee, the 
chairman of which carries pistols in his pocket, of course. 

" When you can spare time from duetixng^ coquetting 
and clareting with your Hibernians of both sexes, let me 
have a Une from you. 1 doubt whether Paris is a good 
place for the composition of your new poesy." 



LETTER DLXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



« Pisa, August 8, 1822. 

" You will have heard by this time that Shelley and 
another gentleman (Captain Williams) were drovraed 
about a month ago, (a month yesterday,) in a squall off 
the Gulf of Spezia. There is thus another man gone, 
about whom the world was ill-naturedly, and ignorantly, 
and brutally mistaken. It will, perhaps, do him justice 
now, when he can be no better for it. ' You were all 
mistalien about Shelley, who was, without exception, the 
best and least selfish man I ever knew.' 

"I have not seen the thing you mention,* and only 
heard of it casually, nor have 1 any desire. The price 
is, as I saw in some advertisements, fourteen shillings, 
which is too much to pay for a libel on one's self. Some 
one said in a letter, that it was a Doctor Watkins, who 
deals in the life and libel line. It must have dimished your 
natural pleasure, as a friend, (vide Rochefoucault,) to see 
yourself in it. 

" With regard to the Blackwood fellows, I never pub- 
lished any thing sigainst them; nor, indeed, have seen 
their Magazbe (except in GaUgnani's extracts) for these 
three years past. I once wrote, a good while ago, some 
remarksf on their review of Don Juan, but saying very 
little about themselves, — and these were not pubhshed. 
If you think that I ought to follow your examplej (and I 
like to be in your company when I can) in contradicting 
their impudence, you may shape this declaration of mine 
into a similar paragraph for me. It is possible that you 
may have seen the little I did write (and never published) 
at Murray's ; it contained much more about Southey than 
about the Blacks. 

If you think that I ought to do any thing about Wat- 
kins's book, I should not care much about publishing my 
Memoir now, should it be necessary to counteract the 
fellow. But in that case, I should like to look over the 
press myself. Let me know what you think, or whether 
I had better not ; — at least, not the second part, which 
touches on the actual confines of still existing matters. 

" I have written three more Cantos of Don Juan, and 
am hoverbg on the brink of another, (the ninth.) The 
reason I want the stanzas again which I sent you is, that 
as these cantos contain a full detail (like the storm in 
Canto Second) of the siege and assault of Ismael with 
nmch of sarcasm on those butchers|| in large business, 
your mercenary soldiery, it is a good opportunity of grac- 
ing the poem with * * * * * . With 
these things and these fellows, it is necessary, in the pre- 
sent clash of philosophy and tyranny, to throw away the 
scabbard. I know it is against fearful odds ; but the battie 
must be fought ; and it will be eventually for the good of 



* A book which h.id just appeared, entitled " Memoirs of the Right 
Hon. Lord Byron." 

t See letters to the editors of Blftckwood'sMagazine, page 292. 

i It had been asserted, in a late number of Blackwood, that both 
I,ord Byron and myself were employed in writing satires against that 
Magazine. 

II Alluding to Wellington. Sec the beginning of Canto IX. 



LETTERS, 1822. 



205 



mankind, whatever it may be for the individual who risks 
himself. 

" What do you think of your Irish bishop ? Do you 
remember Swift's line, ' Let me have a barrack — a fig for 
the dergy.^ This seems to have been his reverence's 
motto. ♦ * + * * 

******* 

« Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, August 27, 1822. 

" It is boring to trouble you with ' such small gear ;' but 
it must be owned that I should be glad if you would 
inquire whether my Irish subscription ever reached the 
Committee in Paris from Leghorn. My reasons, like 
Vellum's, 'are threefold:' First,! doubt the accuracy of 
all almoners, or remitters of benevolent cash : second, I 
do suspect that the said Committee, having in part served 
its time to timeserving, may have kept back the acknow- 
ledgment of an obnoxious politician's name in their hsts ; 
and, third, I feel pretty sure that I shall one day be twitted 
by the government scribes for having been a professor of 
love for Ireland, and not coming forward with the others 
in her distresses. 

* It is not, as you may opine, that I am ambitious of 
having my name in the papers, as I can have that any 
day in the week gratis. All I want is, to know if the 
Reverend Thomas Hall did or did not remit my subscrip- 
tion (200 scudi of Tuscany, or about a thousand francs, 
more or less) to the Committee at Paris. 

" The other day at Viareggio, I thought proper to swim 
off to my schooner (the Bolivar) in the offing, and thence 
to shore again — about three miles, or better, in all. As it 
was at midday, under a broiling sun, the consequence has 
been a feverish attack, and my whole skin's coming off, 
after going through the process of one large continuous 
blister, raised by the sun and sea together. I have suf- 
fered much pain ; not being able to lie on my back, or 
even side ; for my shoulders and arms were equally St. 
Bartholomewed. But it is over, — and I have got a new 
skin, and am as glossy as a snake in its new suit. 

"We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and 
Williams on the seashore, to render them fit for removal 
and regular interment. You can have no idea what an 
extraordinary effect such a funeral pile has, on a desolate 
shore, with mountains in the back-ground and the sea 
before, and the singular appearance the salt and frankin- 
cense gave to the flame. All of Shelley was consumed, 
except his hearty which would not take the flame, and is 
now preserved in spirits of wine. 

" Your old acquaintance, Londonderry, has quietly died 
at North Cray ! and the virtuous De Witt was torn in 
pieces by the populace ! What a lucky + + * 

* * the Irishman has been in his life and end.* 
In him your Irish Franklin est morti 

" Leigh Hunt is sweating articles for his new Journal ; 
and both he and I think it somewhat shabby in you not 
to contribute. Will you become one of the propiriiotcrs / 

* Do, and we go snacks.' I recommend you to tlunk twice 
before you respond in the negative. 

*' I have nearly (quite three) four new cantos of Don 
Juan ready. I obtained permission from the fi-inale 
Censor Morum of my morals to continue it, provided it 
were immaculate ; so I have been as decent us need be. 
There is a deal of war — a siege, and all that, in tlic style, 
graphical and technical, of the shipwreck in Canto Se- 
cond, which ' took,' as they say, in the Row. 

" Yours, &c. 



• The particuUri of thU event had, It is ovidcut, not ytt roached 
him.— Moort. 



« P. S. That * + * Galignani has about ten lies 
in one paragraph. It was not a Bible that was found in 
Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems. However, 
it would not have been strange, for he was a great 
admirer of Scripture as a composition. / did not send 
my bust to the academy of New- York ; but I sat for my 
picture to young West, an American artist, at the request 
of some members of that Academy to hi7n that he would 
take my portrait, — for the Academy, I believe. 

" I had, and still have, thoughts of South America, but 
am fluctuating between it and Greece. I should have 
gone, long ago, to one of them, but for my Uaison with 
the Countess G>. ; for love, in these days, is little com- 
patible with glory. She would be delighted to go too; 
but I do not choose to expose her to a long voyage, and a 
residence in an unsettled country, where I shall probably 
take a part of some sort." 



LETTER DLXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAT. 

"Genoa, October 9. 1822. 

" I have received your letter, and as you explain it, I 
have no objection, on your account, to omit those pas- 
sages in the new Mystery, (which were marked in the 
half-sheet sent the other day to Pisa,) or the passage in 
Cain; — but why not be open, and say so aX first ? You 
should be more straight-forward on every account. 

" I have been very unwell — four days confined to my 
bed in ' the worst iim's worst room,' at Lerici, with a vio- 
lent rheumatic and bilious attack, constipation, and the 
devil knows what : — no physician, except a young fellow, 
who, however, was kind and cautious, and that's enough. 

" At last I seized Thompson's book of prescriptions, 
(a donation of yours,) and physicked myself with the first 
dose I found in it ; and after undergoing the ravages of 
all kinds of decoctions, sallied from bed on the fifth day to 
cross the Gulf to Sestri. The sea revived me instantly ; 
and I ate the sailor's cold fish, and drank a gallon of coun- 
try wine, and got to Genoa the same night after landing 
at Sestri, and have ever since been keeping well, but thin- 
ner, and with an occasional cough towards evening. 

" I am afraid the Journal is a bad business, and won't 
do ; but in it I am sacrificing myself for others — / can 
have no advantage in it. I believe the brothers Hunts to 
be honest men ; I am sure that they are poor ones : they 
have not a nap. They pressed me to engage in this work, 
and in an evil hour I consented. Still I shall not repent, 
if I can do them the least service. I have done all I can 
for Leigh Hunt since he came here ; but it is almost use- 
less : — his wife is ill, his six children not very tractable and 
in the affairs of this world he himself is a child. The 
death of Sfielley left them totally agroimd ; and I could 
not see them in such a state without using the common 
feelings of humanity, and what means wore in my power, 
to set them afloat again. 

" So Douglas Kinnaird is out of the way ? He was so 
the last time I sent him a parcel, and he gives no previous 
notice. When is he expected again? 

"Yours, &c.- 

"P. S. Will you say at once — do you publish Werner 
and the Mystery, or not ? You never once allude to them. 

"That cursed advertisement of Mr. J. Hunt is out of 
the limits. 1 did not lend him my name to be hawked 
about in this way. 

*♦*♦♦♦ 

•However, I believe — at least, hope — that after all you 
may be a gotwl fi-Uow at bottom, and it is on this presunij)- 
tion that T now write to you on the subject of u i)oor wo- 
man of the name of I'mj/, who is, or was, an autlior o( 
yours, as she says, and pulilished a book on Swit/.i"rland 
in 1816, patrouizctlby the 'Court and Colonel M'Mahon.' 



306 



LETTERS, 1822. 



But it seems that neither the Court nor the Colonel could 
get over the portentous price of ' three pounds thirteen 
and sixpence,' which alarmed the too susceptible pubUc; 
and, in short, ' the book died away,' and, what is worse, 
the poor soul's husband died too, and she writes with the 
man a corpse before her ; but instead of addressing the 
bishop or Mr. Wilberforce, she hath recourse to that 
proscribed, atheistical, syllogistical, phlogistical person, 
mysenf as they say in Notts. It is strange enough, but 
the rascaHle English, who calunmiate me in every direc- 
tion and on every score, whenever they are in great dis- 
tress recur to me for assistance. If I have had one ex- 
ample of this, I have had letters from a thousand, and as 
far as is in my power have tried to repay good for evil, 
and purchase a shilling's worth of salvation as long as my 
pocket can hold out. 

" Now, I am willing to do what I can for this unfor- 
tunate person ; but her situation and her wishes (not 
unreasonable, however) require more than can be ad- 
vanced by one individual like myself; for I have many 
claims of the same kind just at present, and also some 
remnants oidebt to pay in England — God, he knows, the 
latter how reluctantly ! Can the Literary Fund do no- 
thing for her ? By your interest, which is great among 
the pious, I dare say that something might be collected. 
Can you get any of her books published'^ Suppose you 
took her as author in my place, now vacant among your 
ragamuffins : she is a moral and pious person, and will 
shine upon your shelves. But, seriously, do what you 
can for her." 



LETTER DLXXni. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



« Genoa, Qbre 23,1822. 

"I have to thank you for a parcel of books, which are 
very welcome, especially Sir Walter's gift of ' Halidon 
Hill.' You have sent me a copy of ' Werner,' but with- 
out the preface. If you have published it without^ you 
will have plunged me into a very disagreeable dilemma, 
because I shall be accused of plagiarism from Miss Lee's 
German's Tale, whereas I have fully and freely acknow- 
ledged that the drama is entirely taken from the story. 

"I return you the (Quarterly Review, uncut and vm- 
opened, not from disrespect, or disregard, or pique, but it 
is a kind of reading which I have some time disused, as I 
think the periodical style of writing hurtful to the habits 
of the mind by presenting the superficies of too many 
tilings at once. I do not know that it contains any thing 
disagreeable to me — it may or it may not ; nor do I re- 
turn it on account that there may be an article which you 
hinted at in one of your late letters, but because I have 
left off reading these kind of works, and should equally 
have returned you any other number, 

" I am obliged to take in one or two abroad because 
solicited to do so. The Edinburgh came before me by 
mere chance in Galignani's picnic sort of gazette, where 
he had inserted a part of it. 

" You will have received various letters from me lately, 
in a style which I used with reluctance ; but you left me 
no other choice by your absolute refusal to communicate 
with a man you did not lilte upon the mere simple matter 
of transfer of a few papers of little consequence, (except 
to their author,) and which could be of no moment to 
yourself. 

" I hope that Mr. Kinnaird is better. It is strange 
that you never alluded to his accident, if it be true, as 
stated in the papers. 

" I am yours, &c. &c, 

" I hope that you have a milder winter than we have 
had here. We have had inundations worthy of the Trent 
or Po, and the conductor (Franklin's) of my house was 



struck (or supposed to be stricken) by a thunderbolt. I 
was so near the window that I was dazzled and my eyes 
hurt for several minutes, and everybody in the house felt 
an electric shock at the moment. Madsune Guiccioli was 
frightened, as you may suppose. 

"I have thought since that your bigots would have 
'saddled me with a judgment,' (as Thwackum did Square 
when he bit his tongue in talking metaphysics,) if any 
thing had happened of consequence. These fellows al- 
ways forget Christ in their Christianity, and what he said 
when 'the tower of Siloam fell.' 

" To-day is the 9th, and the 10th is my surviving daugh- 
ter's birthday, I have ordered, as a regale, a mutton chop 
and a bottle of ale. She is seven years old, I beUeve. 
Did I ever tell you that the day I came of age I dined on 
eggs and bacon and a bottle of ale? For once in a way 
they are my favourite dish and drinliable, but as neither 
of them agree with me, I never use them but on great 
jubilees — once in four or five years or so. 

" I see somebody represents the Hunts and Mrs. Shel- 
ley as Uving in my house; it is a falsehood. They 
reside at some distance, and I do not see them twice in a 
month. I have not met Mr. Hunt a dozen times since 
I came to Genoa, or near it. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DLXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Genoa, lObre 250, 1822. 
" I had sent you back the (Quarterly without perusal, 
having resolved to read no more reviews, good, bad, or 
indifferent; but ' who can control his fate ?' Galignani, 
to whom my English studies are confined, has forwarded 
a copy of at least one-half of it in his indefatigable catch- 
penny weekly compilation ; and as, ' like honour, it came 
unlocked for,' I have looked through it. I must say that, 
upon the whole, that is, the whole of the half which. I have 
read, (for the other half is to be the segment of Galigna- 
ni's next week's circular,) it is extremely handsome, and 
any thing but unliind or unfair. As I take the good in 
good part, I must not, nor will not, quarrel with the bad. 
What the writer says of Don Juan is harsh, but it is in- 
evitable. He must follow, or at least not directly oppose, 
the opinion of a prevailing and yet not very firmly seated 
party. A review may and will direct and ' turn awry' the 
currents of opinion, but it must not directly oppose them. 
Don Juan will be known, by-and-by, for what it is in- 
tended, a Satire on abuses of the present state of society, 
and not an eulogy of vice.* It may be now and then 
voluptuous : — I can't help that. Ariosto is worse ; Smol- 
lett (see Lord Strutwell in vol. 2d of Roderick Random) 
ten times worse ; and Fielding no better. No girl will 
ever be seduced by reading Don Juan : — no, no ; she will 
go to Little's poems and Rousseau's Romans for that, or 
even to the immaculate De Stael. They will encourage 
her, and not the Don, who laughs at that, and — and — most 
other things. But never mind — ca ira ! 

+ * + *** 

" Now, do you see what you and your friends do by 
your injudicious rudeness ? — actually cement a sort of 
coimexion which you strove to prevent, and which, had 
the Hunts prospered, would not in all probability have con- 
tinued. As it is, I will not quit them in their adversity, 
though it should cost me character, fame, money, and the 
usual et cetera. 

" My original motives I already explained, (in the let- 
ter which you thought proper to show :) they are the true 
ones, and I abide by them, as I tell you, and I told Leigh 
Hunt when he questioned me on tlie subject of that letter. 
He was violenriy hurt, and never will forgive me at bot- 



See Don Juan, Canto IV. Staiuas 5, 98, &e. 



LETTERS, 1823. 



207 



torn ; but I can't help that. I never meant to make a 
parade of it ; but if he chose to question me, I could only 
answer the plain truth ; and I confess I did not see any 
thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was ' a 
borcy which I do n't remember. Had their Journal gone 
on well, and I could have aided to make it better for them, 
I should then have left them, after my safe pilotage off a 
lee shore, to make a prosperous voyage by themselves. 
As it is, I can't, and would not if I could, leave them 
among the breakers. 

" As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion 
between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little or none. We 
meet rarely, hardly ever ; but I think him a good^princi- 
pled and able man, and must do as I would be done by. 
I do not know what world he has lived in, but I have lived 
in three or four ; but none ef them hke his Keats and 
kangaroo terra incognita. Alas I poor Shelley ! how we 
would have laughed had he lived, and how we used to 
laugh now and then at various things which are grave in 
the suburbs ! 

"You are all mistaken about Shelley. You do not 
know how mild, how tolerant, how good he was in society ; 
and as perfect a gentleman as ever crossed a drawing- 
room, when he liked, and where liked. 

" I have some thoughts of taking a run down to Naples 
{solusy or, at most, cum sold) this spring, and writing, 
when I have studied the country, a Fifth and Sixth Canto 
of Childe Harold : but this is merely an idea for the pre- 
sent, and I have other excursions and voyages in my 
mind. The busts* are finished: are you worthy of them? 

" Yours, &c. 
«N. B. 

«P. S. Mrs. Shelley is residing with the Hunts at 
some distance from me. I see them very seldom, and 
generally on account of their business. Mrs. Shelley, I 
believe, will go to England in the spring. 

« Count Gambia's family, the father and mother and 
daughter, are residing with me by Mr. Hill (the minis- 
ter's) recommendation, as a safer assylum from the politi- 
cal persecutions than they could have in another resi- 
dence ; but they occupy one part of a large house, and I 
the other, and our establishments are quite separate. 

" Since I have read the Ctuarterly, I shall erase two 
or three passages in the latter six or seven cantos, in 
which I had lightly stroked over two or three of your 
authors ; but I will not return evil for good. I liked what 
I read of the article much. 

"Mr. J. Hunt is most likely the publisher of the new 
Cantos ; with what prospects of success I know not, nor 
does it very much matter, as far as I am concerned ; but 
I hope it may be of use to him, for he is a stiff, sturdy, 
conscientious man, and I like him : he is such a one a 
Prynne or Pym might be. I bear you no ill-will for de- 
clining the Don Juans. 

« Have you aided Madame de Yossy, as I requested ? 
I sent her three hundred francs. Recommend her, will 
you, to the Literary Fund, or to some benevolence within 
your circles." 



LETTER DLXXV. 

TO LADY . 

"Albaro, Nov. 10, 1822. 

♦ * * * ♦ ? 11 

"The Chevalier persisted in declaring himself an ill- 
used gentleman, and describing you as a kind of cold 
Calypso, who lead astray people of an amatory disjjosilion 
without giving them any sort of compensation, contenting 



• Of the liuet of lilniself by Barlollini he ii»yi, In one of hli lftt»r» to 
Mr. Murray ;— " The bum does not turn out a good one,— thoiinh il inny 
l)e like lor iiiighl t know, an it emiclly re«embleii ii iiiiH'ranuiilrd Jemiil." 
AKuin, " I iiMure yon UBrtolllni'« U ilrcaillnl, IhonKh my inin't tnl«iilvi-ii 
ine llial it is liiduonvlv like. H it 1«, I cunnol bu long lor thi* wimM, lor 
it ovcrlookisevc.-y." Mooit. 



yourself, it seems, with only making om fool instead of two, 
which is the more approved method of proceeding on such 
ofccasions. For my part, I think you are quite rifht , 
and be assured from me that a woman (as society is con- 
stituted in England,) who gives any advantage to a man 
may expect a lover, but will sooner or later find a tyrant ; 
and this is not the man's fault either, perhaps, but is the 
necessary and natural result of the^ circumstances of 
society which, in fact, tyrarmize over the man equally with 
the women, that is to say, if either of them have any 
feeling or honour. 

" You can write to me at your leisure and inclination. 
I have always laid it down as a maxim, and found it justi- 
fied by experience, that a man and a woman make far 
better friendships than can exist between two of the same 
sex ; but these with this condition, that they never have 
made, or are to make, love with each other. Lovers 
may, and, indeed, generally are enemies, but they never 
can be friends ; because there must always be a spice of 
jealousy and a something of self in all their speculations. 

" Indeed, I rather look upon love altogether as a sort 
of hostile transaction, very necessary to make or to break 
matches, and keep the world going, but by no means a 
sinecure to the parties concerned. 

"Now, as my love-perils are, I believe, pretty well 
over, and yours, .by all accounts, are never to begin, we 
shall be the best friends imaginable as far as both are 
concerned, and with this advantage, that we may both 
fall to loving right and left through all our acquaintance, 
without either sullenness or sorrow from that amiable 
passion which are its inseparable attendants. 

" Believe me, &c." 



LETTER DLXXVI 

TO MR. PROCTOR. 

"■pisa, Jan. 1823. 
" Had I been aware of your tragedy when I wrote my 
note to ' Marino Fahero,' although it is a matter of no 
consequence to you, I should certainly not have omitted 
to insert your name with those of the other writers who 
still do honour to tlie drama. My own notions on the 
subject altogether are so different from the popular ideas 
of the day, that we differ essentially, as indeed I do from 
our whole English literati, upon that topic. But I do not 
contend that I am right — I merely say that such is my 
opinion, and as it is a solitary one, it can do no great 
iiarm. But it does not prevent me from doing justice to 
the powers of those who adopt a different system." 



LETTER DLXXVn. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Genoa, Feb. 20, 1823. 

"my dear TOM, 

" I must again refer you to those two letters addrcssi>d 
to you at Passy before I road your speech in Galignani, 
&c., and which you do not seem to have received. 

" Of Hunt 1 sec little — once a month or so, and then 
on his own business, generally. You may easily suppose 
that I know too little of Hanipstead ami his satellites to 
have much conuniinion or contniunily with him. My 
whole present relatitm to him arose from Shelley s unex- 
pected wreck. You would not have had me leave him 
in the street with his family, would yon .' lunl as to thr 
other plan you mention, you forgt>t how il woiiUi humilinte 
him — that his writings shoiiltl be sii|iposeil to Ih' ilejid 
wfight! Think a moment — he is perhaps the vainest 
man t>n earth, at least his own friends say so pn-tty 
loiiiiiy; and if he were in other fircnmslunres, T might 
1)1' temptcil to talif him down a pe^ ; hut not now, — i( 
w,..il,lbf rnirl, Il IS n .Mirsr I l.i,..i.u-^ : but iviiher the 



20d 



LETTERS, 1823. 



motive nor the means rest upon my conscience, and it 
happens that he and his brother have been so far benefited 
by the publication in a pecuniary point of view. His 
brother is a steady, bold fellow, such as Prynne, for exam- 
ple, and full of moral, and, I hear, physical courage. 

"And you are reaUy recanting, or softening to the 
clergy ! It wiU do little good for you — it is you, not the 
poem, they are at. They will say they frightened you — 
forbid it, Ireland ! 

"Yours ever, «N. B." 

LETTER DLXXVm. 



TO MRS. 



♦ ♦ + ***** 

" I presume that you, at least, know enough of me to 
be sure that I could have no intention to insult Hunt's 
poverty. On the contrary, I honour him for it ; for I 
know what it is, having been as much embarrassed as 
ever he was, without perceiving aught in it to diminish an 
honourable man's self-respect. If you mean to say that, 
had he been a wealthy man, I would have joined in this 
Journal, I answer in the negative. * * ♦ I engaged in 
the Journal from good-will towards him, added to respect 
for his character, literary and personal; and no less for 
his political courage, as well as regret for his present 
circumstances : I did tlus in the hope that he might, with 
the same aid from literary friends of literary ccntnbu- 
tions, (which is requisite for all Journals of a mixed 
nature,) render himself independent. 

****** 

" I have always treated him, in our personal intercourse, 
with such scrupulous delicacy, that I have forebome in- 
truding advice, which I thought might be disagreeable, 
lest he should impute it to what is called ' taking advan- 
tage-of a man's situation.' 

"As to friendship, it is a propensity in which my genius 
is very limited. I do not know the male human being, 
except Lord Clare, the friend of my infancy, for whom I 
feel any thing that deserves the name. All my others are 
men of the world friendships. I did not even feel it for 
Shelley, however much I admired and esteemed him ; so 
that you see not even vanity could bribe me into it, for, of 
all men, Shelley thought highest of my talents, — and, per- 
haps, of my disposition. 

" I will do my duty by my intimates, upon the principle 
of doing as you would be done by. I have done so, I 
trust, in most instances. I may be pleased with their con- 
versation — rejoice in their success — be glad to do them a 
service, or to receive their counsel and assistance in re- 
turn. But, as for friends and friendship, I have (as I al- 
ready said) named the only remaining male for whom I 
feel any tiling of the kind, excepting, perhaps, Thomas 
Moore. I have had, and may have stUl, a thousand 
friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's part- 
ners in the waltz of this world, not much remembered 
when the ball is over, though very pleasant for the time. 
Habit, business, and companionship in pleasure or in pain, 
are links of a similar kind, and the same faith in politics is 
another." + * * 



LETTER DLXXIX. 

TO LADY * * *. 

« Genoa, March, 28, 1823. 

***** 

" Mr. Hill is here : I dined with him on Saturday be- 
fore last ; and on leaving his house at S. P. d'Arena, my 
carriage broke down. I walked home, about three miles, 
— no very great feat of pedestrianism ; but either the 
coming out of hot rooms into a bleak wind chilled me, or 
the walking up-hill to Albaro heated rne. or something or 
other set me wrong, and next day I had an inflammatory 
attack in the face, to which I have been subject tliis win- 



ter for the first time, and I suffered a good deal of pain, 
but no peril. My health is now much as usual. INIr. 
Hill is, I believe, occupied with bis diplomacy. I shall 
give him your message when I see him again.* 

" My name, I see in the papers, has been dragged into 
the unhappy Portsmouth business, of which all that I know 
is very succinct. Mr. Hanson is my solicitor. I found 
him so when I was ten years old — at my uncle's death — 
and he was continued in the management of my legal 
business. He asked me, by a civil espistle, as an old ac- 
quaintance of his family, to be present at the marriage of 
Miss Hanson. I went very reluctantly, one misty morn- 
ing (for I had been up at two balls all night,) to witness 
the ceremony, which I could not very well refuse without 
affronting a man who had never offended me. I saw 
nothing particular in the marriage. Of course I could not 
know the prehminaries, except from what he said, not having 
been present at the wooing, nor after it, for I walked home, 
and they went into tlie country as soon as they had promis- 
ed and vowed. Out of this simple fact I hear the Debats de 
Paris has quoted Miss H. as ' autrefois tr^s hee avec le 
cel^bre,' &c. &c. I am obliged to him for the celebrity, 
but beg leave to decline the liaison, which is quite untrue; 
my Uaison was with the father, in tlie unsentimental shape 
of long lawyers' bills, through the medium of which I have 
had to pay him ten or twelve thousand pounds with'm these 
few years. She was not pretty, and I suspect that the in- 

defadgable Mr. A was (like all her people) more 

attracted by her tide than her charms. I regret very much 
that I was present at the prologue to the happy state of 
horsewhipping and black jobs, &c. &c., but I could not 
foresee that a man was to turn out mad, who had gone 
about the world for fifty years, as competent to vote, and 
walk at large ; nor did he seem to me more insane than 
any other person going to be married. 

" I have no objection to be acquainted with the Marquis 
Palavicini, if he wishes it. Lately, I have gone little into 
society, English or foreign, for I had seen all that was 
worth seeing in the former before I left England, and at 
the time of life when I was more disposed to like it ; and 
of the latter I had a sufficiency in the first few years of 
my residence in Switzerland, chiefly at Madame de 
Stael's, where I went sometimes, till I grew tired of con- 
versazioni and carnivals, with their appendages ; and the 
bore is, that if you go once, you are expected to be there 
daily, or rather nightly. I went the round of the most 
noted soirees at Venice or elsewhere (where I remained 
not any time) to the Benzona, and the Albrizzi, and the 
MicheUi, &c. &c., and to the Cardinals and the various 
potentates of the Legation in Romagna (that is, Ravenna,) 
and only receded for the sake of quiet when I came into 
Tuscany. Besides, if I go into society, I generally get, in 
the long run, into some scrape of some kind or other, which 
do n't occur in my solitude. However, I am pretty well 
settled now, by time and temper, which is so far lucky as it 
prevents res'dessness ; but, as I said before, as an acquain- 
tance of yours, I will be ready and willing to know your 
friends. He may be a sort of connexion for aught I know ; 
for a Palavicina, of Bologna, I beheve, married a distant 
relative of mine half a century ago. I happen to know 
the fact, as he and his spouse had an annuity of five hun- 
dred pounds on my uncle's property, which ceased at his 
demise, though I recollect hearing they attempted, natu- 
rally enough, to make it survive him. If I can do any thing 
for you here, or elsewhere, pray order, and be obeyed." 



LETTER DLXXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 



« Genoa, April 2, 1823. 
' 1 have just seen some friends of yours, who paid me a 



* The Earl of Portsmouth married Miss Hanson. Attempts were made 
about this time in the Cugligh Courts to prove him iniane. 



ii 



Letters, 1823. 



209 



visit yesterday, which, in honour of them and of you, I re- 
turned to-day ; — as I reserve my bear-skin and teeth, and 
paws and claws, for our enemies. 

" I have also seen Henry Fox, Lord Holland's son, 
whom I had not looked upon since I left him a pretty mild 
boy, without a neckcloth, in a jacket, and in delicate 
health, seven long years agone, at the period of mine 
ecUpse — the third, I believe, as I have generally one every 
two or three years. I think that he has the softest and 
most amiable expression of countenance I ever saw, and 
manners correspondent. If to those he can add heredi- 
tary talents, he will keep the name of Fox in all its fresh- 
ness for half a century more, I hope. I speak from a 
transient glimpse — but I love still to yield to such im- 
pressions ; for I have ever found that those I liked longest 
and best, I took to at first sight ; and I always Uked that 
boy ; perhaps, in part, from some resemblance in the less 
fortunate part of our destinies ; I mean, to avoid mistakes, 
his lameness. But there is this difference, that he appears 
a halting angel, who has tripped against a star ; while I 
am Le IHable Boitetix, — a soubriquet, which I marvel that, 
among their various nominis umbrae, the Orthodox have not 
hit upon. 

" Your other allies, whom I have found very agreeable 
personages, and Milor Blessington and dpouse, travelling 
with a very handsome companion, in the shape of a 
' French Count,' (to use Farquhar's phrase in the Beaux' 
Stratagem,) who has all the air of a Cupidon dechaine, 
and is one of the few specimens I have seen of our ideal 
of a Frenchman before the Revolution — an old friend with 
a new face, upon whose like I never thought that we 
should look again. Miladi seems highly literary, to which, 
and your honour's acquaintance with the family, I attri 
bute the pleasure of having seen them. She is also very 
pretty, even in a mornmg, — a species of beauty on which 
the sun of Italy does not shine so frequently as the chan- 
delier. Certainly, Englishwomen wear better than their 
continental neighbours of the same sex. M * * seems 
very good-natured, but is much tamed, since I recol- 
lect him in all the glory of gems and snuff-boxes, and 
uniforms, and theatricals, and speeches in our house — 
'I mean, of peers' (I must refer you to Pope — whom 
you do n't read, and won't appreciate — for that quota- 
tion, which you must allow to be poetical,) and sitting 
to Slroeling, the painter (do you remember our visit, 
with Leckie, to the German?) to be depicted as one of 
the heroes of Agincourt,' with his long sword, saddle, 
bridle, whack fal de,' &c. &c. 

" I have been unwell — caught a cold and inflamma- 
tion, which menanced a conflagration, after dining with 
our ambassador. Monsieur Hill, — not owing to the dinner, 
but my carriage broke down on the way home, and I had 
to walk some miles, up-hill partly, after hot rooms, in 
a very bleak windy evening, and over-hotted, or over- 
colded myself I have not been so robustious as for- 
merly, ever since the last summer, when I fell ill after 
a long swim in the Mediterranean, and have never 
been quite right up to this present writing. I am thin, 
— perhaps thinner than you saw me, when I was nearly 
transparent, in 1812, — and am obliged to bo moderate of 
my mouth, which, nevertheless, won't prevent mo (the 
gods willing) from dining with your friends the day afler 
to-morrow. 

" They give me a very good account of you, and of 
your nearly 'Emprisoned Angels.' But why did you 
change your title ? — you will regret this some day. The 
bigotfl are not to be conciliated ; and, if they were, are 
they worth it? I suspect that I am a more orthodox 
Christian than you are ; and, whenever I see a real 
Christian, either in practice or in theory, (for I never yet 
found the man who could pr<Mluce either, when put to the 
proof]) I am his disciple. But, till then, I cannot truckle 
to tithe-mongers, — nor can I imagine what has made you 
circumcise your Seraphs. 

27 



LETTER DLXXXI. 

TO THE EARL OF BLESSINGTOW. 

"Aprils, 1823, 

•* MR. DEAR LORD, 

"How is your gout? or rather, how are you? I return 
the Count * *'s Journal, which is a very extraordinary 
production,* and of a most melancholy truth in all that 
regards high life in England. I know, or knew, per- * 
sonally, most of the personages and societies, which he 
describes ; and after reading his remarks have the sensa- 
tion fresh upon me as I had seen them yesterday. I 
would however plead in behalf of some few exceptions, 
which I will mention by-and-by. The most singular 
thing is, how he should have penetrated not the fact, but 
the mystery of the English ennui, at two-and- twenty. I 
was about the same age when I made the same dis- 
covery, in almost precisely the same circles — (for there is 
scarcely a person mentioned whom I did not see nightly 
or daily, and wa^cquainted more or less mtimately with 
most of them) — but I never could have described it so 
well. Ilfaut Hre Francois, to effect this. 

" But he ought also to have been in the country during 
the hunting season, with ' a select party of distinguished 
guests,' as the papers term it. He ought to have seen 
the gentlemen after dinner, (on the hunting days,) and 
the soiree ensuing thereupon — and the women looking as 
if they had hunted, or rather been hunted ; and I could 
have wished that he had been at a dmner in town, which 
1 recollect at Lord C * *'s — small, but select, and com- 
posed of the most amusing people. The dessert was 
hardly on the table, when, out of twelve I counted _five 
asleep ; of that five, there were Tiemey, Lord * *, and 
Lord * * — I forget the other two, but they were either 
wits or orators — perhaps poets. 

"My residence in the East and in Italy has made me 
somewhat indulgent of the siesta — but then they set 
regularly about it in warm countries, and perform it in 
solitude, (or at most in a tfite-a-tSte with a proper com- 
panion,) and retire quietly to their rooms to get out of the 
sun's way for an hour or two. 

" Altogether, your friend's Journal is a very formidable 
production. Alas! our dearly-beloved countrymen have 
only discovered that they are tired, and not that they are 
tiresome ; and I suspect that the communication of the 
latter unpleasant verity will not be better received than 
truths usually are. I have read the whole with great 
attention and instruction. I am too good a patriot to say 
pleasure — at least I won't say so, whatever I may think. 
I showed it (I hope no breach of confidence,) to a young 
Italian lady of rank, trls instruite also ; and who passes, 
or passed, for being one of the three most celebrated belles 
in the district of Italy, where her family and connexions 
resided in less troublesome times as to politics, (which is 
not Genoa, by-the-way,) and she was delighted widi it, 
and says that she has derived a better noti(m of English 
society from it than from all Madame de Stacl's meta- 
physical disputations on the same subject, in her work on 
the Revolution. I bog tliat you will thank the young 
philosopher, and make my compliments to Lady B. and 
her sister. 

" Believe mo your very obliged and faithful 

"N.B. 
" P. S. There is a rumour in letters of some disturbance 
or com|»lot in the French Pyrcnean army — generul.-* mis- 
pectod or dismissed, and ministers of war travelluig to see 
what's the matter. 'Marry, (as David suys,) iJas lialli an 
angry favour.' 

" Tell Count * * that s^me i^f ti»o names are not 
]uito intelligible, espi'cialiy of the i lul« ; ho speaks of 



• III •nothcr Irllrr to LonJ nirMingli.ii. Ii» iny of »>«'• r';<'«''"«n. 
ha Mi-nii lo Imvu nil the oualilirs rcqulillo lo h»»f fli-iml la hl» 
brother-in-lnw '• uiiccilor'i Memoir*." 



210 



LETTERS, 1823. 



Watts — perhaps he is right, but in my time JVaiiers was 
the Dandy Club, of which (though no dandy) 1 was a 
member, at the time too of its greatest glory, when Brum- 
mell and Mildmay, Alvanley and Pierrepoint, gave the 
dandy balls; and we (the club, that is,) got up the famous 
masquerade at Burlington House and Garden for Welling- 
ton. He does not speak of the Alfred, which was the 
most rechercM and most tiresome of any, as I know by 
being a member of tlmt too." 



LETTER DLXXXII. 

TO THE EARL Or BLESSINGTON, 

"April 6, 1823. 

"It would be worse than idle, knowing, as I do, the 
utter worthlessness of words on such occasions, in me to 
attempt to express what I ought to feel, and do feel for 
the loss you have sustained :* and I mi||t thus dismiss the 
subject, for I dare not trust myself further with it /or your 
sake, or for my own. I shall endeavour to see you as soon 
as it may not appear intrusive. Pray excuse the levity 
of my yesterday's scrawl — I little thought under what 
circumstances it would find you. 

" I have received a very handsome and flattering note 
from Count * *. He must excuse my apparent rude- 
ness and real ignorance in replying to it in English, 
through the medium of your kind intei-pretation. I would 
not on any account deprive him of a production, of which 
I really think more than I have even said, though you are 
good enough not to be dissatisfied even with that ; but 
whenever it is completed, it would give me die greatest 
pleasure to have a copy — but how to keep it secret ! lite- 
rary secrets are like others. By changing the names, or 
at least omitting several, and altering the circumstances 
indicative of the writer's real station, the author would 
render it a most amusing publication. His countrymen 
have not been treated either in a literary or personal point 
of view with such deference in English recent works, as to 
lay him under any very great national obligation of forbea- 
rance ; and really the remarks are so true and so piquante 
that I cannot bring myself to wish their suppression; 
though, as Dangle says, ' He is my friend,' many of these 
personages ' were my friends^ but much such friends as 
Dangle and his allies. 

"I return you Dr. Parr's letter — I have met him at 
Payne Knight's and elsewhere, and he did me the honour 
once to be a patron of mine, although a great friend of 
the other branch of the House of Atreus, and the Greek 
teacher (I believe) of my moral Clytemnestra — I say 
moral, because it is true, and so useful to the virtuous, 
that it enables them to do any thing without the aid of an 
TEgisthus. 

"I beg my compliments to Lady B. Miss P. and to 
your Alfred. I think, since his Majesty of the same 
name, there has not been such a learned surveyor of our 
Saxon society. 

" Ever yours most truly, 

«N. B." 

"April 9, 1823. 

"my DEAR LORD, 

♦ ♦♦♦** 

■P. S. I salute Miledi, Madamoiselle Mama, and the 
illustrious Chevalier Count * *, who, 1 hope, will continue 
his history of ' his own times.' There are some strange 
coincidences between a part of his remarks and a certain 
work of mine, now in MS. in England, (I do not mean 
the hermetically sealed Memoirs, but a continuation of 
certain Cantos of a certain poem,) especially in what a 



man may do in London with impunity while he is ' a la 
mode ;' which I think it well to state, thai he may not 
suspect me of taking advantage of his confidence. The 
observations are very general." 



LETTER DLXXXIIL 

TO THE EARL OF BLESSINGTON. 

« April 14, 1823. 

"I am truly sorry that I cannot accompany you in your 
ride this morning, owing to a violent pain in my face, 
arising from a wart to which I by medical advice applied 
a caustic. AVhether I put too much, I do not know, but 
the consequence is, not only I have been put to some 
pain, but the peccant part and its immediate environ are 
as black as if the printer's devil had marked me for an 
author. As I do not wish to frighten your horses, or their 
riders, I shall postpone waiting upon you until six o'clock, 
when I hope to have subsided into a more Christianlike 
resemblance to my fellow-creatures. My infliction has 
partially extended even to my fingers for on trying to get 
tlie black from off" my upper lip at least, I have only 
transfused a portion thereof to my right hand, and neither 
lemon-juice nor eau de Cologne, nor any other eau, have 
been able as yet to redeem it also from a more inky 
appearance than is either proper or pleasant. But ' our 
damn'd spot' — you may have perceived something of the 
kind yesterday, for on my return, 1 saw that during my 
^^sit it had increased, was increasing, and ought to be 
diminished ; and I could not help laughing at the figure I 
must have cut before you. At any rate, I shall be with 
you at six, with the advantage of twilight. 

" Ever most truly, &c. 

*•' 11 o'clock. 
" P. S. I wrote the above at three this morning. I 
regret to say that the whole of the skin of about an inch 
square above my upper lip has come ofi^, so that I cannot 
even shave or masticate, and I am equally unfit to appear 
at your table, and to partake of its hospitality. Will you 
therefore pardon me, and not mistake tliis rueful excuse 
for a ' make-believe,^ as you will soon recognise whenever 
I have the pleasure of meeting you again, and I will call" 
the moment I am, in the nursery phrase, ' fit to be seen.* 
Tell Lady B. \\\\h my compliments, that I am rummag- 
ing my papers for a MS. worthy of her acceptation. I 
have just seen tlie younger Count Gamba, and as I can- 
not prevail on his infinite modesty to take the field without 
me, I must take this piece of difiidence on my myself 
also, and beg your indulgence for both." 



• The death of Lord Ble8«mglon'» son, which had been long ex- 
ptetad, but of which tha account had Jutt then arrived. 



LETTER DLXXXrV. 

TO THE COUNT * *. 

"April 22, 1823. 

"My dear Count * *, (if you will permit me to address 
you so familiarly,) you should be content with writing in 
your own language, like Grammont, and succeedmg in 
London as nobody has succeeded since the days of 
Charles the Second and the records of Antonio Hamil- 
ton, without deviating into our barbarous language, — 
which you understand and write, however, much better 
than it deserves. 

" My < approbation,' as you are plaased to term it, was 
very sincere, but perhaps not very impartial; for though I 
love my country, I do not love my countrymen — at least, 
such as they now are. And besides the seduction of 
talent and wit in your work, I fear that to me there was 
the attraction of vengeance. I have seen and felt much 
of what you have described so well. I have known the 
persons, and the reunions so described — (many of them. 



LETTERS, 1823. 



211 



that is to say,) — and the portraits are so Uke that I 
cannot but -admire the painter no less than his perform- 
ance. 

"But I am sorry for you; for if you are so well 
acquainted with life at your age, what will become of 
you when the illusion is still more dissipated ? but never 
mind — en avant! — live while you can ; and that you may 
have the full enjoyment of the many advantages of youth, 
talent, and figure, which you possess, is the wish of an — 
Englishman, — I suppose, — but it is no treason ; for my 
mother was Scotch, and my name and ray family are both 
Norman ; and as for myself, I am of no country. As for 
my 'Works,' which you are pleased to mention, let them 
go to the devil, from whence (if you believe many per- 
sons) they came. 

" I have the honour to be your obliged, &c. &c." 



LETTER DLXXXV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

«May^,1823. 
"dear lady * *, 

*' My request would be for a copy of the miniature of 
Lady B., which I have seen in possession of the late 
Lady Noel, as I have no picture, or indeed memorial of 
any kind of Lady B., as all her letters were in her own 
possession before I left England, and we have had no cor- 
respondence since — at least on her part. 

" My message, with regard to the infant, is simply to 
Uiis effect — that in the event of any accident occurring to 
the mother, and my remaining the survivor, it would be 
my wish to have her plans carried into effect, both with 
regard to the education of the cliild, and the person or 
persons under whose care Lady B. might be desirous that 
she should be placed. It is not my intention to interfere 
with her in any way on the subject during her liie ; and I 
presume tliat it would be some consolation to her to 
know, {if she is in ill health, as I am given to understand,) 
that in no case would any thing be done, as far as I am 
concerned, but in strict conformity with Lady B.'s own 
wishes and intentions — left in what manner she thought 
proper. 

"Believe me, dear Lady B., your obliged, &c." 



LETTER DLXXXVI. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF 



«Albaro,May 6, 1823. 

* MV DEAR LADV * * *, 

« I send you the letter which I had forgotten, and the 
book,* which I ought to have remembered. It contains 
(the book, I mean) some melancholy truths ; though I 
believe that it is too triste a work ever to have been popu- 
lar. The first time I ever read it, (not the edition I send 
you, — for I got it since,) was at the desire of Madame de 
Stael, who was supposed by the good-natured world to be 
the heroine ; — which she was not, however, and was 
furious at the supposition. This occurred in Switzerland, 
in the summer of 1816, and the last season in whicii I 
ever saw that celebrated person. 

" I have a request to make to my friend Alfred, (since 
he has not disdained the title,) viz. that he would conde- 
scend to add a cap to the gentleman in the jacket, — it 
would comi)lctc his costume, — and smooth his brow,wiuch 
is somewhat too inveterate a likeness of the original, God 
help me ! 

** I did well to avoid the water-jjarty, — ">%, is a myste- 
ry, wiiich is not less to be wondered at than all my other 



mysteries. Tell Milor that I am deep in his MS., and 
will do him justice by a dihgent perusal. 

" The letter which I enclose I was prevented from 
sending, by my despair of its doing any good. I was per- 
fectly sincere when I wrote it, and am so still. But it is 
difficult for me to withstand the thousand provocations on 
that subject, which both friends and foes have for seven 
years been throwing m the way of a man whose feelings 
were once quick, and whose temper was never patient. 
But ' returning were as tedious as go o'er.' I feel this as 
much as ever Macbeth did ; and it is a dreary sensation, 
which at least avenges the real or imaginary wrongs of 
one of the two imfortunate persons whom it concerns. 

" But I am going to be gloomy ; — so, ' to bed, to bed.' 
Good night, — or rather morning. One of the reasons 
why I wish to avoid society is, that I can never sleep 
after it, and the pleasanter it has been, the less I rest. 
" Ever most truly, &c. &c." 



• /dol|ilu', liy M. Ucnjniniii (.oiistaal. 



LETTER DLXXXVn.* 

TO LADY BYRON. 

(To the care of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, London.) 

"Pisa, Nov. 17, 1821. 

" I have to acknowledge the receipt of ' Ada's hair,' 
which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already 
as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from 
what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken 
at that age. But it do n't curl, — perhaps from its being 
let grow. 

" I also thank you for the inscription of the date and 
name, and I will tell you why ; — I believe that they are 
the only two or three words of your handwriting in my 
possession. For your letters I returned, and except the 
two words, or rather the one word, 'Household,' written 
twice in an old account-book, I have no other. I burnt 
your last note, for two reasons : — Istly, it was written in a 
style not very agreeable ; and, 2dly, I wished to take your 
word without documents, which are the worldly resources 
of suspicious people. 

"I suppose tliat this note will reach you somewhere 
about Ada's birthday — the 10th of December, I believe. 
She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall 
have some chance of meeting her ; — perhaps sooner, if I 
am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise. 
Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or near- 
ness ; — everyday which keeps us asunder should, after so 
long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which 
miist always have one rally ing-point as long as our child 
exists, which I presume we both hope will be long after 
either of her parents. 

" The time which has elapsed since the separation, has 
been considerably more than the whole brief period of 
our union, and the not much longer one of our prior 
acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake ; but now 
it is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my 
part, and a few years less on yours, though it is no very 
extended period of life, still it is one when the habits and 
thought are generally so formed as to admit of no modifi- 
cation; and as we could not agree when younger, w© 
should with diflicullydo so now. 

" I say all this, because I own to you that, notwidi- 
standing every thing, I considered our reunion as not 
impossible for more than a year after the separation ; — 
hut then I gave \ip the hope entirely and for ever. But 
this very imiiossiliilily of reunion seen\s to me at least a 
reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can 
arise between us, wo should preserve the courtesies of 
life, and as much of its kindness n.s peojjle who are never 
to meet may preserve, perhaps more cosily than nearer 



• Koclpif.l III I.Btl»r589. 



212 



LETTERS, 1823. 



connexions. For my own part, I am violent, but not 
malignant ; for only fresh provocations can awaken my 
resentments. To you, who are colder and more concen- 
trated, I would just hint, that you may sometimes mistake 
the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and a worse feeling 
for duty. I assure you that I bear you now (whatever I 
may have done) no resentment whatever. Remember, 
that if you have injured me in aught, this forgiveness is 
something ; and that, if I have injured you,it is something 
more still, if it be true, as the moralists say, that the most 
offending are the least forgiving. 

« Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or 
reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect 
upon any but two things, — viz. that you are the mother of 
my child, and that we shall never meet again. I think if 
you also consider the two corresponding points with refer- 
ence to myself, it will be better for all three. 

" Yours ever, 

"NoelBvron." 



LETTER DLXXXVIIL 

TO MR. BLAQUIERE. 

"Albaro, April 5, 1823. 

" DEAR SIR, 

"I shall be delighted to see you and your Greek friend ; 
and the sooner the better. I have been expecting you 
for some time, — you will find me at home. I cannot ex- 
press to you how much I feel interested in the cause ; 
and nothing but the hopes I entertained of witnessing tlie 
liberation of Italy itself, prevented me long ago from re- 
turning to do what little I could, as an individual, in that 
land which it is an honour even to have visited. 

" Ever yoxors, truly, 
" NoEi. Byron." 



LETTER DLXXXIX. 



TO MR. BOWRING. 



«Genoa,May 12, 1823. 

" SIR, 

" I have great pleasure in acknowledging your letter, 
and the honour which the Committee have done me ; — I 
shall endeavour to deserve their confidence by every 
means in my power. My first wish is to go up into the 
Levant in person, where I might be enabled to advance, 
if not the cause, at least the means of obtaining informa- 
tion which the Committee might be desirous of acting 
upon •, and my former residence in the country, my fami 
liarity with the Italian language, (which is there univer- 
sally spoken, or at least to the same extent as French in 
the more polished parts of the continent,) and my not total 
ignorance of the Romaic, would afford me some advan- 
tages of experience. To this project the only objection 
is of a domestic nature, and I shall try to get over it; — 
if I fail in this, I must do what I can where I am ; but it 
will be always a source of regret to me, to think that 1 
might perhaps have done more for the cause on die spot. 
"Our last information of Captain Blaquiere is from 
Ancona, where he embarked with a fair wind for Corfu, 
on the 15th ult. ; he is now probably at his destination. 
My last letter /rom him personally was dated Rome ; he 
had been refused a passport through the Neapolitan ter- 
ritory, and returned to strilte up through Romagna for 
Ancona : little time, however, appears to have been lost 
by the delay. 

" The principal material wanted by the Greeks appears 
to be, first, a park of field artillery — light, and fit for moun- 
tain-service ; secondly, gunpowder; thirdly, hospital or 
medical stores. The readiest mode of transmission is, I 
hnar, by Idra, addressed to Mr. Negri, the minister. I 



meant to send up a certain quantity of the two latter 
— no great deal — but enough for an individual to show 
his good wishes for the Greek success ; but am pausing, 
because, in case I should go myself, I ccui take them with 
me. I do not want to limit my own contribution to this 
merely, but more especially, if I can get to Greece my- 
self, I should devote whatever resources I can muster of 
my own, to advancing the great object. I am in corre- 
spondence with Signor Nicolas Karrellas, (well known to 
Mr. Hobhouse,) who is now at Pisa ; but his latest ad- 
vice merely stated, that the Greeks are at present em- 
ployed in organizing their internal government, and the 
details of its administration ; this would seem to indicate 
security, but the war is however far from being terminated. 
" The Turks are an obstinate race, as all former wars 
have proved them, and will return to the charge for years 
to come, even if beaten, as it is to be hoped they will be. 
But in no case can the labours of the Committee be said 
to be in vain, for in the event even of the Greeks being 
subdued and dispersed, the funds which could be em- 
ployed in succouring and gathering together the remnant, 
so as to alleviate in part their distresses, and enable them 
to find or make a country, (as so many emigrants of other 
nations have been compelled to do,) would bless 'both 
those who gave and those who took,' as the bounty both 
of justice and of mercy. 

" With regard to the formation of a brigade, (which Mr. 
Hobhouse hints at in his short letter of this day's receipt, 
enclosing the one to which I have the honour to reply,) 
I would presume to suggest — but merely as an opinion, 
resulting rather from the melancholy experience of the 
brigades embarked in the Columbian service, than from 
any experiment yet fairly tried in Greece — that the at- 
tention of the Committee had better perhaps be directed 
to the employment of officers of experience than the enrol- 
ment oiraw British soldiers, which latter are apt to be 
unruly, and not very serviceable, in irregular warfare, by 
the side of foreigners. A small body of good officers, 
especially artillery ; an engineer, with quantity (such as 
the Committee might deem requisite) of stores, of the 
nature which Captain Blaquiere indicated as most wanted, 
would, I should conceive, be a highly useful accession. 
Officers, also, who had previously served in the Mediter- 
ranean, would be preferable, as some knowledge of Italian 
is nearly indispensable. 

" It would also be as well that they should be aware 
that they are not going ' to rough it on a beef-steak and 
bottle of port,' — ^liut that Greece — never, of late years, 
very plentifully stocked for a mess — is at present the 
country of all kinds of privations. This remark may seem 
superfluous ; but I have been led to it, by observing that 
many foreign officers, Italian, French, and even Germans, 
{hut fewer of the loiter,) have returned in disgust, imagin- 
ing either that they were going up to make a party of 
pleasure, or to enjoy full pay, speedy promotion, and a 
very moderate degree of duty. They complain, too, of 
having been ill received by the Government or inhabi- 
tants ; but numbers of these complaints were mere adven» 
turers, attracted by a hope of command and plunder, and 
disappointed of both. Those Greeks I have seen stre- 
nuously deny the charge of inhospitaUty, and declare that 
they shared their pittance to the last crumb with their 
foreign volunteers. 

"I need not suggest to the Committee the very great 
advantage which must accrue to Great Britain from the 
success of the Greeks, and their probable commercial 
relations with England in consequence ; because I feel 
persuaded that the first object of the Committee is their 
EMANCIPATION, without any interested views. But the 
consideration might weigh with the English people in 
general, in their present passion for every kind of specu- 
lation, — they need not cross the American seas, for one 
much better worth their while, and nearer home. The 
resources, even for an emigrant population, in the Greek 



I 



LETTERS, 1823. 



213 



island alone, are rarely to be paralleled ; and the cheap- 
ness of every kind, of not only necessary, but luxury, (that 
is to say, humiry oi nature,) fruits, wine, oil, &c. in a state 
of peace,, are far beyond those of tlie Cape, and Van Die- 
man's Land, and the other places of refuge, which the 
English population are searching for over the waters. 

" I beg that tlie Committee will command me in any 
and every way. If I am favoured with any instructions, 
I shall endeavour to obey them to the letter, whether con- 
formable to my own private opinion or not. I beg leave 
to add, personally, my respect for the gentleman whom I 
have the honour of addressing, 

"And am, sir, your obliged, &c. 

«P. S. The best refutation of Gell will be the active 
exertions of the Committee ; — I am too warm a contro- 
versialist ; and I suspect that if Mr. Hobhouse have taken 
him in hand, there will be little occasion for me to ' en- 
cumber him with help.' If I go up into the country, I 
will endeavour to transmit as accurate and impartial an 
account as circumstances will permit. 

*I shall write to Mr. KarreUas. I expect intelligence 
from Captain Blaquiere, who has promised me some early 
intimation from the seat of the Provisional Government. 
I gave him a letter of introduction to Lord Sidney Osborne, 
at Corfu ; but as Lord S. is in the government service, of 
course his reception could only be a cautious one." 



LETTER DXC. 



TO MR. BOWRING. 



"Genoa, May 2! J 1823. 

"SIH, 

"I received yesterday the letter of the Committee, 
dated the 14th of March. What has occasioned the de- 
lay, I know not. It was forwarded by Mr. Galignani, 
from Paris, who stated that he had only had it in his 
charge four days, and that it was delivered to him by a 
Mr. Grattan. I need hardly say that I gladly accede to 
the proposition of the Committee, and hold myself highly 
honoured by being deemed worthy to be a member. I 
have also to return my thanks, particularly to yourself, for 
the accompanying letter, which is extremely flattering. 

"Smce I last wrote to you, through the medium of Mr. 
Hobhouse, I have received and forwarded a letter from 
Captain Blaquiere to me, from Corfu, which will show 
now he gets on. Yesterday I fell in with two young 
Germans, survivors of General Normann's band. They 
arrived at Genoa in the most deplorable state — without 
food — without a sou — without shoes. The Austrians 
had sent them out of their territory on their landing at 
Trieste : and they had been forced to come down to Flo- 
rence, and had travelled from Leghorn here, with four 
Tuscan llvres (about three francs) in their pockets. I 
have given them twenty Genoese scudi, (about a hundred 
and thirty-three livres, French money,) and new shoes, 
which will enable them to get to Switzerland, where they 
eay that they have friends. All that they could raise in 
Genoa, besides, was thirty sous. They do not complain 
of the Greeks, but say that they have suffered more since 
tiieir landmg in Italy. 

*I tried their veracity, Istly, by their passports and 
papers ; 2dly, by topography, cross-questioning them about 
Arta, Argos, Athens, Missolonghi, Corinth, &c. ; and, 
3dly, in iJo/naic, of which I found (one of them at least) 
knew more than I do. One of them (thoy are botli of 
good families) is a fine, handsome young fellow of throo- 
and-twenty — a Wirlcmbcrgher, and has a look of SaniU 
about him — the other a Bavarian, oldrr, and flat-faced, and 
less ideal, but a great, sturdy, soldier-like personage. The 
Wirfembori^hor was in the action at Arta, wIkto iJio 
Philhcllcnists were cut to pieces after killing six hundred 
Turks, they themselves being only a hundred and fifty in 



number, opposed to about six or seven thousand; only 
eight escaped, and of them about three only survived ; so 
that General Nermann ' posted his ragamuffins where 
they were well peppered — not three of the hundred and 
fifty left alive — and they are for the town's end for life.' 

"These, two left Greece by the direction of the Greeks. 
When Churschid Pacha overrun the Morea, the Greeks 
seem to have behaved well, in wishing to save their allies, 
when they tliought that the game was up with themselves. 
This was in September last, (1822:) they wandered from 
island to island, and got from Milo to Smyrna, where the 
French consul gave them a passport, and a charitable 
captain a passage to Ancona, whence they got to Trieste, 
and were turned back by the Austrians. They complain 
only of the minister, (who has always been an indifferent 
character;) say that the Greeks fight very well in their 
own way, but were at Jirst afraid iojire their own cannon 
— but mended with practice. 

"Adolphe (the younger) commanded at Navarino for 
a short time ; the other, a more material person, ' the bold 
Bavarian in a luckless hour,' seems chiefly to lament a fast 
of three days at Argos, and the loss of twenty-five paras 
a day of pay in arrear, and some baggage at Tripolitza ; 
but takes his wounds, and marches, and battles in very 
good part. Both are very simple, full of naivete, and 
quite unpretending: they say the foreigners quarrelled 
among themselves, particularly the French with the Ger- 
mans, which produced duels. 

" The Greeks accept muskets, but dirow away bayonets, 
and will not be disciplined. When these lads saw two 
Piedmontese regiments yesterday, they said, 'Ah, if we 
had had but these two, we should have cleared the Morea :" 
in that case the Piedmontese must have behaved better 
than they did against the Austrians. They seem to lay 
great stress upon a few regular troops — say that the 
Greeks have arms and powder in plenty, but want 
victuals, hospital stores, and lint and linen, &c. and 
money, very much. Altogether, it would be difficult to 
shov/ more practical philosophy than this remnant of our 
' puir hill folk' have done ; they do not seem the least cast 
down, and their way of presenting themselves was as 
simple and natural as could be. They said, a Dane here 
had told them that an Englishman, friendly to the Greek 
cause, was here, and that, as they were reduced to beg 
their way homo, they thought they might as well begin 
with me. I write in haste to snatch the post. — Believe 
me, and truly, " Your obliged, &c. 

" P. S. I have, since I wrote this, seen them again. 
Count P. Gamba asked them to breakfast. One of them 
means to publish his Journal of the campaign. The 
Bavarian wonders a little that tlio Greeks are not quite 
the same with them of the time of Themistocles, (they 
were not then very tractable, by-tlic-by,) and at the diffi- 
culty of disciplining tliem ; but he is a ' bon homme' and a 
tacticia, and a little like Dugald Dalgetty, who would 
insist upon tlie erection of 'a sconce on the hill of Dnim- 
snab,' or whatever it was ; — the other seems to wonder at 
nothing." 



LETTER DXCL 

TO MR. CHURCH, 
American Coniul at Genoa. 

"Genoa, May, 18CS. 
" The accounts are so contradictory, as to what nioiio 
will be best for supplying the Greeks, that I have deemed 
it better to fake up, (with the exception of a few supplies,) 
what cash ami credit I ran muster, rather than lay them 
out in articles that might bo doeinrd suporlluous or unno- 
ressavy. Here we can learn nothing but from some of 
the rofugoos, who appear chiefly intorosted for thcmsolveg. 
My accounts from an agent of the ("!omniitice, an English 
gentleman lately gone up to Groocc, are hitherto favour- 



214 



LETTERS, 1823. 



able, but he had not yet readied the seat of the Provi- 
sional Government, and I am anxiously expecting further 
advice. 

" An American has a better right than any other, to 
suggest to other nations the mode of obtaining that liberty 
which is the glory of his own." 



LETTER DXCIL 

TO M. H. BEVLE, 
Rue de Richelieu, Paris. 

« Genoa, May 29, 1823. 

*SIR, 

"At present, that I know to whom I am indebted for a 
very flattering mention in the ' Rome, Naples, and Flo- 
rence, in 1817, by Mons. Stendhal,' it is fit that I should 
return my thanks (however undersired or undesirable) to 
Mons. Beyle, with whom I bad the honour of being ac- 
quainted at Milan in 1816. You only did me too much 
honour in what you were pleased to say in that work ; 
but it has hardly given me less pleasure than the praise 
itselfj to become at length aware (which I have done by 
mere accident) that I am mdebted for it to one of whose 
good opinion I was reaUy ambitious. So many changes 
have taken place since that period in the Milan circle, 
that I hardly dare recur to it ; — some dead, some banish- 
ed, and some in the Austrian dungeons. Poor Pellico ! 
I trust that, in his iron solitude, his Muse is consoling 
him in part — one day to delight us again, when both she 
and her poet are restored to freedom. 

" Of your works I have only seen ' Rome, &c.' the 
Lives of Haydn and Mozart, and the brochure on Racine 
and Shakspeare. The 'Histoire de la Peinture,' I have 
not yet the good fortune to possess. 

" There is one part of your observations in the pamphlet 
which I shall venture to remark upon ; it regards Walter 
Scott. You say that ' his character is little worthy of 
enthusiasm,' at the same time that you mention his pro- 
ductions in the manner they deserve. I have known 
Walter Scott long and well, and in occasional situations 
which call forth the real character — and I can assure you, 
that his character is worthy of admiration ; — that of all 
men he is the most open, the most honourable^ the most 
amiable. With his politics, I have nothing to do ; they 
differ from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak 
of them. But he is perfectly sincere in them ; and sin- 
cerity may be humble, but she cannot be servile. I pray 
you, therefore, to correct or soften that passage. You 
may, perhaps, attribute this officiousness of mine to a 
false affectation of candour, as I happen to be a writer 
also. Attribute it to what motive you please, but believe 
the truth. I say that Walter Scott is as nearly a thorough 
good man as man can be, because I know it by experience 
to be the case. 

"If you do me the honour of an answer, may I request 
a speedy one ? because it is possible (though not yet 
decided) diat circumstances may conduct me once more 
to Greece. My present address is Genoa, where an 
answer will reach me in a short time, or be forwarded to 
me wherever I may be. 

"I beg you to believe me, with a lively recollection 
of our brief acquaintance, and the hope of one day re- 
newing it. " Your ever obliged, 

" and obedient humble servant, 
"Noel Bvron." 



LETTER DXCm. 



' May 17, 1823 
•*My voyage to Greece will depend upon tJie Greek 



tions which some persons now in Greece on a private 
mission may be pleased to send me. I am a member, 
lately elected, of the said Committee ; and my object in 
going up would be to do any little good in my power ; but 
as there some pros and cons on the subject, with regard to 
hov/ far tlie intervention of streuigers may be advisable, I 
know no more than I tell you ; but we shall probably hear 
something soon from England and Greece, which may be 
more decisive. 

" With regard to the late person (Lord Londonderry) 
whom you hear that I have attacked, I can only say that 
a bad minister's memory is as much an object of inves- 
tigation as his conduct while alive, — for his measures do 
not die with him hke a private individual's notions. He 
is matter of history ; and, wherever I find a tyrant or a 
villain, I vAll mark him. I attacked him no more than I 
had been wont to do. As to the Liberal, — it was a pub- 
lication set up for the advantage of a persecuted author 
and a very worthy man. But it was fooUsh in me to 
engage in it ; and so it has turned out — for I have hurt 
myself without doing much good to those for whose bene- 
fit it was intended. 

"Do not defend me — it will never do — ^you will only 
make yourself enemies. 

"Mine are neither to be diminished nor softened, but 
they may be overthrown ; and there are events which 
may occur less improbable than those which have hap- 
pened in our time, that may reverse the present state of 
things — nous verrons. * * * * 

"I send you this gossip that you may laugh at it, 
which is all it is good for, if it is even good for so much. 
I shall be^lighted to see you again ; but it will be melan- 
choly, shcS it be only for a moment. 

"Ever yours, 

"N.B." 



LETTER DXCIV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

«Albaro, June2, 1823. 

" MY DEAR LADY B * *, 

'' I am superstitious, and have recollected that memorials 
with a point are of less fortunate augury : I will, there- 
fore, request you to accept, instead o( the pin,* the enclosed 
chain, which is of so slight a value that you need not 
hesitate. As you wished for something worn, I can only 
say, that it has been worn oftener and longer than the 
other. It is of Venetian manufacture; and the only 
peculiarity about it is, that it could only be obtained at, or 
from, Venice. At Genoa they have none of the same 
kind. I also enclose a ring, which I would wish Alfred 
to keep ; it is too large to wear ; but is formed of lava, 
and so far adapted to the fire of his years and character. 
You will perhaps have the goodness to acknowledge the 
receipt of this note, and send back the pin, (for good luck's 
sake,) which I shall value much more for having been a 
night in your custody, 

"Ever and faithfully your obliged, &c. 

"P. S. I hope your nerves are well to-day, and will con- 
tinue to flourish," 



LETTER DXCV. 



TO MR. BOWRING. 



"July?, 1823. 
"We sail on the 12th for Greece. — I have had a letter 
from Mr, Blaquiere, too long for present transcription. 



■ 
Committee (in England) partly, and partly on the instruc - L^aiJ^ameo ?rNa°poiLr''"''^ '" ""'' "^ '""*''''' '°'"*'""« * 



LETTERS, 1823. 



215 



but very satisfactory. The Greek government expects 
me without delay. 

"In conformity to the desires of Mr. B. and other cor- 
respondents in Greece, I have to suggest, with all defer- 
ence to the Committee, that a remittance of even ' ten 
tliousand pounds only^ (Mr. B.'s expression) would be of 
the greatest service to the Greek Government at present. 
1 have also to recommend strongly the attempt of a loan, 
for which there will be offered a sufficient security by 
deputies now on their way to England. In the mean 
time, I hope that the Committee will be enabled to do 
something effectual. 

"For my own part, I mean to carry up, in cash or 
credits, above eight, and nearly nine thousand pounds 
sterling, which I am enabled to do by funds I have in Italy, 
and credits in England. Of tliis sum I must necessarily 
reserve a portion for the subsistence of myself and suite \ 
the rest I am willing to apply in the maimer which seems 
most hkely to be useful to the cause — having, of course, 
some guarantee or assurance, that it will not be misap- 
plied to any individual speculation. 

" If I remain in Greece, which will mainly depend upon 
the presumed probable utility of my presence there, and 
of the opinion of the Greeks themselves as to its propri- 
ety — in short, if I am welcome to them, I shall continue, 
during my residence at least, to apply such portions of 
my income, present and future, as may forward the object 
— that is to say, what I can spare for that purpose. Pri- 
vations I can, or at least could once, bear — abstinence I 
am accustomed to — and, as to fatigue, I was once a toler- 
able traveller. What I may be now, I cannot tell — but I 
will try. 

" I await the commands of the Committee. — Address 
to Genoa — the letters will be forwarded to me, wherever 
I may be, by my bankers, Messrs. Webb and Barry. It 
would have given me pleasure to have had some more 
defined instructions before I went, but these, of course, 
rest at the option of the Committee. 

" I have the honour to be 

" Your obedient, &c. 

"P. S. Great anxiety is expressed for a printing press 
and types, &c. I have not the time to provide them, but 
recommend this to the notice of the Committee. I pre- 
sume the types must, partly at least, be Greek : they wish 
to publish papers, and perhaps a Journal, probably in 
Romaic, v/ith Italian translations." 



LETTER DXCVI. 

TO GOETHE. 

"Leghorn, July 24, 1823. 

" ILLUSTRIOUS SIR, 

" I cannot thank you as you ought to be thanked for the 
lines which my young friend, Mr. Sterling, sent me of 
yours ; and it would but ill become me to pretend to 
exchange verses with him who, for fifty years, has been 
the undisputed sovereign of European literature. You 
must therefore accept my most sincere acknowledgments 
in prose — and in hasty prose too ; for I am at present on 
my voyage to Greece once more, and surrounded by hurry 
and bustle, which hardly allow a moment even to grati- 
tude and admiration to express themselves. 

" I sailed from Genoa some days ago, was driven bark 
by a gale of wind, and have since sailed again and arrivi-d 
here, * Leghorn,' this morning, to receive on board some 
Greek passengers for their struggling country. 

"Hero also I found your lines and Mr. Sterling's letter, 
and I could not have had a more favourable omen, a more 
agreeable surprise, than a word of GocUie. written by his 
own hand. 

" I am returning to Greece, to sec if I ran be of any 
little use there : if ever I come back, I will pay a visit to 



Weimar, to offer the sincere homage of one of the man} 
millions of your admirers. I have the honour to be, eve! 
and most, " Your obliged, 

"NoelByrok,'* 



NOTES TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"October?. 

"Pietro has told you all the gossip of the island, — our 
earthquakes, our politics, and present abode in a prettj 
village. As his opinions and mine on the Greeks are 
nearly similar, I need say Uttle on that subject. I was a 
fool to come here ; but, being here, I must see what is to 
be done." 

"October 

"We are still in Cephalonia, waiting for news of a 
more accurate description ; for all is contradiction and 
division in the reports of the state of the Greeks. 1 
shall fulfil the object of my mission from the Committee, 
and then return into Italy. For it does not seem likely 
that, as an individual, I can be of use to them ; — at least 
no other foreigner has yet appeared to be so, nor does it 
seem likely that any will be at present. 

Pray be as cheerful and tranquil as you can ; and be 
assured that there is nothing here that can excite any 
thing but a wish to be with you again, — though we are 
very kindly treated by the English here of all descrip- 
tions. Of the Greeks, I ca n't say much good hitherto, 
and I do not hke to speak ill of them, though they do of 
one another." 

"October 29. 

"You may be sure that the moment I can join you 
again will be as welcome to me as at any period of our 
recollection. There is nothing very attractive here to 
divide my attention ; but I must attend to the Greek 
cause, both from honour and inclination. Messrs. B. and 
T. are both in the Morea, where they have been very 

ell received, and both of them ^vrite in good spirits and 
hopes. I am anxious to hear how the Spanish cause will 
be arranged, as I think it may have an influence on the 
Greek contest. I wish that both were fairly and favour- 
ably settled, that I might return to Italy, and talk over 
with you otfr, or rather Piclro's, adventures, some of which 
are rather amusing, as also some of the incidents of our 
voyages and travels. But I reserve them, in the hope 
that we may laugh over tliem together at no very distant 
period." 



LETTER DXCVII. 

TO MR. BOWRING, 

«9bre29, 1823. 

" This letter will be presented to you by Mr. Hamilton 
Browne, who precedes or accompanies the Greek depu- 
ties. He is both capable and desirous of rendering any 
service to the cause, and information to tlic Committee. 
He has already been of considerable advantage to both, 
of my own knowledge. Lord Archibald llnniilton, to 
whom he is related, will add a weightier recommcnilation 
than mine. 

"Corintii is taken, and a Turkish squadron said to be 
beaten in the Archipeiiigo. The public progress of the 
Greeks is considerable, but their internal dissensions still 
continue. On arriving at the seat of Ciovemmont, I shall 
endeavour to initi<.'atP or extinguish them — though neither 
is an easy task. I have romainoti liero till now, pailly in 
expectation of the sqiKulnm in relief of Missolonghi, 
partly uf Mr. Parry's delailimont, and partly to reroivo 
liom Malta or Zaiite the sum of four llunisand pounds 
sterling, wlii<-li 1 have advaiiCiHl for tJio payment of ihw 
expected wiuadron. 'I'ho bxlla are nogotuUmg, »ikI will 



216 



LETTERS, 1823. 



be cashed in a short time, as they would have been imme- 
diately in any other mart; but the miserable Ionian 
merchants have little money, and no great credit, and are 
besides, politically shy on this occasion ; for, although I 
had letters of Messrs. Webb, (one of the strongest 
houses of the Mediterranean,) and also of Messrs. Ran- 
som, there is no business to be done on fair terms except 
through English merchants. These, however, have 
proved both able and willing, — and upright, as usual. 

" Colonel Stanhope has arrived, and will proceed imme- 
diately ; he shall have my co-operation in all his endea- 
vours ; but from every tMng that I can learn, the forma- 
tion of a brigade at present will be extremely difficult, to 
say the least of it. With regard to the reception of 
foreigners, — at least of foreign officers, — I refer you to a 
passage in Prince Mavrocordato's recent letter, a copy of 
which is enclosed in my packet sent to the Deputies. It 
is my intention to proceed by sea to Napoli di Romania 
as soon as I have arranged this business for the Greeks 
themselves — I mean the advance of two hundred thou- 
sand piastres for their fleet. 

"My time here has not been entirely lost, — as youwUl 
perceive by some former documents that any advantage 
from my then proceeding to the Morea was doubtful. We 
have at last moved the Deputies, and I have made a 
strong remonstrance on their divisions to Mavrocordato, 
which, I understand, was forwarded by the legislative to 
the Prince. With a loan they 7nay do much, which is all 
that /, for particular reasons, can say on the subject. 

"I regret to hear from Colonel Stanhope that the Com- 
mittee have exhausted their funds. Is it supposed that a 
brigade can be formed without them ? or that three thou- 
sand pounds would be sufficient ? It is true that money 
will go farther in Greece than in most countries ; but the 
regular force must be rendered a national concern, and paid 
from a national fund ; and neither individuals nor com- 
mittees, at least with the usual means of such as now 
exist, will find the experiment practicable. 

"I beg once more to recommend my friend, Mr. 
Hamilton Brovrae, to whom I have also personal obliga- 
tions for his exertions in the common cause, and have the 
honour to be 

" Yours very truly." 



LETTER DXCVIII. 

TO THE GENERAL GOVERNMENT OF GREECE. 

"Cephalonia, November 30, 1823. 

" The affair of the loan, the expectation so long and 
vainly indulged of the arrival of the Greek fleet, and the 
danger to which Missolonghi is still exposed, have 
detained me here, and will still detain me till some of them 
are removed. But when the money shall be advanced 
for the fleet, I will start for the Morea, not knowing, how- 
ever, of what use my presence can be m the present state 
of things. We have heard some rumours of new dis- 
sensions, nay, of the existence of a civil war. With all 
my heart, I pray that these reports may be false or exag- 
gerated ; for I can imagine no calamity more serious than 
this ; and I must frankly confess, that unless union and 
order are established, all hopes of a loan will be vain ; 
and all the assistance which the Greeks could expect 
from abroad — an assistance neither trifling nor worthless 
— will be suspended or destroyed ; and, what is worse, 
the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an 
enemy to Greece, but seemed to favour her establishment 
of an independent power, will be persuaded that the 
Greeks are unable to govern themselves, and will, per- 
haps, themselves undertake to settle your disorders in 
such a way as to blast the brightest hopes of yourselves 
and of your friends. 

" Allow me to add, once for all, — I desire the well-beinir 



of Greece, and nothing else ; I will do all I can to secure it ; 
but I cannot consent, I never will consent, that the Eng- 
lish public, or English individuals, should be deceived as 
to the real state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, 
depends on you. You have fought gloriously; — act 
honourably towards your fellow-citizens and the world, 
and it will then no more be said, as has been repeated for 
two thousand years with the Roman historians that Phi- 
lopoemen was the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny 
itself (and it is difficult, I own, to guard against it in so 
arduous a struggle) compare the patriot Greek, when 
resting from his labours, to the Turkish pacha, whom hia 
victories have exterminated. 

"I pray you to accept these my sentiments as a sincere 
proof of my attachment to your real interests, and to 
beUeve that I am, and always shall be, 

"Yours, fee." 



LETTER DXCIX. 

TO PRINCE MAVROCORDATO. 

"Cephalonia, 2, Dec. 1823. 

" PRINCE, 

" The present will be put into your hemds by Colonel 
Stanhope, son of Major General the Earl of Harrington, 
&c. &c. He has arrived from London in fifty days, after 
having visited all the Committees of Germany. He is 
charged by our Committee to act in concert with me for 
the liberation of Greece. I conceive that his name and 
his mission will be a sufficient recommendation, without 
the necessity of any other from a foreigner, although one 
who, in common with all Europe, respects and admires 
the courage, the talents, and above all, the probity of 
Prince Mavrocordato. 

" I am very uneasy at hearing that the dissensions of 
Greece still continue, and at a moment when she might 
triumph over every thing in general, as she has already 
triumphed in part. Greece is, at present, placed between 
three measures : either to reconquer her liberty, to become 
a dependence of the sovereigns of Europe, or to return to 
a Turkish province. She has the choice only of these 
three alternatives. Civil war is b»it a road which leads 
to the two latter. If she is desirous of ihe fate of Wala- 
chia and the Crimea, she may obtain it to-morrow; if of 
that of Italy, the day after ; but if she wishes to become 
truly Greece, free and independent, she must resolve 
to-day, or she will never again have the opportunity. 
" I am, with all respect, 
" Your Highness's obedient servant, 
"N. B. 

"P. S. Your Highness will already have known that I 
have sought to fulfil the wishes of the Greek Govern- 
ment, as much as it lay in my power to do so : but I should 
wish that the fleet so long and so vainly expected were 
arrived, or, at least, that it were on the way ; and espe- 
cially that your Highness should approach these parts 
either on board the fleet, with a public mission, or in some 
other manner. 



LETTER DC. 



TO MR. B0WRIN6. 



«10bre7,182S. 

" I confirm the above ;* it is certainly my opinion that 
Mr. Millingen is entitled to the same salary with Mr. 
Tindall, and his service is likely to be harder. 



• Hl here alludes to a letter, forwarded with his own, from Mr. Mil. 
lingen, who was about to join, in his medical capacity, the Suliotes, near 
Ptttras,and requested of the Committee an increase of pay. Thit gen- 
tleman having mentioned m his letter " that the retreat of the Turk* from 
before Missolonghi had rendered utmecessary the appearance of the GreeJt 
fleet," Lord Byron, in a note on this passage, sajs, " By the special pro. 



LETTERS, 1823. 



217 



" I have written to you (as to Mr. Hobhouseybr your 
perusal) by various opportunities, mostly private ; also by 
the Deputies, and by Mr. Hamilton Browne. 

" The public success of the Greeks has been considera 
ble ; Corinth taken, Missolonghi nearly safe, and some 
ships in the Archipelago taken from the Turks; but 
there is not only dissension in the Morea, but civil war, by 
the latest accounts;* to what extent we do not yet know, 
but hope trifling. 

" For six weeks I have been expecting the fleet, which 
has not arrived, though I have, at the request of the 
Greek Government, advanced — that is, prepared, and have 
in hand, two hundred thousand piastres (deducting the 
commission and bankers' changes) of my own moneys to 
forward their projects. The Suliotes (now in Acarna- 
nia are very anxious that I should take them under my 
directions, and go over and put things to rights in the 
Morea, which, without a force, seems impracticable ; and 
really, though very reluctant (as my letters will have shown 
you) to take such a measure, there seems hardly any 
milder remedy. However, I will not do any thing rashly ; 
and have only continued here so long in the hope of seeing 
things reconciled, and have done all in my power thereto. 
Had I gone sooner, they would have forced me into oneparty 
or other, and I doubt as much now ; but we will do our best. 

« Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCL 

TO ME. BOWRING. 

"October 10, 1823. 

•* Colonel Napier will present to you this letter. Of his 
military character it were superfluous to speak ; of his 
personal, I can say, from my own knowledge, as well as 
from all public rumour, or private report, that it is as ex- 
cellent as his military: in short, a better or a braver man 
is not easily to be found. He is our man to lead a regu- 
lar force, or to organize a national one for the Greeks. 
Ask the army — ask any one. He is besides a personal 
friend of both Prince Mavrocordato, Colonel Stanhope, 
and myself, and in such concord with all three that we 
should all put together — an indispensable, as well as a 
rare point, especially in Greece at present. 

" To enable a regular force to be properly organized, it 
will be requisite for the loan-holders to set apart at least 
50,000/. sterling for that particular purpose — perhaps 
more — but by so doing they will guaranty their own mo- 
neys, ' and make assurance doubly sure.' They can ap- 
point commissioners to sec that part properly expended — 
and I recommend a similar precaution for the whole. 

"I hope that the Deputies have arrived, as well as 
some of my various despatches (chiefly addressed to Mr. 
Hobhouse) for the Committee. Colonel Napier will (ell 
you the recent special interposition of the gods in behalf 
of the Greeks — who seem to have no enemies in heaven 
or on earth to be dreaded, but their own tendency to dis- 
cord among themselves. But those, too, it is to be hoped, 
will be mitigated, and then we can take the field on the 
oflTensive, instead of being reduced to the petite guerre of 
defending the same fortresses year after year, and taking 
a few ships, and starving out a castle, and making more 



vldence of the Deity, the MiiBmilmBni were Biiireel with a panic, ami fled ; 
but no thanks to the fleet, which ought to hnve hcen here motithi ngo, and 
has no cxc:i«e to the coiitrnry, lately— nt leiiit, since I had the money 
ready to pay." 

On another pnnnaRe, in which Mr. Millingen complains that his hope 
ofanv rcmiincriition from the tiretkshaH" turned on( perfectly chlnierl- 
eal,'' Lord Uyron remarlts, in a note, " and irilt do so, till they ohtain a 
loan. They have not a raii, nor credit (in the Islands) to raise one. A 
medical man may succeed hetter than others ; hut all these pennileKs 
officers had better have staid at home. Much money may not he reiioircd, 
buliome must.'' 

•The Legisladve and Executive bodies having been for sometime at 
variance, the latter had at length resorted to violeuce, and some skirmishes 
had already taken jtlaro brlwcBn the fnrlions. 

28 



fuss about them than Alexander in his cups, or Buona- 
parte in a bulletin. Our friends have done something in 
the way of the Spartans — (though not one- tenth of what 
is told) — but have not yet inherited their style. 

" Believe me yours, &c." 



LETTER DCn. 

TO MR. BOWRING. 

"October 13, 1823. 

" Since I wrote to you on tne 10th instant, the long- 
desired squadron has arrived in the waters of Missolonghi 
and intercepted two Turkish corvettes— ditto transports 
— destroying or taking all four — except some of the crews 
escaped on shore in Ithaca — and an unarmed vessel, with 
passengers, chEised into a port on the opposite side of Ce- 
phalonia. The Greeks had fourteen sail, the Turks four 
— but the odds do n't matter — the victory will make a 
very goodpii^, and be of some advantage besides. I ex- 
pect momentarily advices from Prince Mavrocordato, 
who is on board, and has (I understand) despatches from 
the Legislative for me ; in consequence of which, after 
paying the squadron, (for which I have prepared, and am 
preparing,) I shall probably join him at sea or on shore. 

" I add the above communication to my letter by Col. 
Napier, who will inform the Committee of every thing in 
detail much better than I can do. . i> 

" The mathematical, medical, and musical preparations 
of the Committee have arrived, and in good condition, 
abating some damage from wet, and some ditto from a 
portion of the letter-press being spilt in landing — (I ought 
not to have omitted the press — but forgot it a moment — 
excuse the same) — they are excellent of their kind, but 
till we have an engineer and a trumpeter (we have chirur- 
geons already) mere ' pearls to swine,' as the Greeks are 
quite ignorant of mathematics, and have a bad ear for our 
music. The maps, &c. I will put into use for them, and 
take care that all (with proper caution) are turned to the 
intended uses of the Committtee — but I refer you to Co- 
lonel Napier, who will tell you, that much of your really 
valuable suppUes should be removed till proper persons 
arrive to adapt them to actual service. 

• Believe me, my dear sir, to be, &c. 

"P. S. Private. — I have written to our friend Douglas 
Kirmaird on my own matters, desiring him to send me 
out all the further credits I can command, — and I have a 
year's income, and the sale of a manor besides, he tells 
me, before me, — for till tlie Greeks get their loan, it is 
probable that I shall have to stand partly paymaster — as 
far as I am ' good upon Change' that is to say. I pray 
you to repeat as much to him, and say that I must in the 
interim draw on Messrs. Ransom most formidably. To 
say the truth, I do not grudge it, now tlie fellows have be- 
gun to fight again — and still more welcome shall they be 
f they will go on. But they have had, or are to have, 
some four thousand pounds (besides some private extra- 
ordinaries for widows, orphans, refugees, and rascals of 
all descriptions) of mine at one ' swoop ;' and it is to 
be expected the next will bo at least as much more. 
And how can I refuse it if they will figiu ? — and espe- 
cially if I sliould happen over to be in their company ? I 
therefore request and require that you should apprize my 
trusty and trustworthy trustee and banker, and crown and 
sheet anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the Honourable, that he 
prepare all moneys of mine, including the purchaRC-nio- 
ncy of Rochdale manor and mine income for llic year 
ensuing, A. D. 1824, to answer, or anticipate, any onlcrs 
or drafts of mine for iho gotxl cause, in gootl and lawful 
money of Great Britain, &c. &c. May you live a thou- 
sand years ! which is 999 longer than the Spanish Cortrw 
Constitution." 



218 



LETTERS, 



1823. 



LETTER DCm. 



TO THE HONOURABLE MH. DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 

"Cephalonia, Dec. 23, 1823. 

"I shall be as saving of my piirse and person as you 
recommend, but you Imow that it is as well to be in rea- 
diness with one or both, in the event of either being 
required. 

" I presume that some agreement has been concluded 
with Mr. Murray about ' Werner.' Although the copy- 
right should only be worth two or three hundred pounds, 
I will tell you what can be done with them. For three 
hundred pounds I can maintain in Greece, at more than 
the fullest pay of the Provisional Government, rations 
included, one himdred armed men for three mcniihs. You 
may judge of this when I tell you, that the four thousand 
pounds advanced by me to the Greeks is likely to set a 
fleet and an army in motion for some months. 

"•A Greek vessel has arrived from the squadron to con- 
vey me to Missolonghi, where Mavrocordato now is, and 
has assumed the command, so that I expect to embark 
immediately. Still address, however, to Cephalonia, 
through Messrs. Welch and Barry of Genoa, as usual; 
and get together all the means and credit of mine you 
can, to faco the war establishment, for it is ' in for a 
penny, in for a pound,' and I must do all that I can for 
the ancients. 

" I have been labouring to reconcile these parties, and 
there is now some hope of succeeding. Their public af- 
fairs go on well. The Turks have retreated from Acar- 
nania without a battle, after a few fruitless attempts on 
Anatoliko. Corinth is taken, and the Greeks have gained 
a battle in the Archipelago. The squadron here, too, 
has taken a Turkish corvette, with some money and a 
cargo. In short, if they can obtain a loan, I am of opin- 
ion that matters will assume and preserve a steady and 
favourable aspect for their independence. 

" In the mean time I stand paymaster, and what not ; 
and lucky it is that, from the nature of the warfare and 
of the country, the resources even of an individual can 
be of a partial and temporary service. 

"Colonel Stanhope is at Missolonghi. Probably we 
shall attempt Patras next. The Suliotes, who are friends 
of mine, seem anxious to have me with them, and so is 
Mavrocordato. If I can but succeed in reconciling the 
two parties (and I have left no stone unturned) it will be 
something ; and if not, we must go over to the Morea 
with the western Greeks— who are the bravest, and at 
present the strongest, having beaten back the Turks — 
and try the effect of a little physical advice, should they 
persist in rejecting moral persuasion. 

" Once more recommending to you the reinforcement of 
my strong-box and credit from all lawful sources and re- 
sources of mine to their practicable extent — for, after all 
it is better playing at nations than gaming at Almack's 
or Newmarket — and requesting you to write to me as 
often as you can. " I remain ever, &c.' 



LETTER DCIV. 

TO MR. BOWRING. 

«10bre26, 1823. 

■Little need be added to the enclosed, which arrived 
this day, except that I embark to-morrow for Missolonghi. 
The intended operations are detailed m the annexed 
documents. I have only to request that the Committee 
will use every exertion to forward our views by all its in- 
fluence and credit. 

" I have also to request you personally from myself to 
urge my friend and trustee, Douglas Kinnaird (from whom 
I have not heard these four months nearly,) to forward to 



me all the resources of my own we can muster for tJie 
ensuing year, since it is no time to manager purse, or, 
perhaps, person. I have advanced, and am advancing, all 
that I have in hand, but I snail require all that can be got 
together — and, (if Douglas has completed the sale of 
Rochdale, that and my year's income for next year ought 
to form a good round sum) — as you may perceive that 
there will be little cash of their own among the Greeks, 
(unless they get the loan,) it is the more necessary that 
those of their friends who have any should risk it. 

" The suppUes of the Committee are, some useful, and 
all excellent in the'ur kind, but occasionally hardly practical 
enough, in the present state of Greece; for instance, the 
mathematical instruments are thrown away — none of the 
Greeks know a problem from a poker — we must conquer 
first, and plan afterward. The use of the trumpets too 
may be doubted, imless Constantinople were Jericho, for 
the Hellenists have no ears for bugles, and you must send 
us somebody to listen to them. 

" We will do our best — and I pray you to stir your 
English hearts at home to more general exertion ; for my 
part, I will stick by the cause while a plank remains 
which can be honourably clung to. If I quit it, it will be 
by the Greeks' conduct, and not the Holy Allies or the 
holier Mussuknans — but let us hope better things. 

" Ever yours. 

"N. B. 

" P. S . I am happy to say that Colonel Leicester Stan- 
hope and myself are acting in perfect harmony together — 
he is likely to be of great service both to the cause and to 
the Committee, and is pubUcly as well as personally a very 
valuable acquisition to our party on every account. He 
came up (as they all do who have not been in the coun- 
try before) wth some high-flown notions of the 6th form 
at Harrow or Eaton, &c. ; but Col. Napier and I set 
him to rights on those points, which is absolutely neces- 
sary to prevent disgust, or perhaps return ; but now we 
Ccm set our shoulders soberly to the wheels without quar- 
reling with the mud which may clog it occasionally. 

"I can assure you that Col. Napier and myself are as 
decided for the cause as any German student of them all ; 
but like men who have seen the country and human hfe, 
there and elsewhere, we must be pemitted to view it in 
its truth, with its defects as well as beauties, — more espe- 
cially as success will remove the former gradually. 

«N. B. 

"P. S. As much of this letter as you please is for the 
Committee, the rest may be ' entre nous.' " 



LETTER DCV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Cephalonia, Dec. 27, 1823. 

" I received a letter from you some time ago. I have 
been too much employed latterly to write as I could wish, 
and even now must write in haste. 

" I embark for Missolonghi to join Mavrocordato in 
four-and-twenty hours. The state of parties (but it were 
a long story) has kept me here till now ; but now that 
Mavrocordato (their Washington or their Kosciusko) is 
employed again, I can act with a safe conscience. I carry 
money to pay the squadron, &c., and I have influence 
with the Suhotes, supposed sufficient to keep them in har- 
mony with some of the dissentients ; — for there are plenty 
of differences, but trifling. 

" It is imagined that we shall attempt either Patras or 
the castles on the Straits ; and it seems, by most accounts, 
that the Greeks, — at any rate, the Suliotes, who are in 
affinity with me of 'bread and sah,' — expect that I should 
march with them, and — be it even so ! If any thing in 
the way of fever, fatigue, famine, or otherviise, should cut 
short the middle age of a brother warbler, — like Garci- 



LETTERS, 1824. 



219 



lasso de la Vega, Kleist, Korner, KutofFski, (a Russian 
nightingale — see Bowring's Anthology,) or Thersander, 
or, — or, somebody else — but never mind — I pray you to 
remember me in your ' smiles and wine.' 

" I have hopes that the cause will triumph ; but whether 
it does or no, still ' Honour must be minded as strictly as 
a milk diet.' I trust to observe both. 

«Ever,&c." 



LETTER DCVI. 

TO THE HONOURABLE COLONEL STANHOPE. 

"Scrofer, (or some such name,) on board a Cephaoniote. 
"Mistico,Dec. 31, 1823. 
"mv dear stanhope, 

" We are just arrived here, that is, part of my people 
and 1, with some things, &c., and which it may be as well 
not to specify in a letter (which has a risk of being inter- 
cepted, perhaps ;) — but Gamba, and my horses, negro, 
steward, and the press, and all the Committee things, also 
some eight thousand dollars of mine (but never mind we 
have more left, do you understand?) are taken by the 
Turkish frigates, and my party and myself, in another, 
boat, have had a narrow escape last night, (being close 
under their stern and hailed, but we would not answer, 
and bore away,) as well as this morning. Here we are, 
with sun and clearing weather, within a pretty little port 
enough : but whether our Turkish friends may not send 
in their boats and take us out (for we have no arms except 
two carbines and some pistols, and, I suspect, not more 
than four fighting people on board,) is another question, 
especially if we remain long here, since we are blocked 
out of Missolonghi by the direct entrance. 

" You had better send my friend George Drake (Draco,) 
and a body of Suliotes, to escort us by land or by the 
canals, with all convenient speed. Gamba and our Bom- 
bard are taken into Patras, I suppose ; and we must take 
a turn at the Turks to get them out : but where the devil 
is the fleet gone ? — the Greek, I mean ; leaving us to get 
in without the least intimation to take heed that the Mo- 
slems were out again. 

" Make my respects to Mavrocordato, and say, that I 
am here at his disposal. I am uneasy at being here ; not 
so much on my own account as on that of a Greek boy 
with me, for you know what his fate would be : and I 
would sooner cut hitn in pieces, and myself too, tiian have 
him taken out by those barbarians. We are all very 
well. "N. B. 

"The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken; at 
least so it appeared to us, (if taken she actually be, for it 
is not certain ;) and we had to escape from another ves- 
sel that stood right between us and the port." 



LETTER DCVII. 



TO MR. MUIR. 



"Dragomestri, Jan. 2, 1824, 

"my dear MUIR, 

" I wish you many returns of the season and liappincss 
therewithal. Gamba and the Bombard, (there is a strong 
reason to believe) are carried into Patras by a Turkish 
frigate, which we saw chase them at dawn on the 31st; 
we had been close under the stern in the niglit, believing 
her a Greek till within pistol-shot, and only escaped by a 
miracle of all the Saints, (our captain says,) and truly I 
am of his opinion, for we should never have got away of 
ourselves. They were signalizing their consort with 
lights, and had ilhitninatcd the ship between decks, and 
were shouting like a mob ; — but then why did ihcy not 



fire? Perhaps they took us for a Greek brtilot, and were 
afraid of kindling us — they had no colours flying even at 
dawn nor after. 

" At daybreak my boat was on the coast, but the wind 
unfavourable for the port; — a large vessel with the wind in 
her favour standing between us and the Gulf, and another 
in chase of the Bombard about 12 miles off or so. Soon 
after they stood (i. e. the Bombard and frigate.) appa- 
rently towards Patras, and a Zantiote boat making sig- 
nals to us from the shore to get away. Away we went 
before the wind, and ran into a creek called Scrofes, I 
believe, where I landed Luke* and another (as Luke's 
life was in most danger,) with some money for them- 
selves, and a letter for Stanhope, and sent them up the 
country to Missolonghi, where they would be in safety, as 
the place where we were, could be assailed by armed 
boats in a moment, and Gamba had all our arms except 
two carbines, a fowling-piece, and some pistols. 

" In less than an hour the vessel in chase neared us, 
and we dashed out again, and showing our stern (out 
boat sails very well,) got in before night to Dragomestri, 
where we now are. But where is the Greek fleet? I 
do n't know — do you ? I told our master of the boat that 
I was inclined to think the two large vessels (there were 
none else in sight,) Greeks. But he answered ' they are 
too large — why do n't they show their colours ?' and his 
account was confirmed, be it true or false, by several boats 
which we met or passed^ as we could not at any rate 
have got in with that wind without beating about for a 
long time ; and as there was much property and some 
lives ro risk (the boy's especially) without any means of 
defence, it was necessary to let our boatmen have their 
own way. 

" I despatched yesterday another messenger to Mis- 
solonghi for an escort, but we have yet no answer. We 
are here (those of my boat) for the fifth day without tak- 
ing our clothes oflfj and sleeping on deck in all weathers, 
but are all very well, and in good spirits. It is to be sup- 
posed that the Government will send, for their own sakes, 
an escort, as I have 16,000 dollars on board, the greater 
part for their service. I had (besides personal property 
to the amount of about 5000 more,) 8000 dollars in specie 
of my own, without reckoning the Committee's stores, so 
that the Turks will have a good thing of it, if the prize be 
good. 

" I regret the detention of Gamba, &c. but the rest we 
can make up again, so tell Hancock to set my bills into 
cash as soon as possible, and Corgialegno to prepare the 
remainder of my creilit with Messrs. Webb to be turned 
into moneys. I shall remain here, unless something ex- 
traordinary occurs, till Mavrocordato sends, and then go 
on, and act according to circumstances. JNIy respects to 
the two colonels, and remembrances to all friends. Tell 
' Ultima Analise'1[ that his friend Raidi did not make his 
appearance with the brig, though I think that he might as 
well have spoken with us in or q^ Zante, to give us a 
gentle hint of what we had to expect. 

" Yours ever aflectionatcly, 
"N.B. 

" P. S. E.XCUSC my scrawl on account of the pen and 
the frosty morning at daybreak. I write in haste, a boat 
starting for Kalamo. I do not know whether the deten- 
tion of the Bombard, (if she be detained, f )r I cannot 
swear to it, and I can only judge from appearances, and 
what all these follows say,) be an afflur of the Govern- 
ment, and neutrality, and, &c, — but she «>a» stepped at 
least 12 miles distant from any |)ort, and had lUl her papers 
regular from Zunte for Ktdamo, and uc also. I did not 
land at Zante, bi-ing anxious to lose as little tunc as 



' A Greek youlh whom he bad broushl with him, In hJ« •uitt.AxMa 
Cephaluiiin. 

t Count Dvllndecima, to whom he (cl*(»i ihii nam* in coneeqiwnce of • 
hnbit which itiat Kcntiemiin had of using the phi ■■« " in uliiroa uiaUM" 
t'r«t|iieMtijr In coiivcreatlou. 



220 



LETTERS, 1824. 



possible, but Sir F. S. came off to invite me, &c. and 
everybody was as kind as could be, even in Cephalonia." 



LETTER DCVITL 



TO MR. C. HANCOCK. 



« Dragomestri, Jan. 2, 1824. 
"dear sir 'ancock,'* 

"Remember me to Dr. Muir and everybody. I have 
still the 16,000 dollars with me, the rest were on board 
the Bombarda. Here we are — the Bombarda taken, or 
at least missing, with all the Committee stores, my friend 
Gamba, the horses, negro, bull-dog, steward, and domes- 
tics, with all our implements of peace and war, also 8000 
dollars ; but whether she will be lawful prize or no, is for 
the decision of the Governor of the Seven Islands. I 
have written to Dr. Muir, by way of Kalamo, with all 
particulars. We are in good condition ; and what with 
wind and weather, and being hunted or so, httle sleeping 
on deck, &c. are in tolerable seasoning for the country 
and circumstances. But I foresee that we shall have 
occasion for all the cash I can muster at Zante and else- 
where. Mr. Barnff gave us 8000 and odd dollars ; so 
there is still a balance in my favour. We are not quite 
certain that the vessels were Turkish which chased ; but 
tliere is strong presumption that they were, and no news 
to the contrary. At Zante, everybody, from the Resident 
downwards, were as kind as could be, especially your 
worthy and courteous partner. 

" Tell our friends to keep up their spirits, and we may 
yet do weU. I disembarked the boy and another Greek, 
who were in most terrible alarm — the boy, at least, from 
the Morea — on shore near Anatoliko, I believe, which put 
them in safety ; and, as for me and mine, we must stick 
by our goods. 

" I hope that Gamba's detention will only be temporary. 
As for the effects and moneys, — if we have them, well ; if 
othervirise, patience. I wish you a happy new year, and 
ttll our friends the same. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCIX. 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK, 

•' Missolonghi, Jan. 13, 1824 

•dear 61R, 

•Many thanks for yours of the 5th: ditto to Muir for 
his. You will have heard that Gamba and my vessel got 
out of the hands of the Turks safe and intact ; nobody 
knows well how or why, for there 's a mystery in the story 
somewhat melodramatic. Captain Valsamachi has, 1 
take it, spun a long yarn by this time in Argostoli. 1 
attribute their release entirely to Saint Dionisio, of Zante 
and the Madonna of the Rock, near Cephalonia. 

" The adventures of my separate luck were also not 
finished at Dragomestri ; we were conveyed out by some 
Greek gunboats, and found the Leonidas brig-of-war at 
eea to look after us. — But blowing weather coming on, 
we were driven on the rocks fmce in the passage of the 
Scrophes, and the dollars had another narrow escape. 
Two-thirds of the crew got ashore over the bowspirit : 
the rocks were rugged enough, but water very deep close 
in shore, so that she was, after much swearing and some 
exertion, got off again, and away we went with a third of 
our crew, leaving the rest on a desolate island, where they 
might have been now, had not one of the gunboats taken 



• Tliii letUr ii, more properly, a poslcript to one which Dr. Bruno 
linil, tiy hii orders, written to Mr. Hancock, with some particulars 
of iJicir rojrage: antl the Doctor having begun his letter, " Preeialmo. 
Bigr. iucuck,*' Lord Byron tliu* parodies hia mode of addreta.— 



them off, for we were in no condition to take them off 
again. 

" Tell Muir that Dr. Bruno did not show much fight on 
the occasion, for besides stripping to his flannel waistcoat, 
and running about like a rat in an emergency, when I was 
talking to a Greek boy (the brother of the Greek girls in 
Argostoli,) and telhng him of the fact that there was no 
danger for the passengers, whatever there might be for 
the vessel, and assuring him that I could save both him 
and myself without difficulty, (though he can't swim,) as 
the water, though deep, was not very rough, — the vnnd 
not blowing right on shore (it was a blunder of the Greeks 
who missed stays,) the Doctor exclaimed, ' Save /uVn, in- 
deed ! by G — d ! save me rather — I '11 be first if I can' — a 
piece of egotism which he pronounced with such emphatic 
simpUcity as to set all who had leisure to hear him laugh- 
ing, and in a minute after the vessel drove off again after 
striking twice. She sprung a small leak, but nothing fur- 
ther happened, except that the captain was very nervous 
afterward. 

"To be brief, we had bad weather almost always, 
diough not contrary ; slept on deck in the wet generally 
for seven or eight nights, but never was in better health 
(T speak personally) — so much so, that I actually bathed 
for a quarter of an hour on the evening of the fourth 
instant in the sea (to kill the fleas, and other &c.) and 
was all the better for it. 

" We were received at Missolonghi with aU kinds of 
kindness and honours ; and the sight of the fleet saluting, 
&c. and the crowds and different costumes, was really 
picturesque. We think of undertaldng an expedition 
soon, and I expect to be ordered witli the Suhotes to join 
the army. 

"All well at present. We found Gamba already 
arrived, and every thing in good condition. Remember 
me to all friends. " Yours ever, 

"N.B. 

"P. S. You will, I hope, use every exertion to realize 
the assets. For besides what I have already advanced, I 
have undertaken to maintain the Suliotes for a year, (and 
will accompany them, either as a Chief, or whichever is 
most agreeable to the Goverrmient,) besides sundries. I 
do not imderstand Brown's ^letters of credit.'' I neither 
gave nor ordered a letter of credit that I know of; and 
though of course, if you have done it, I will be responsi- 
ble, I was not aware of any thing except that I would 
have backed his bills, which you said was urmecessary. 
As to orders— I ordered nothing but some red cloth and 
oil cloths, both of which I am ready to receive ; but if 
Gamba has exceeded my commission, the other things 
must be sent back, for I cannot permit any thing of the kind, 
nor will. The servants' journey will of course be paid 
for, though thai is exorbitant. As for Bro^vn's letter, I do 
not know any thing more than I have said, and I really 
cannot defray the charges of half Greece and the Frank 
adventures besides. Mr. Barff must send us some dol- 
lars soon, for the expenses fall on me for the present. 

« January 14, 1824. 
«P. S. Will you tell Saint (Jew) Geronimo Corgial- 
egno that I mean to draw for the balance of my credit 
with Messrs. Webb and Co. I shall draw for two thou- 
sand dollars,) that being about the amount, more or less ;) 
but to facilitate the business, I shall make the draft paya- 
ble also at Messrs. Ransom and Co., Pall-Mali East, 
London. I believe I already showed you my letters, (but 
if not, I have them to show,) by which, besides the credits 
now realizing, you will have perceived that I am not 
hmited to any particular amount of credit with my bank- 
ers. The Honourable Douglas, my friend and trustee, is 
a prmcipal partner in that house, and having the direction 
of my Jiffairs, is aware to what extent my present resour- 
ces may go, and the letters in question were from him. I 
\ can merely say, that within the current year, 1824, beside* 



LETTERS, 



1824. 



221 



the money already advanced to the Greek Government, 
and the credits now in your hands and your partner's 
(Mr, Barff,) which are all from the income of 1823, 1 
have anticipated nothing from that of the present year 
hitherto. I shall or ought to have at my disposition 
upwards of one hundred thousand dollars, (including my 
income, and the purchase-moneys of a manor lately sold,) 
and perhaps more, without infringing on my income for 
1825, and not including the remaining balance of 1823. 
" Yours ever, 

"N.B." 



LETTER DCX. 



TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 



« Missolonghi, Jan. 17, 1824. 

" I have answered, at some length, your obhging letter, 
and trust that you have received my reply by means of 
Mr. Tindal. I will also thank you to remind Mr. Tindal 
that I would thank him to furnish you, on my account, 
with an order of the Committee for one hundred dollars, 
which I advanced to him on their account through Signor 
Corgialegno's agency at Zante on his arrival in October, 
as it is but fair that the said Committee should pay their 
own expenses. An order will be sufficient, as the money 
might be inconvenient for Mr. T. at present to disburse. 

" I have also advanced to Mr. Blackett the sum of fifty 
dollars, which I will thank Mr. Stevens to pay to you, on 
my account, from moneys of Mr. Blackett, now in his 
hands. I have Mr. B.'s acknowledgment in writing. 

"As the wants of the State here are still pressing, and 
there seems very little specie stirring except mine, I still 
stand paymaster, and must again request you and Mr. 
Barff to forward by a safe channel (if possible) all the 
dollars you can collect on the bills now negotiating. I 
have also written to Corgialegno for two thousand dollars, 
being about the balance of my separate letter from Messrs. 
Webb and Co., mailing the bills also payable at Ransom's 
in London. 

" Things are going on better, if not well ; there is some 
order, and considerable preparation . I expect to accom- 
pany the troops on an expedition shortly, which makes me 
particularly anxious for the remaining remittance, as 
' money is the sinew of war,' and of peace, too, as far as I 
can see, for I am sure there would be no peace here 
without it. However, a little does go a good way, which 
is a comfort. The Government of the Morea and of 
Candia have written to mc for a further advance from my 
own peculium of 20 or 30,000 dollars, to which I demur 
for the present, (having undertaken to pay the Suliotes as 
a free gift and other things already, besides the loan which 
T have already advanced,) till I receive letters from Eng- 
land, which I have reason to expect. 

" When the expected credits arrive, I hope that you will 
bear a hand, otherwise I must have recourse to Malta, 
which will be losing time and taking trouble ; but I do not 
wish you to do more than is perfectly agreeable to Mr. 
Barff and to yourself. I am very well, and have no 
reason to be dissatisfied with my personal treatment, or 
with the posture of public affairs — others must speak for 
themselves. 

"Yours ever and truly, &c. 

"P. S. Respects to Colonels Wright and Duffio, and 
the officers civil and military ; also to my friends Muir 
and Stevens particularly, and to Delladecima." 



LETTER DCXL 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

« Missolonghi, Jan. 19, 1824. 
" Since I wrote on the 17th, I have received a letter 



from Mr. Stevens, enclosing an account from Corfu, 
which is so exaggerated in price and quantity, that I am 
at a loss whether most to admire Gamba's folly, or the 
merchant's knavery. All that / requested Gamba to 
order was red cloth, enough to make a jacket^ and some 

oil-skin for trousers, &c. — the latter has not been sent 

the whole could not have amounted to 50 dollars. The 
account is 645 ! ! ! I will guaranty Mr. Stevens against 
any loss, of course, but I am not disposed to take the arti- 
cles, (which I never ordered,) nor to pay the amount. I 
will take 100 dollars worth ; the rest may be sent back, 
and I will make the merchant an allowance of so much 
per cent. ; or if that is not to be done, you must sell the 
whole by auction at what price the things may fetch, for I 
would rather incur the dead loss of part, than be encum- 
bered with a quantity of things, to me at present super- 
fluous or useless. Why, I could have maintained 300 
men for a month for the sum in Western Greece ! 

" When the dogs, and the dollars, and the negro, and the 
horses, fell into the hands of the Turks, I acquiesced with 
patience, as you may have perceived, because it was the 
work of the elements of war, or of Providence ; but this 
is a piece of mere human knavery or folly, or both, and I 
neither can nor will submit to it. I have occasion for 
every dollar I can muster to keep the Greeks together, 
and I do not grudge any expense for the cause ; but to 
throw away as much as would equip, or at least maintain, 
a corps of excellent ragamuffins with arms in their hands, 
to furnish Gamba and the doctor with blank bills, (see 
list,) broadcloth, Hessian boots, and horsewhips, (the lalter 
I own that they have richly earned,) is rather beyond my 
endurance, though a pacific person, as all the world 
knows, or at least my acquaintances. I pray you to try 
to help me out of this damnable commercial speculations 
of Gamba's, for it is one of those pieces of impudence or 
folly which I do n't forgive him in a hurry. I will of 
course see Stevens free of expense out of the transac- 
tion ; — by-the-way, the Greek of a Corfiote has thought 
proper to draw a bill, and get it discounted at 24 dollars ; 
if I had been there, it should have been protested also. 

"Mr. Blackett is here ill, and will soon set out for 
Cephalonia. He came to me for some pills, and I gave 
him some reserved for particular friends, and which I 
never knew any body recover from under several months; 
but he is no better, and what is odd, no worse ; and as tlio 
doctors have had no better success with him tlian I, he 
goes to Argostoli, sick of the Greeks and of a constipa- 
tion. 

" I must reiterate my request for specie, and that speed- 
ily, otherwise public affairs will be at a stand-still here. 
I have undertaken to pay the Suliotes for a year, to 
advance in March 3000 dollars, besides, to the Govern- 
ment for a balance due to the troops, and some other 
smaller matters for the Germans, and the press, &c. &c. 
&c. ; so what with these, and the expenses of my suite, 
which, though not extravagant, is expensive with Gamba's 
d — d nonsense, I shall have occasion for all the moneys I 
can muster, and I have credits wherewithal to face the 
undertakings, if realized, and expect to have more soon. 
" Believe me ever and truly yours, &c." 



LETTER DCXII. 



"Missolonghi, Jan. 31, 1824. 
"The expedition of about two thousand men is planned 
for an attack on Lcpanto ; and for reasons of policy with 
regard to the native Capitani, who would rather bo (nomi- 
nally at least) under the command of a foreigner, than 
one of their own body, the direction, it is said, is to bo 
pvon to mo. There is also anoUior reason, which is, that 
if a capitulation should lake plare,tho Mu.ssulmani nught 



222 



LETTERS, 1824. 



perhaps, rather have Christian faith with a Frank than 
with a Greek, and so be inclined to accede a point or two. 
These appear to be the most obvious motives for such an 
appointment, as far as I can conjecture, unless there be 
one reason more, viz. that, under present circumstances, 
no one else (not even Mavrocordato himself) seems 
disposed to accept such a nomination — and though my 
desires are as far as my deserts upon this occasion, I do 
not decline it, being willing to do as I am bidden ; and 
as I pay a considerable part of the clans, I may as well 
see what they are likely to do for their money ; besides 
I am tired of hearing nothing but talk. + * * * 
" I presume, from the retardment, that he* is the same 
Parry who attempted the JVorlh Pole^ and is (it may be 
supposed) now essaying the South" 



LETTER DCXIIL 



TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 



« Missolonghi, Feb. 5, 1824. 

"Dr. Muir's letter and yours of the 23d reached me 
some days ago. Tell Muir that I am glad of his promo- 
tion for his sake, and of his remaining near us for all our 
sakes : though I cannot but regret Dr. Kennedy's depar- 
ture, which accounts for the previous earthquakes and 
the present English weather in this climate. With all 
respect to my medical pastor, I have to announce to him, 
that among other firebrands, our firemaster Parry (just 
landed) has disembarked an elect blacksmith, intrusted 
with three hundred and twenty-two Greek Testaments. 
I have given him all facilities in my power for his works 
spiritual and temporal, and if he can settle matters as 
easily with the Greek Archbishop and hierachy, I trust 
.that neither the heretic nor the supposed skeptic will be 
caccused of intolerance. 

" By-the-way, I met with the said Archbishop at Anato- 
Jico (where I went by invitation of the Primates a few days 
jago, and was received with a heavier cannonade than the 
Turks, probably) for the second time, (I had known him 
■here before;) and he and P. Mavrocordato, and the 
•Chiefs and Primates and I, all dined together, and I 
thought the metropohtan the merriest of the party, and a 
very good Christian for all that. But Gamba (we got 
wet through in our way back) has been ill with a fever 
and colic ; and Luke has been out of sorts too, and so 
Jiave some others of the people, and I have been very 
well, — except that I caught cold yesterday with swearing 
too much in the rain at the Greeks, who would not bear 
a hand in landing the Committee stores, and nearly 
spoiled our combustibles ; but I turned out in person, and 
made such a row as set them in motion, blaspheming at 
them from the Government downwards, till they actually 
did some part of what they ought to have done several 
days before, and this is esteemed, as it deserves to be, a 
wonder. 

" Tell Muir that, notwithstanding his remonstrances, 
which I receive thankfully, it is perhaps best that I should 
advance with the troops ; for if we do not do something 
soon, we shall only have a third year of defensive opera- 
tions and another siege, and all that. We hear that the 
Turks are coming down in force, and sooner than usual ; 
and as these fellows do mind me a little, it is the opinion 
that I should go, — firstly, because they will sooner listen 
to a foreigner than one of tlieir own people, out of native 
Jealousies ; secondly, because the Turks will sooner treat 
or capitulate (if such occasion should happen) with a 
Frank than a Greek ; and, thirdly, because nobody else 
seems disposed to take the responsibility — Mavrocordato 
being very busy here, the foreign military men too young 
or not of authority enough to be obeyed by the natives, 

•Parry who had bceu long expected withiiitillo-y, &c 



and the Chiefs (as aforesaid) inclined to obey any one 
except, or rather than, one of their own body. As for me, 
I am willing to do what I am bidden, and to follow my 
instructions. I neither seek nor shun that nor any thing 
else they may wish me to attempt ; and as for personal 
safety, besides that it ought not to be a consideration, I 
take it that a man is on the whole as safe in one place 
as another ; and, after all, he had better end with a bullet 
than bark in his body. If we are not taken off with the 
sword, we are like to march off with an ague in this mud- 
basket ; and to conclude with a very bad pun, to the ear 
rather than to the eye, better martially, than marsh-ally ; 
— the situation of Missolonghi is not unknown to you. 
The dykes of Holland when broken down are the Deserts 
of Arabia for dryness, in comparison. 

"And now for the sinews of war. I thank you and Mr. 
Barff for your ready answers, which, next to ready money, 
is a pleasant thing. Besides the assets, and balance, and 
the relics of the Corgialegno correspondence with Leg- 
horn and Genoa, (I sold the dog flour, tell him, but not at 
his price,) I shall request and require, from the beginning 
of March ensuing, about five thousand dollars every two 
months, i. e. about twenty-five thousand within the cur- 
rent year, at regular intervals, independent of the sums 
now negotiating. I can show you documents to prove 
that these are considerably within my suppUes for the year 
in more ways than one ; but I do not like to tell the Greelis 
exactly what I could or would advance on an emergency, 
because, otherwise, they will double and triple their de- 
mands, (a disposition that they have already sufficiently 
shown ;) and though I am wilhng to do all I can whm 
necessary, yet I do not see why they should not help a 
little, for they are not quite so bare as they pretend to be 
by some accounts. 

" Feb. 7, 1824. 

"I have been interrupted by the arrival of Parry, and 
afterward by the return of Hesketh, who has not brought 
an answer to my epistles, which rather surprise me. You 
will write soon I suppose. Parry seems a fine rough 
subject, but will hardly be ready for the field these three 
weeks ; he and I will (I think) be able to draw together, 
— at least I will not interfere with or contradict him in his 
own department. He complains grievously of the mer- 
cantile and enthusymusy part of the Committee, but greatly 
praises Gordon and Hume. Gordon would have given 
three or four thousand pounds and come out himself) but 
Kennedy or somebody else disgusted him, and thus they 
have spoiled part of their subscription and cramped their 
operations. Parry says Bowring is a humbug, to which 
I say nothing. He sorely laments the printing and civi- 
hzing expenses, and wishes that there was not a Sunday- 
school in the world, or any school here at present, save and 
except always an academy for artilleryship. 

"He complained also of the cold, a little to my surprise, 
firstly, because, there being no chimneys, I have used my- 
self to do without other warmth than the animal heat and 
one's cloak, in these parts ; and secondly, because I should 
as soon have expected to hear a volcano sneeze, as a fire- 
master (who is to burn a whole fleet) exclaim against the 
atmosphere. I fully expected that his very approach 
would have scorched up tlie town like the burning-glasses 
of Archimedes. 

" Well, it seems that I am to be Commander-in-chie^ 
and the post is by no means a sinecure, for we are not 
what Major Sturgeon calls 'a set of the most amicable 
officers.' Whether we shall have a ' boxing bout between 
Captain Sheers and the Colonel,' I cannot tell ; but, be- ■ 
tween Suliote chiefs, German barons, English volunteers, ■ 
and adventurers of all nations, we are likely to form as ■ 
goodly an allied army as ever quarrelled beneath the same 
banner. 

« Feb. 8, 1824. 

" Interrupted again by business yesterday, and it is time 
to conclude my letter. 



I drew some time since on Mr. 



II 



LETTERS,1824. 



223 



BarfF for a thousand dollars, to complete some money 
wanted by the government. The said Government got 
cash on that bill here and at a profit ; but the very same 
fellow who gave it to them, after proposing to give me 
money for other bills on Barff to the amount of thirteen 
hundred dollars, either could not, or thought better of it. 
I had written to Barff advising him, but had afterward 
to write to tell him of the fellow's having not come up to 
time. You must really send me the balance soon. I 
have the artillerists and my Suliotes to pay, and Heaven 
knows what besides, and as every thing depends upon 
punctuality, all our operations will be at a stand-still un- 
less you use despatch. I shall send to Mr. Barff or to 
you further bills on England for three thousand pounds, 
to be negotiated as speedily as you can. I have already 
stated here and formerly the sums I can command at 
home within the year, — without including my credits, or 
the bills already negotiated or negotiating, as Corgialeg- 
no's balance of Mr. Webb's letter, — and my letters from 
my friends (received by Mr. Parry's vessel,) confirm 
what I have already stated. How much I may require in 
the course of the year I can't tell, but I will take care that 
it shall not exceed the means to supply it. 

"Yours ever, 

«N. B. 
"P. S. I have had, by desire of a Mr. Jerostati, to draw 
on Demetrius Delladecima (is it our friend in ultima ana- 
lise ?) to pay the Committee expenses. I really do not 
understand what the Committee mean by some of their 
freedoms. Parry and I get on very well hitherto ; how 
long this may last. Heaven knows, but I hope it will, for a 
good deal for the Greek service depends upon it, but he 
has already had some miff's with Col. S. and I do all I can 
to keep the peace among them. However, Parry is a fine 
fellow, extremely active, and of strong, sound, practical 
talents, by all accounts. Enclosed are bills for three thou- 
sand pounds, drawn in the mode directed, (i. e. parcelled 
out in smaller bills.) A good opportunity occuring for 
Cephalonia to send letters on, I avail myself of it. Re- 
member me to Stevens, and to all friends. Also my 
compliments and every thing kind to the colonels and 
officers . 

« February 9, 1824. 
" P. S. 2d or 3d. I have reason to expect a person from 
England directed with papers (on business) for me to 
sign, somewhere in the islands, by-and-by ; if such should 
arrive, would you forward him to me by a safe convey- 
ance, as the papers regard a transaction with regard to 
the adjustment of a lawsuit, and a sum of several thou- 
sand pounds, which I, or my bankers and trustees for me, 
may have to receive (in England) in consequence. The 
time of the probable arrival I cannot state, but the date 
of my letters is the 2d Nov. and I suppose that he ought 
to arrive soon." 



LETTER DC XIV. 

TO ANDREW LOIJDC* 
** DEAR FRIEND, 

" The sight of your handwriting gave me the greatest 
pleasure. Greece has ever been for mc, as it must be for 
all men of any feeling or education, tho promised land of 
valour, of the arts, and of liberty ; nor did tho time I 
passed in my youth in travelling among her ruins at all 
chill my affection for tho birthplace of heroes. In addi- 
tion to this, I am bound to yourself by ties of frienclshi|) 
and gratitude for the; hospitality which I experienced from 
you during my stay in that country, of which you arc now 
become one of tho first defenders and ornaments. To 
see myself serving, by your side and under your eyes, in 



the cause of Greece will be to me one of the happiest 
events of my life. In the mean time, with the hope of our 
again meeting, " I am, as ever, fcc." 



LETTER DCXV. 



TO HIS HIGHNESS YUSSUFF PACHA. 



«Missolonghi,23d Jan. 1824. 



■HIGHNESS 



* Oncoflho Greek chiefi. 



" A vessel, in which a friend and some domestics of 
mine were embarked, was detained a few days ago and 
released by order of your Highness. I have now to thank 
you ; not for liberating the vessel, which, as carrying a 
neutral flag, and being under British protection, no one 
had a right to detain ; but for having treated my fiiends 
with so much kindness while they were in your hands. 

" In the hope, therefore, that it may not be altogether 
displeasing to your Highness, I have requested the gover- 
nor of this place to release four Turkish prisoners, and 
he has humanely consented to do so. I lose no time, 
therefore, in sending them back, in order to make as early 
a return as I could for your courtesy on the late occasion. 
These prisoners are liberated without any conditions: 
but, should the circumstance find a place in your recollec- 
tion, I venture to beg, that your Highness will treat such 
Greeks as may henceforth fall into your hands with hu- 
manity ; more especially since the horrors of wju" are 
sufficiendy great in themselves, without being aggravated 
by wanton cruelties on either side. 

"Noel ByronJ' 



LETTER DCXVL 



TO MR. BARFF. 



Feb. 21. 

" 1 am a good deal better, though of course weakly ; 
the leeches took too much blood from my temples the day 
after, and there was some difficulty in stopping it, but I 
have since been up daily, and out in boats or on horse- 
back. To-day I have taken a warm bath, and live as 
temperately as can well be, without any liquid but water^ 
and without animal food. 

" Besides the four Turks sent to Patras, I have ob- 
tained the release of four-and-twenty women and children, 
and sent them at my own expense to Prevesa, that the 
English Consul-General may consign them to their rela- 
tions. I did this by their own desire. Matters here are 
a Uttle embroiled with the Suliotes and foreigners, &c. 
but I still hope better things, and will stand by tho cause 
as long as my healdi and circumstances will permit me to 
be supposed useful.* 

" I am obhgcd to support tlic Government here for the 
present." 

[The prisoners mentioned in this letter as having been 
released by iiim and sent to Prevesa had been held in 
captivity at Missolonghi since the beginning of tho Revo- 
lution. Tho following was the letter which he forwarded 
with them to the English Consul at Prevesa.] 



LETTER DCXVII. 



TO MR. MAYER. 



" Coming to Greece, one of my principal ohjocia waa 
to alleviate as much as possible tlio miseries uicidi'nl to 



•tolh* ■ameReiillemMi.dnUHl JnnuarT 37, hr h»d alrcad/ 
I lliRl lliiiigi hor« will go on wrll lomc time or oth«r. I will 



• In « leUer t 

inUI, " I tinpo Hint lliliigi I 

«lick by Ihc cauM ■• loii( m a cmii* r»liU— flnl or ••cond.' 



224 



LE T TERS, 1824. 



a warfare so cruel as the present. When the dictates of 
humanity are in question, 1 know no difference between 
Turks and Greeks. It is enough that those who want 
assistance are men, in order to claim the pity and protec- 
tion of the meanest pretender to humane feelings, I 
have found here twenty-four Turks, including women and 
children, who have long pined in distress, far from the 
means of support and the consolations of their home. 
The Government has consigned them to me : I transmit 
them to Prevesa, whither they desire to be sent. I hope 
you will not object to take care that they may be restored 
to a place of safety, and that the Governor of your town 
may accept of my present. The best recompense I can 
hope for would be to find that I had inspired the Ottoman 
commanders with the same sentiments towards those un- 
happy Greeks who may hereafter fall into their hands. 
"I beg you to believe me, &c," 



LETTER DCXVIII. 

TO THE HONOURABLE DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 

« Missolonghi, Feb. 21, 1824. 

" I have received yours of the 2d of November. It is 
essential that the money should be paid, as I have drawn 
for it all, and more too, to help the Greeks. Parry is here, 
and he and I agree very well ; and all is going on hope- 
fully for the present, considering circumstances. 

*' We shall have work this year, for the Turks are com- 
ing down in force ; and, as for me, I must stand by the 
cause. I shall shortly march (according to orders) against 
Lepanto, with two thousand men. I have been here some 
time, after some narrow escapes from the Turks, and also 
from being shipwrecked. We were twice upon the rocks, 
but this you will have heard, truly or falsely, through other 
channels, and I do not wish to bore you with a long story 

" So far I have succeeded in supporting the Govern- 
ment of Western Greece, which would otherwise have 
been dissolved. If you have received the eleven thou- 
sand and odd pounds, these, with what I have in hand, 
and my income for the current year, to say nothing of 
contingencies, will, or might, enable me to keep the 
'sinews of war' properly strung. If the deputies be honest 
fellows, and obtain the loan, they will repay the 4000Z. as 
agreed upon ; and even then I shall save little, or indeed 
less than little, since I am mamtaining nearly the whole 
machine — m this place, at least — at my own cost. But 
let the Greeks only succeed, and I do n't care for myself. 

" I have been very seriously unwell, but am getting bet- 
ter, and can ride about again : so pray quiet our friends on 
that score. 

" It is not true that I ever did, will, would, could, or 
should write a satire against Gifford, or a hair of his head. 
I always considered him as my literary father, and myself 
as his 'prodigal son;' and if I have allowed his 'fatted 
cair to grow to an ox before he kills it on my return, it is 
only because I prefer beef to veal. 

"Yoursj&c." 



LETTER DCXIX. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



" February 23. 
•My health seems improving especially from riding 
and the warm bath. Six Englishmen will be soon in 
quarantine at Zante ; they are artificers, and have had 
enough of Greece in fourteen days. If you could re- 
commend them to a passage home, I would thank you ; 
they are good men enough, but do not quite understand 
the little discrepanies in these countries, and are not used 
to see shooting and slashing in a domestic quiet way, or 
(as it forms here) a part of housekeeping. 



"If they should want any thing during their quarantine, 
you can advance them not more than a dollar a day 
(among them) for that period, to purchase them some 
little extras as comforts, (as they are quite out of their 
element.) I cannot afford them more at present." 



LETTER DCXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Missolonghi, Feb. 25, 1824. 

"I have heard from Mr. Douglas Kinnaird that you 
state ' a report of a satire on Mr. Gifford having arrived 
from Italy, said to be written by me ! but that you do not 
believe it.' I dare say you do not, nor anybody else, I 
should think. Whoever asserts that I am the author or 
abettor of any thing of the kind on Gifford lies in his 
throat. If any such composition exists it is none of mine. 
You know as well as anybody upon whom I have or have 
not written ; and you also know whether they do or did 
not deserve that same. And so much for such matters. 

" You will perhaps be anxious to hear some news from 
this part of Greece, (which is the most liable to invasion ;) 
but you will hear enough through public and private 
channels. I will, however, give you the events of a week, 
mingling my own private peculiar with the public, for we 
are here a little jumbled together at present. 

" On Sunday (the 15th, I believe,) I had a. strong and 
sudden convulsive attack, which left me speechless, though 
not motionless — for some strong men could not hold me ; 
but whether it was epilepsy, catalepsy, cachexy, or apo- 
plexy, or what other exy or epsy, the doctors have not 
decided ; or whether it was spasmodic or nervous, &c. ; 
but it was very unpleasant, and nearly carried me oflj 
and all that. On Monday, they put leeches to my tem- 
ples, no difficult matter, but the blood could not be stopped 
till eleven at night, (they had gone too near the temporal, 
artery for my temporal safety,) and neither styptic nor 
caustic would cauterize the orifice till after a hundred 
attempts. 

"On Tuesday, a Turkish brig of war ran on shore. 
On Wednesday, great preparations being made to attack 
her, though protected by her consorts, the Turks burned 
her and retired to Patras. On Thursday a quarrel en-' 
sued between the Suliotes and the Frank guard at the 
arsenal: a Swedish officer was killed, and a Suliote, 
sererely wounded, and a general fight expected, and with; 
some difficulty prevented. On Friday, the officer was 
buried; and Captain Parry's English artificers mutinied, 
under the pretence that their lives are in danger, and are 
for quitting the country : — they may. 

" On Saturday we had the smartest shock of an earth- 
quake which I remember, (and I have felt thirty, slight or 
smart, at different periods ; they are common in the 
Mediterranean,) and the whole army discharged their 
arms, upon the same principle that the savages beat 
drums, or howl, during an eclipse of the moon : — it was 
a rare scene altogether — if you had but seen the English 
Johnnies, who had never been out of a cockney workshop 
before ! — or will again, if they can help it — and on Sun- 
day, we heard that the Vizier is come down to Larissa, 
with one hundred and odd thousand men. 

"In coming here, I had two escapes, one from the 
Turks {one of my vessels was taken, but afterward re- 
leased,) and the other from shipwreck. W«^ drove twice 
on the rocks near the Scrophes (islands near the coast.) 

" I have obtained from the Greeks the release of eight- 
and-twenty Turkish prisoners, men, women, and children, 
and sent them to Patras and Prevesa, at my own charges. 
One little girl of nine years old, who prefers remaining 
with me, I shall (if I live) send, with her mother, pro- 
bably, to Italy, or to England, Her name is Hato, or 
Hetagee. She is a very pretty, lively child. All her 



I 



LETTERS, 1824. 



225 



brothers were killed by the Greeks, and she herself and 
her mother merely spared by special favour and owing 
to her extreme youth, she being then but five or six years 
old. 

" My health is now better, and I ride about agam. My 
office here is no sinecure, so many parties and difficulties 
of every kind ; but I will do what I can. Prince Mavro- 
cordato is an excellent person, and does all in his power, 
but his situation is perplexing in the extreme. Still we 
have great hopes of the success of the contest. You 
wall hear, however, more of public news from plenty of 
quarters, for I have little time to write. 

" Believe me yours, &c. &c. 

«N.Bn.» 



LETTER DCXXL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Missolonghi, Western Greece, March 4, 1824. 

* MY DEAR MOORE, 

•Your reproach is unfounded — I have received two 
letters from you, and answered both previous to leaving 
Cephalonia. I have not been 'quiet' in an Ionian island, 
but much occupied with business, — as the Greek deputies 
(if arrived) can tell you. Neither have I continued ' Don 
Juan,' nor any other poem. You go, as usual, I presume, 
by some newspaper report or other. 

" When the proper moment to be of some use, arrived, 
I came here; and am told that my arrival (with some 
other circumstances) has been of, at least, temporary 
advantage to the cause. I had a narrow escape from 
the Turks, and another from shipwreck on my passage. 
On the 15th (or 16th) of February I had an attack of 
apoplexy, or epilepsy, — the physicians have not exactly 
decided which, but the alternavive is agreeable. My con- 
stitution, therefore, remains between the two opinions, 
like Mahomet's sarcophagus between the magnets. All 
that I can say is, that they nearly bled me to death, by 
placing the leeches too near the temporal artery, so that 
the blood could with difficulty be stopped, even with caus- 
tic. I am supposed to be getting better, slowly, however. 
But my homilies will, I presume, for the future, be like the 
Archbishop of Grenada's — in this case, 'I order you a 
hundred ducats from my treasurer, and wish you a little 
more taste.' 

"For public matters I refer you to Col. Stanhope's and 
Capt. Parry's reports, — and to all other reports whatso- 
ever. There is plenty to do — war without, and tumult 
within — they ' kill a man a week,' like Bob Acres in the 
country. Parry's artificers have gone away in alarm, on 
account of a dispute, in which some of the natives and 
foreigners were engaged, and a Swede was killed, and a 
Suliote wounded. In the middle of their fright there was 
a strong shock of an earthquake ; so, between that and 
the sword, they boomed off in a hurry in despite of all 
disuasions to the contrary. A Turkish brig ran ashore, 
&c. &c. &c.* 

" You, I presume, are either publishing or meditating 
that same. Let me hear from and of you, and believe mo, 
in all events, " Ever and aflcclionately yours, 

••N. B. 

" P. S. Tell Mr. Murray that I wrote to him the other 
day, and hope tliat he has received, or will receive, tlie 
letter." 



LETTER DCXXir. 

TO DR. KENNEDV. 

" Missolonglii, March 4, 1824. 
"my dear doctor, 
■ I have to thank you for your two very kind letters, 



• What U omittril licro li bill ii rc|ietilioii of llio viiiioiin pnrllf ular«, 
reipecliiig nil lliul hud Imppuiicd aliicu liia nrrival, which hiivu ulruaily 
b«eogi>'ea In the lalteri to hit other corretpondciili.— A/uor<. 

29 



both received at the same time, and one long after its 
date. I am not unaware of the precarious state of my 
health, nor am, nor have been, deceived on that subject. 
But it is proper that I should remain in Greece ; and it 
were better to die doing sometliing than nothing. My 
presence here has beeti supposed so far useful as to have 
prevented confusion from becoming worse confounded, at 
least for the present. Should I become, or be deemed, 
useless or superfluous, I am ready to retire ; but in the 
interim I am not to consider personal conseqviences ; the 
rest is in the hands of Providence, — as indeed are all 
things. I shall, however, observe your instructions, and 
indeed did so, as far as regards abstinence, for some time 
past. 

" Besides the tracts, &c. which you have sent for dis- 
tribution, one of the English artificers (hight Brownbill, 
a tinman) left to my charge a number of Greek Testa- 
ments, which I will endeavour to distribute properly. The 
Greeks complain that the translation is not correct, nor in 
good Romaic : Bambas can decide on that point. I nm 
trying to reconcile the clergy to the distribution, which 
(without due regard to their hierarchy) they might con- 
trive to impede or neutralize in the effect, from their power 
over their people. Mr. Brownbill has gone to the islands, 
having some apprehension for his life, (not from the priests, 
however,) and apparently preferring rather to be a saint 
than a martyr, although his apprehensions of becoming the 
latter were probably unfounded. All the English artifi- 
cers accompanied him, thinking themselves in danger, on 
account of some troubles here, which have apparently 
subsided. 

" I have been interrupted by a visit from Prince Mav- 
rocordato and others since I began this letter, and must 
close it hastily, for the boat is announced as ready to sail. 
Your future convert, Hato, or Hatagee, appears to me 
lively, and intelligent, and promising, and possesses an in- 
teresting countenance. With regard to her disposition, I 
can say Uttle, but Millingen, who has the mother (who is 
a middle-aged woman of good character) in his house as 
a domestic, (although their family was in good worldly 
circumstances previous to the Revolution,) speaks well of 
both, and he is to be relied on. As far as I knosv, I have 
only seen the child a few times with her mother, and what 
I have seen is favourable, or I should not take so much 
interest in her behalf. If she turns out well, my idea 
would be to send her to my daughter in England, (if not 
to respectable persons in Italy,) and so to provide for her 
as to enable her to live with reputation, cither singly or in 
marriage, if she arrive at maturity. I will make proper 
arrangements about her expenses through Messrs. Barff 
and Hancok, and the rest I leave to your discretion and 
to Mrs. K.'s, with a great sense of obligation for your 
kindness m undertaking her temporary .superintendence. 

"Of public matters here, I havo little to add to what 
you will already have heard. We are going on as well 
as we can, and with the hope and tlie endeavour to do 
better. Believe me, 

" Ever and truly, &c." 



LETTER DCXXin. 



TO MR. BARFK. 



'•March 5, 1821. 

"If Sisscni* is sincere, ho will bo treated with, and 

well treated; if ho is iiot, the sin and the slinnie may lie 

at his own tloor. (^ne great object is to heal those intiT- 

nal diHsensiouR for the future, witlunit exacting too <i-ir- 



' ThliSimeiil, whowni \\\f Cnnitnno o( \\\« rich illnricl • 
Rtoiiiil, mill hint fur aoiiif^ tiim- hrltl nut n|;nlii«l thr Knirrnl (i<'> 
wo niiw.na n|ipi-Mrii hy thi- Hhnvi< li>ttiT, nrnkliig ..♦rrl.irr". ilii.'u^li 
M. Horfl", .if mlhculon. A(n proof liU »lnc««rltv. It w«» rrqulml by LonJ 
llyrorj thni he iihinilil ■iirromlcr Into Iho b»uil» of llio Gururnin«ut lltf 
fortr«M of Chlarwaui.— Moor*. 



226 



LETTERS, 1824. 



1 



ous an account of the past. Prince Mavrocordato is of 
the same opinion, and whoever is disposed to act fairly 
will be fairly dealt with. I have heard a good deal of Sis- 
seni, but not a deal o( good; however, I never judge from 
report, particularly in a Revolution. Personally^ I am 
rather obliged to him, for he has been very hospitable to 
all friends of mine who have passed through his district. 
You may therefore assure liim that any overture for the 
advantage of Greece and its internal pacification will be 
readily and sincerely met here. I hardly think that he 
would have ventured a deceitful proposition to me through 
yoUf because he must be sure tliat in such a case it would 
eventually be exposed. At any rate, the healing of these 
dissensions is so important a point, that something must 
be risked to obtain it." 



LETTER DCXXIV. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

"March 10. 

" Enclosed is an answer to Mr. Parruca's letter, and I 
hope that you will assure him from me, that I have done 
and am doing all I can to reunite the Greeks with the 
Greeks. 

" I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country 
house (as for all other kindness) in case that my health 
should require my removal; but I cannot quit Greece 
while there is a chance of my being of any (even sup- 
posed) utility: — there is a stake worth millions such as I 
am, and while I can stand at all, I must stand by the 
cause. When I say this, I am at the same time aware 
ofthe difficulties and dissensions, and defects of the Greeks 
themselves ; but allowance must be made for them by eJI 
reasonable people. 

" My chief, indeed nine-tenths of my expenses here are 
solely in advances to or on behalf of the Greeks, and ob- 
jects connected with their independence." 



LETTER DCXXV. 



TO SR. PARRUCA. 



"March 10, 1824. 
"sir, 
"I have the honour of answering your letter. My first 
wish has always been to bring the Greeks to agree among 
themselves. I came here by the invitation of the Greek 
Government, and I do not think that I ought to abandon 
Roumeali for the Peloponnesus until that Government 
shall desire it ; and the more so, as this part is exposed in 
a greater degree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my pre- 
sence can really be of any assistance in uniting two or 
more parties, I am ready to go any where, either as a me- 
diator, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these affairs I 
have neither private views, nor private dislike of any in- 
dividual, but the sincere wish of deserving the name ofthe 
friend of your country, and of her patriots. 

" I have the honour, &c." 



«8IR, 



LETTER DCXXVL 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

"Missolonghi, 10th March, 1824. 



"I sent by Mr. J. M. Hodges a bill drawn on Signor 
C. Jerostatti for three hundred and eighty-six pounds, on 
account of the Hon. the Greek Committee, for carrying 
©n the service at this place. But Count Delladecima sent 



no more than two hundred dollars until he should receive 
instructions from C. Jerostatti. Therefore I am obliged 
to advance that sum to prevent a positive stop being put 
to the laboratory service at this place, &c. &c. 

" I beg you will mention this business to Count 
Delladecima, who has the draft and every account, and 
that Mr. Barff, in conjunction with yourself) will endea- 
vour to arrange this money account, and, when received, 
forward the same to Missolonghi. 

" I am, sir, yours very truly. 

"So far is written by Captain Parry; but I see that I 
must continue the letter myself. I understand Uttle or 
nothing ofthe business, saving and except that, like most 
of the present affairs here, it vidll be at a stand-still if mo- 
neys be not advanced, and there are few here so disposed ; 
so that I must take tlie chance, as usual . 

" You will see what can be done with Delladecima and 
Jerostatti, and remit the sum, that we may have some 
quiet; for the Committee have somehow embroiled their 
matters, or chosen Greek correspondents more Grecian 
than ever the Greeks are wont to be. 

"Yours ever, 
"NL.Bif. 

" P. S. A thousand thanks to Muir for his cauliflower, 
the finest I ever saw or tasted, and I beUeve, the largest 
that ever grew out of Paradise or Scotland. I have writ- 
ten to quiet Dr. Kennedy about the newspaper, (with 
which I have nothing to do as a writer, please to recollect 
and say.) I told the fools of conductors that their motto 
would play the devil; but, Uke all mountebanks, they per- 
sisted. Gamba, who is any thing but lucky, had some- 
thing to do with it ; and, as usual, the moment he had, 
matters went wrong. It will be better, perhaps, in time. 
But I write in haste, and have only time to say, before the 
boat sails, that I am ever « Yours, 

"N.Bn. 

"P. S. Mr. Findlay is here, and has received his 
money." 



LETTER DCXXVIL 

TO DR. KENNEDV. 

"Missolonghi, March 10, 1824. 

" DEAR SIR, 

" You could not disapprove of the motto to the Tele- 
graph more than I did, and do ; but this is the land of 
liberty, where most people do as they please, and few as 
they ought. 

" I have not written, nor am inclined to write, for that 
or for any other paper, but have suggested to them, over 
and over, a change of the motto and style. However, I 
do not think that it will turn out either an irreligious or a 
levelling publication, and they promise due respect to 
both churches and things, i. e. the editors do. 

" If Bambas would wrife for the Greek Chronicle, he 
might have his own price for articles. 

" There is a slight demur about Hato's voyage, her 
mother wishing to go with her, which is quite natural, and 
I have not the heart to refuse it ; for even Mahomet 
made a law, that in the division of captives, the child 
should never be separated from the mother. But this 
may make a difference in the arrangement, although the 
poor woman (who has lost half her family in the war) is, 
as 1 said, of good character, and of mature age, so as to 
render her respectability not liable to suspicion. She has 
heard, it seems, from Prevesa, that her husband is no 
longer there. I have consigned your Bibles to Dr. 
Meyer; and I hope that the said Doctor may justify 
your confidence ; nevertheless, I shall keep an eye upon 
him. You may depend upon my giving the society as 
fair play as Mr. Wilberforce himself would ; and any 



LETTERS, 1824. 



227 



other commission for the good of Greece will meet with 
the same attention on my part. 

" I am trying, with some hope of eventual success, to 
reunite the Greeks, especially as the Turks are expected 
in force, and that shortly. We must meet them as we 
may, and fight it out as we can. 

"I rejoice to hear that your school prospers, and I 
assure you that your good wishes are reciprocal. The 
weather is so much finer, that I get a good deal of mode- 
rate exercise in boats and on horseback, and am willing 
to hope that my heahh is not worse than when you kindly 
wrote to me. Dr. Bruno can tell you that I adhere to 
your regimen, and more, for I do not eat any meat, even 
fish. « Believe me ever, &c. 

"P. S. The mechanics (six in number) were all pretty 
much of the same mind. Brownbill was but one. Per- 
haps they are less to blame than is imagined, since 
Colonel Stanhope is said to have told them, ^that he 
could not positively say their lives were safeJ I should 
like to know where our life is safe, either here or any 
where else ? With regard to a place of safety, at least 
such hermetically-sealed safety as these persons appeared 
to desiderate, it is not to be found in Greece, at any rate ; 
but Missolonghi was supposed to be the place where they 
would be useful, and their risk was no greater than that 
of. others." 



LETTER DCXXVIII. 

TO COLONEL STANHOPE. 

"Missolonghi, March 19, 1824. 
"my dear stanhope, 

" Prince Mavrocordato and myself will go to Salona to 
meet Ulysses, and you may be very sure that P. M. will 
accept any proposition for the advantage of Greece. 
Parry is to answer for himself on his own articles ; if I 
were to interfere with him, it would only stop the whole 
progress of his exertion, and he is really doing all that 
can be done without more aid from the Government. 

" What can be spared will be sent •, but I refer you to 
Captain Humphries's report, and to Count Gamba's let- 
ter for details upon all subjects. 

" In the hope of seeing you soon, and deferring much 
that will be to be said till then. 

" Believe me ever, &c. 

« P. S, Your two letters (to me) are sent to Mr. Barff; 
as you desire. Pray remember me particularly to Tre- 
lawney, whom I shall be very much pleased to see again.' 



LETTER DCXXIX. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

"March 19. 

* As Count Mercati is under some apprehensions of a 
direct answer to him personally on Greek affairs, I reply 
(as you authorized me) to you, who will have the good- 
ness to communicate to him the enclosed. It is the joint 
answer of Prince Mavrocordato and of myself, to Signor 
Georgio Sisseni's propositions. You may also add, both 
to him and to Parruca, that I am perfectly suicore in 
desiring the most amicable termination of their internal 
dissensions, and that I believe P. Mavrocordato to be so 
also, otherwise I would not act with him, or any other 
whether native or foreigner. 

• If Lord Guilford is at Zante, or, if he is not, if Signor 
Tricupi is tlicre, you would oblige mo by presenting my 
respects to one or both, and by telling ihern, that from 
the very first I foretold to Col. Stanhope and to P. Ma- 
vrocodato, that a Greek newspaper (or indeed any other) 
in the prcJient Hale of Greece mijfht and probably would 



tend to much mischief and misconstruction, unless under 
some restrictions, nor have I ever had any thing to do 
with either, as a writer or otherwise, except as a pecu- 
niary contributor to their support on the outset, which I 
could not refuse to the earnest request of the projectors. 
Col. Stanhope and myself had considerable differences 
of opinion on this subject, and (what will appear laugh- 
able enough) to such a degree that he charged me with 
despotic principles, and I him with ultraradicalism. 

(I £)r + +^ ji^g editor, with his unrestrained freedom of 
the press, and who has the freedom to exercise an un- 
limited discretion, — not allowing any article but his own 
and those like them to appear, — and in declaiming against 
restrictions, cuts, carves, and restricts (as they tell me,) 
at his own will and pleasure. He is the author of an 
article against monarchy, of which he may have the 
advantage and fame — but they (the editors) will get 
themselves into a scrape, if they do not take care. 

" Of all petty tyrants, he is one of the pettiest, as are 
most demagogues, that ever I knew. He is a Swiss by 
birth, and a Greek by assumption, having married a wife 
and changed his religion, 

" I shall be very glad, and am extremely anxious for 
some favourable result to the recent pacific overtures rf 
the contending parties in the Peloponnese." 



LETTER DCXXX. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

"March 
"If the Greek deputies (as seems probable) have ob- 
tained the loan, the sums I have advanced may perhaps 
be repaid ; but it would make no great difference, as I 
should still spend that in the cause, and more to boot — 
though I should hope to better purpose than paying off 
arrears of fleets that sail away, and Suliotes tliat won't 
march, which, they say, what has hitherto been advanced 
has been employed in. But that was not my affair, but of 
those who had the disposal of aflTairs, and I could not 
decently say to them, ' You shall do so and so, because 
&c. &c. &c.' 

" In a few days P. Mavrocordato and myself with a 
considerable escort, int nd to proceed to Salona at tlie 
request of Ulysses and the Chiefs of Eastern Greece, and 
take measures offensive and defensive for the ensuing 
campaign. Mavrocordato is almost recalled by the riew 
Government to the Morea (to take the lead, I rather 
think,) and they have written to propose to me, to go 
either to the Morea with him, or to take the general 
direction of afi'airs in this quarter — with General Londo, 
and any other I may choose, to form a council. A. 
Londo is my old friend and acquaintance since we were 
lads in Greece together. It would be difficult to give a 
positive answer till the Salona meeting is over,* but I 
am willing to serve them in any capacity they {^tloase, 
either commanding or commanded — it is much tlie same 
to mc, as long as I can be of any presumed use to them. 
"Excuse haste ; it is late, and I have been several hours 
on horseback in a country so miry af^er the rains, that 
every hundred yards brings you to a ditch, of whoso 
depth, width, colour, and contents, both my horses and 
their riders have brought away many tokens." 



LETTER DCXXXI. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

"March 26. 
'Since your intelligence with regard to the Greek loo 



• To (hit oflfi- of till- (iovi>iiinuiit til n(i|Hiiiil liliii Uovt nior l»»iiir«l 
of Cir«fi-ii (tliHt i«, of till! eiilinmlii»4'a \>nn I'f H^.- t 'utilinnil, willi ti» 
exception of thtt Morcn uiul the idniidi,) lii» Bii»»itr wn«, thul "h« 
wim ftitl goiOK 10 SbIoii>, muI Ui«t i>fli'r\v*fxi Im would br at ibatr 
comrmiiutt ; Hint he could hnve no ititflciiliy 111 •cc»ptln| out omo», 
provided Ue could iMinuado lilmtelf lli«i imy fw>J wauM rt»uU from 
It." — Moor«. 



228 



LETTERS, 1824. 



P. Mavrocordato has shown to me an extract from some 
correspondence of his, by which it would appear that three 
commissioners are to be named to see that the amount is 
placed in proper hands for the service of the country, and 
that my name is among the number. Of this, however, 
we have as yet only the report. 

" This commission is apparently named by the Com- 
mittee or the contracting parties m England. I am of 
opinion that such a commission will be necessary, but the 
office will be both delicate and difficult. The weather, 
which has lately been equinoctial, has flooded the country, 
and will probably retard our proceeding to Salona for 
some days, till the road becomes more practicable. 

"You were already apprized that P. Mavrocordato and 
myself had been invited to a conference by Ulysses and 
the Chiefs of Eastern Greece. I hear (and am indeed 
consulted on the subject) that in case the remittance of the 
first advance of the loan should not arrive immediately, the 
Greek General Government mean to try to raise some 
thousand dollars in the islands in the interim, to be repaid 
from the earliest instalments on their arrival. What 
prospect of success they may have, or on what condi- 
tions, you can tell better then me : 1 suppose, if the loan 
be confirmed, something might be done by them, but sub- 
ject of course to the usual terms. You can let them and 
me know your opinion. There is an imperious necessity 
for some national fund, and that speedily, otherwise what 
is to be done ? The auxiliary corps of about two hundred 
men paid by me, are, 1 believe, the sole regularly and pro- 
perly furnished with the money, due to them weekly, and 
the officers monthly. It is true that the Greek Govern- 
ment gives their rations, but we have had three mutinies, 
owing to the badness of the bread, which neither native 
nor stranger could masticate (nor dogs either,) and there 
is still great difficulty in obtaining them even provisions of 
any kind. 

" There is a dissension among the Germans about the 
conduct of the agents of their Committee, and an exami- 
nation among themselves instituted. What the result 
may be cannot be anticipated, except that it will end in a 
row, of course, as usual. 

" The English are all very amicable, as far as I know ; 
we get on too with the Greeks very tolerably, always 
making allowance for circumstances; and we have no 
quarrels with the foreigners." 



LETTER DCXXXIL 

TO * * * + *j A PRUSSIAN OFFICER. 

"AprU 1,1824. 

SIR, 

I have the honour to reply to your letter of this day. 
In consequence of an urgent, and, to all appearance, a 
well founded complaint made to me yesterday evening, I 
gave orders to Mr. Hesketh,* to proceed to your quarters 
with the soldiers of his guard, and to remove you from 
your house to the Seraglio, because the owner of your 
house declared himself and his family to be in immediate 
danger from your conduct, and added that it was not the 
first time that you had placed them in similar circum- 
stances. Neither Mr. Hesketh nor myself could imagine 
that you were in bed, as we had been assured of the 
contrary, and certainly such a situation was not contem- 
plated. But Mr. Hesketh had positive orders to conduct 
you from your quarters to those of the Artillery Brigade, at 
the same time being desired to use no violence, nor does 
it appear that any was had recourse lo. This measure 
was adopted, because your landlord assured me when I 
proposed to put off the enquiry until the next day, that he 
could not return to his house without a guard for his 



protection, and that he had left his wife, and daughter, 
and family in the greatest alarm, and on that account 
putting them under our immediate protection. The 
case admitted of no delay. As 1 am not aware that 
Mr. Hesketh exceeded his orders, I cannot take any 
measures to punish him, but I have no objection to ex- 
amine minutely into his conduct. You ought to recollect 
that entering into his Auxiliary Greek corps now under my 
orders, at your own sole request and positive desire, you 
incurred the obligation of obeying the laws of the country 
as well as those of the service. 

" I have the honour, to be, &c. &c. 

"Noel Byron." 



LETTER DXXXIII. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



"Aprils.- 
" There is a quarrel, not yet settled, between the citizens 
and some of Cariascachi's people, which has already pro- 
duced some blows. I keep my people quite neutred ; but 
have ordered them to be on their guard. 

"Some days ago we had an Italian private soldier 
drummed out for thieving. The German officers wanted 
to flog him ; but I flatly refused to permit the use of the 
stick or whip, and delivered him over to the police. Since 
then a Prussian officer rioted in his lodgings ; and I put 
him under arrest, according to the order. This, it ap- 
pears, did not please his German confederation: but I 
stuck by my text ; and have given them plainly to under- 
stand, that those who do not choose to be amenable to the 
laws of the country and service, may retire ; but that in 
all that I have to do, I will see them obeyed by foreigner 
or native. 

" I wish somethbg was heard of the arrival of part of 
the loan, for there is a plentiful dearth of every thing at 
present." 



LETTER DCXXXIV. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

"Aprils. 

" Since I wrote, we have had some tumult here with 
the citizens and Cariascachi's people, and all are under 
arms, our boys and aU. They nearly fired on me and fifty 
of my lads,* by mistake, as we were taking our usual ex- 
cursion into the country. To-day matters are settled or 
subsiding ; but about an hour ago, the father-in-law of the 
landlord of the house where I am lodged (one of the Pri- 
mates the said landlord is) was arrested for high-treason. 

" They are in conclave still with Mavrocordato ; and 
we have a number of new faces from the hills, come to 
assist, they say. Gunboats and batteries all ready, &c. 

" The row has had one good effect — it has put them 
on the alert. What is to become of the father-in-law, I 
do not know ; nor what he has done, exactly ; but 

' 'T is a very fine thing to be father-in-law 
To a very magnificent three-tailed bashaw,' 

as the man in Bluebeard says and sings, I wrote to you 
upon matters at length, some days ago; the letter, or 
letters, you will receive with this. We are desirous to 
hear more of the loan ; and it is some time since I have 
had any letters (at least of an interesting description) fi-om 
England, excepting one of 4th Feb. from Bowning (of no 
great importance.) My latest dates are of 9*""^, or of the 
6th 10*""e, four months exactly. I hope you get on well 
in the islands : here most of us are, or have been, more 
or less indisposed, natives as well as foreigners." 



The Adj\Uant. 



A corpi of fifty Suliotes, hi« body guard. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



229 



LETTER DC XXXV. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



«AprU7. 
"The Greeks here of the Government have been 
boring me for more money. As I have the brigade to 
maintain, and the campaign is apparendy now to open, 
and as I have cilready spent 30,000 dollars in three months 
upon them in one way or other, and more especially as 
their public loan has succeeded, so that they ought not to 
draw from individuals at that rate, I have given them a 



refusal, and— as they would not take that,— another refusal 
in terms of considerable sincerity. 

" They wish now to try in the islands for a few thou- 
sand dollars on the ensuing loan. If you can serve them, 
perhaps you will (in the way of information, at any rate,) 
and 1 wiU see that you have fair play, but still I do not 
advise you, except to act as you please. Almost every 
thing depends upon the arrival, and the speedy arrival, of 
a portion of the loan to keep peace among themselves. 
If they can but have sense to do this, I think that they 
will be a match and better for any force that can be 
brought against them for the present. We are all doing 
as well as we can." 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 

BEGUN NOVEMBER 14, 1813. 



" If this had been begun ten years ago, and faithfully 
kept ! ! I — heigho ! there are too many things I wish never 
to have remembered, as it is. Well, — I have had my 
share of what are called the pleasures of this life, and 
have seen more of the European and Asiatic world than 
I have made a good use of. They say ' virtue is its own 
reward,' — it certainly should be paid well for its trouble. 
At five-and- twenty, when the better part of life is over, 
one should be something ; — and what am I ? nothing but 
five-and- twenty — and the odd months. What have I 
seen ? the same man all over the world, — ay, and woman 
too. Give me a Mussulman who never asks questions 
and a she of the same race who saves one the trouble of 
putting them. But for this same plague — yellow-fever — 
and Newstead delay, I should have been by this time a 
second time close to the Euxine. If I can overcome the 
last, I do n't so much mind your pestilence ; and, at any 
rate, the spring shall see me there, — provided I neither 
marry myself nor unmarry any one else in the interval. I 
wish one was — I do n't know what I wish. It is odd I 
never set myself seriously to wishing without attaining it 
— and repenting. I begin to believe with the good old 
Magi, that one should only pray for the nation, and not 
for the individual ; — but, on my principle, this would not 
be very patriotic. 

"No more reflections. — Let me see — last night I 
finished * Zuleika,'* my second Turkish Tale. 1 believe 
the composition of it kept me alive — for it was written 
to drive my thoughts from the recollection of — 

• Dear, sacred name, rest ever unreveal'd.' 

.0 

At least, even here, my hand would tremble f o write it . 
This afternoon I have burned the scenes of my com- 
menced comedy. I have some idea of expectorating a 
romance, or rather a tale, in prose ; — but what romance 
could equal the events — 

' quiDque ipse vldl, 

Et quorum pars magna fui.' 

" To-day Henry Byron called on mo with my little 
cousin Eliza. She will grow up a beauty and a plague ; 
but, in the mean time, it is the prettiest child ! dark eyes 
and eyelashes, black and long as tlio wing of a raven. I 
tliink she is prettier even than my niece, Geoigiana, — yet 



The Bride of Aliydos. 



I do n't Uke to thinlc so neither ; and, though older, she is 
not so clever. 

" Dallas called before I was up, so we did not meet. 
Lewis, too — who seems out of humour with every thinff. 
What can be the matter? he is not married — has he lost 
his own mistress, or any other person's wife ? Hodgson, 
too, came. He is going to be married, and he is the kind 
of man who will be the happier. He has talent, cheer- 
fulness, every thing that can make him a pleasing com- 
panion ; and his intended is handsome and young, and all 
that. But I never see any one much improved by matri- 
mony. All my coupled contemporaries are bald and 
discontented. W. and S. have both lost their hair and 
good-humour ; and the last of the two had a good deal to 
lose. But it do n't much signify what falls (iff' ^ man's 
temples in that state. 

" Mem. I must get a toy to-morrow for Eliza, and send 
the device for the seals of myself and **♦**. Mem. 
too, to call on the Stacl and Lady Holland to-morrow 
and on * *, who has advised me (without seeing it, by- 
tho-by) not to publish ' Zuleika ;' I believe he is right, 
but experience might have taught him that not to print ig 
yhynxcnUij impossible. No one has seen it but Hodgson 
and Mr. Gifford. I never in my life read a composition, 
save to Hodgson, as he pays me in kind. It is a horrible 
thing to do too frequently ; — better print, and they who 
like may read, and, if they do n't like, you have tlie satis- 
faction of knowing that they have, at least, purchased the 
right of saying so. 

"I have declined presenting the Debtor's Petition, being 
sick of parUamentary mummeries. I have spoken thrico ; 
but I doubt my ever becoming an orator. My first was 
liked ; the second and third — I do n't know whether they 
succeeded or not. I have never yet set to it ani ainorc ; 
one must have some excuse to oneself for laziness, or 
inability, or both, and this is mine. ' Company, villanoiw 
company, hath been the spoil of mo ;' — and then, I have 
' drunk medicines,' not to make mo lovo others, but cer- 
tainly enouijh to hate myself. 

"Two nights .ago, I saw tJio tigers mip at Exeter 
'Change. Except Veli Pacha's lion in the Morea, — who 
followed the Arab keeper like a dog, — the fondnes.s of th« 
liyff'na for her keeper amused me most. Such n conver- 
sazione ! There was a ' iiippopolamtis,' like Loni Liver- 
pool in tho face ; and the 'Ursine Sloth' hath the very 
voice and manner of my valet — but the tiger talk«>d too 



230 



EXTRACTS FROM A JO UR NAL, 1813. 



much. The elephant took and gave me my money again 
— took off my hat — opened a door — tninked a whip — and 
behaved so well, that I wish he was my butler. The 
handsomest animal on earth is one of the panthers ; but 
the poor antelopes were dead. I should hate to see one 
here: — the sight of the camel made me pine again for Asia 
Minor. ' Oh quando te aspiciam ?' 



"Nov. 16. 
" Went last night with Lewis to see the first of Antony 

and Cleopatra. It was admirably got up and well acted 

— a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden. Cleopatra strilces 

me as the epitome of her sex — fond, lively, sad, tender, 

teasing, humble, haughty, beautiful, the devil ! — coquettish 

to the last, as well with the ' asp' as with Antony. After 

doing all she can to persuade him that — but why do they 

abuse him for cutting off that poltroon Cicero's head ? 

Did not TuUy tell Brutus it was a pity to have spared 

Antony ? and did he not speak the PhiUppics ? and are 

not 'words things?' and such 'words' very pestilent 

^things' too? If he had had a hundred heads, they 

deserved (from Antony) a rostrum (his was stuck up 

there) apiece — tliough, after all, he might as well have 

pardoned him, for the credit of the thing. But to resume 

— Cleopatra, after securing him, says, ' yet go' — 'it is your 

interest,' &c. ; how hke the sex ! and the questions about 

Octavia — it is woman all over. 

" To-day received Lord Jersey's invitation to Middle- 
ton — to travel sixty miles to meet Madame de Stael ! I 

once travelled three thousand to get among silent people ; 

and this same lady writes octavos and talks folios. I have 

read her books — lilie most of them, and dehght in the 

last : so I won't heax it, as well as read. + *** + + + 
" Read Bums to-day. What would he have been, if a 

patrician ? We should have had more polish — less force 

— just as much verse, but no immortality — a divorce and 

a duel or two, the which had he survived, as his potations 

must have been less spirituous, he might have lived as long 

as Sheridan, and outlived as much as poor Brinsley. 

What a wreck is that man I and all from bad pilotage ; 

for no one had ever better gales, though now and then a 

little too squally. Poor dear Sherry ! I shall never forget 

the day he, and Rogers, and Moore, and I passed toge- 
ther ; when he talked, and we hstened, without one yawn, 

from six till one in the morning. 

"Got my seals ******, Have again forgot a 

plaything for ma petite cousine Eliza ; but I must send 

for it to-morrow. I hope Harry will bring her to me. I 

sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last ' Giaour,' and 

the ' Bride of Abydos.' He won't hke the latter, and I 

do n't think that I shall long. It was written in four 

nights to distract my dreams from * *. Were it not 

thus, it had never been composed ; and had I not done 

something at that time, I must have gone mad, by eating 

my own heart — bitter diet ! Hodgson hkes it better than cause to support, I have left off the exercise, 

the Giaour, but nobody else will,— and he never liked thi c< ^yh^t strange tidings from that Anakim of anarchy- 
Fragment. I am sure, had it not been for Murray, th^ Buonaparte ! Ever since I defended my bust of him at 

would never have been pubUshed, though the circum\ Marrow against the rascallv time-servers, when the war 

stances which are the groundwork make it * * *lFroke out in 1803, he has been a 'Heros de Roman' of 

mine, on the continent ; I do n't want him here. But I 
do n't like those same flights, leaving of armies, &c. &c. 
I am sure when I fought for his bust at school, I did not 
think he would run away from himself. But I should 
not wonder if he banged them yet. To be beat by men 
would be something •, but by three stupid, legitimate-old- 
dynasty boobies of regular-bred sovereigns — O-hone-a- 
rie ! — O-hone-a-rie ! It must be, as Cobbet says, his 
marriage with the thick-lipped and thick-headed Avtri" 
chienne brood. He had better have kept to her who was 
kept by Barras. I never knew any good come of your 
young wife, and legal espousals, to any but your 'sober- 
blooded boy,' who 'eats fish' and drinketh 'no sack.' 
Had he not the whole opera ? all Paris ? all France ? 



theless, till his friends were tired, and his wife recom- 
mended that pious prologue, 'Curse — and die;' the only 
time, I suppose, when but little relief is to be found in 

•earing. I have had a most kind letter from Lord Hol- 
land on ' The Bride of Abydos,' wliich he likes, and so 
does Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from 
whom I do n't deserve any quarter. Yet I did think, at 
the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from Hol- 
land-house, and am glad I was wrong, and wish I had not 
been in such a hurry with that confounded satire, of which 
I would suppress even the memory ; — but people, now 
they can't get it, make a fuss, I verily believe, out of con- 
tradiction. 

" George Ellis and Murray have been talking some- 
thing about Scott and me, George pro Scoto, — and very 
right too. If they want to depose him, I only wish they 
would not set me up as a competitor. Even if I had my 
choice, I would rather be the earl of Warwick than all the 
kings he ever made ! Jeffrey and Gifford I take to be 
the monarch-makers in poetry and prose. The British 
Critic, in their Rokeby Review, have presupposed a com- 
parison, which I am sure my friends never thought o^ and 
W. Scott's subjects are mjudicious in descending to. I 
like the man — and admire his works to what Mr. Braham 
calls entusymusy. AU such stuff can only vex him, and 
do me no good. Many hate his pohtics, — (I hate all 
politics ;) and, here, a man's politics are like the Greek 
soul — an £l6u)\ov, besides God knows what other soul; 
but their estimate of the two generally go together. 

"Harry has not brought ma petite cousine. I want us 
to go to the play together; she has been but once. 
Another short note from Jersey, inviting Rogers and me 
on the 23d. I must see my agent to night. I wonder 
when that Newstead business will be finished. It c»st 
me more than words to part with it — and to have parted 
with it ! What matters it what I do ? or what becomes 
of me ? — but let me remember Job's saying, and console 
myself with being ' a living man.' 

I wish I could settle to reading again; my life la 
monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and 
fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burned it 
because the scene ran into reality ; a novel, for the same 
reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts ; 

but the thought always runs through, through 

yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Mel- 
bourne, the best friend I ever had in my life, and the 
cleverest of women. 

"Not a word from * *. Have they set out from + * ? 
or has ray last precious epistle fallen into the Lion's jaws ? 
If so— and this silence looks suspicious — I must clap on 
' my musty morion' and ' hold out my iron.' I am out of 
practice, but I won't begin again at Manton's now. Be- 
sides, I would not return his shot. I was once a famous 
wafer- splitter; but then the bullies of society made it 
necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I had a bad 



I 



heigh-ho ! 

" To-night I saw both the sisters of * * ; my God ! 
the youngest so like ! I thought I should have sprung 
across the house, and am so glad no one was with me in 
Lady Holland's box. I hate those likenesses — the mock- 
bird, but not the nightingale — so like as to remind, so dif- 
ferent as to be painful. One quarrels equally with the 
points of resemblance and of distinction. 

"Nov. 17. 
"No letter from * *; but I must not complain. The 
respectable Job says, ' Why should a living man com- 
plain ?' I really do n't know, except it be that a dead man 
can't ; and he, the said patriarch, did complain, never- 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



4t 231 



But a mistress is just as perplexing — that is, one — two or 
more are manageable by division. 

"I have begun, or had begun a song, and flung it into 
the fire. It was in remembrance of Mary Duff, my first 
rf flames, before most people begin to burn. I wonder 
what the devil is the matter with me ! I can do nothing, 
and — fortunately there is nothing to do. It has lately 
been in my power to make two persons (and their con- 
nexions) conifortable, pro tempore, and one happy ex tem- 
pore, — I rejoice in the last particularly, as it is an excel- 
lent man. I wish there had been more inconvenience 
and less gratification to my self-love in it, for then there 
had been more merit. We are all selfish — and I believe, 
ye gods of Epicurus ! I believe in Rochefoucault about 
men, and in Lucretius, (not Busby's translation) about 
yourselves. Your bard has made you very nonchalant 
and blest ; but as he has excused its from damnation, I 
do n't envy you your blessedness much — a little, to be 
sure. . I remember last year, * * said to me at * *,'Have 
we not passed our last month like the gods of Lucretius ?' 
And so we had. She is an adept in the text of the 
original (which I like too;) and when that booby Bus. 
sent his translating prospectus, she subscribed. But, the 
devil prompting him to add a specimen, she transmitted 
him a subsequent answer, saying, that, ' after perusing it, 
her conscience would not permit her to allow her name 
to remain on the list of subscribblers.' * * * 

* ♦ Last night, at Lord Holland's— 
Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puysegur, &c. there — I 
was trying to recollect a quotation (as / think) of Stael's, 
from some Teutonic sophist about architecture. ' Archi- 
tecture,' says this Macoronica Tedescho, 'reminds me of 
frozen music' It is somewhere — ^but where ? — the demon 
of perplexity must know and won't tell. I asked Moore, 

and he said it was not in her ; but P r said it must 

be hers, it was so like. * * * * 

* + * * H. laughed, as 
he does at all ' De I'Allemagne,' — in which, however, I 
tliink he goes a little too far. B., I hear, contemns it too. 
But there are fine passages ;— ^nd, after all, what is a 
work — ■any— or every work — but a desert with fountains, 
and, perhaps, a grove or two, every day's journey ? To 
be sure, in Madame, what we often mistake, and 'pant 
for,' as the ' cooling stream,' turns out to be the ' mirage^ 
(critice, verbiage ;) but we do, at last, get to something 
like the temple of Jove Ammon, and then the waste we 
have passed is only remembered to gladden the contrast. 

♦ ♦ + *** + * 
"Called on C * *, to explain * + * * She is very 
beautiful, to my taste, at least ; for on coming home from 
abroad, I recollect being unable to look at any woman 
but her — they were so fair, and unmeaning, and blonde. 
The darkness and regularity of her features reminded me 
of my 'Jannat al Aden.' But this impression wore off'; 
and now I can look at a fair woman without longing for a 
Houri. She was very good-tempered, and every thing 
was explained. 

"To-day, great news — 'the Dutch have taken Hol- 
land,' — which, I suppose, will be succeeded by the actual 
explosion of the Thames. Five provinces have declared 
for young Stadt, and there will be inundation, conHagra- 
tion, conslirpation, consternation, and every sort of nation 
and nations, fighting away up to their knees, in the dam- 
nable quaga of this will-o'-the-wisp alM)de of Boors. It 
is said, Bernadotte is among them, too ; and, as Orange 
will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Prince Stork 
and King Log in their Loggery at the same time. Two 
to one on the ncsw dynasty ! 

"Mr. Murray has offered mo one thousand guineas for 
the 'Giaour' and the 'Bride of Abydos.' I won't — it is 
too much, though I am strongly leinpttui, merely fi'r the 
coy of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) 



' Lnily Coroliiic Lamb. 



what? — the gods know — it was intended to be called 
Poetry. 

" I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time since 
Sunday last — this being Sabbath, too. All the rest, tea 
and dry biscuits — sixper diem. I wish to God I had not 
dined now ! It kills me with heaviness, stupor, and horri- 
ble dreams ; — and yet it was but a pint of bucellas and 
fish. — Meat I never touch, — nor much vegetable diet. I 
wish I were in the country, to talie exercise, — instead of 
being obliged to cool by abstinence, in lieu of it. I should 
not so much mind a little accession of flesh, — my bones 
can well bear it. But the worst is, the devil always came 
with it, — till I starve him out, — and I will not be the slave 
of any appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, 
that heralds the way. Oh my head — how it aches ! — the 
horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner 
agrees with him ? 

Mem. I must write to-morrow to ' Master Shallow, 
who owes me a thousand pounds,' and seems, in his letter, 
afraid that I should ask him for it ; — as if I would ! — I 
don't want it (just now, at least,) to begin with; and 
though I have often wanted that sum, I never asked for 
the repajonent of lOZ. in my life — from a friend. His bond 
is not due this year ; and I told him when it was, I should 
not enforce it. How often must he make me say the 
same thing ? 

"I am wrong — I did once ask * * * to repay me. But 
it was under circumstances that excused me to him, and 
would to any one. I took no interest, nor required secu- 
rity. He paid me soon, — at least, his padre. My head! 
I beheve it was given me to ache with. Good even. 

"Nov. 22, 1813. 
' Orange Boven !' So the bees have expelled the bear 
that broke open their liive. Well, — if we are to have 
new De Wilts and De Ruyters, God speed the little re- 
public ! I should like to see the Hague and the village 
of Brock, where they have such primitive habits. Yet, I 
do n't know, — theii- canals would cut a poor figure by the 
memory of the Bosphorus ; and the Zuyder Zee look 
awkwardly after 'Ak Degnity.' No matter, — the blufT 
burghers, puffing freedom out of their short tobacco-pipes, 
might be worth seeing; though I prefer a cigar, or a 
hooka, with the rose leaf mixed with the milder herb of 
the Levant. I do n't know what liberty means, — never 
having seen it, — but wealth is power all over the world ; 
and as a shilling performs the duty of a pound (besides sun 
and sky and beauty for nothing) in the East, — that is the 
ountry. How I envy Herodes Atticus ! — more Uian Pom- 
ponius. And yet a little tumult, now and then, is an 
agreeable quickener of sensation ; such as a revohition, a 
battle, or an aventure of any lively description. I think I 
rather would have been Bonneval, Ripperda, Alberoni, 
Hayreddin, or Horuc Barbarossa, or even Wortley Mon- 
tague, than MaJiomet himself 

" Rogers will be in town soon ! — tlie 23d is fixed for our 
Middleton visit. Shall I go ? umph ! — In diis island, where 
one can't ride out witliout overtaking the sea, it don't 
much matter where one goes. 

♦ ***♦* 

" I remember tlie effect of the ^rst Edinburgh Review 
on me. 1 heard of it six weeks before, — road it the day 
of its denunciation, — tlined and drank three bottles of 
claret, (with S. B. Davies, I think,) — neitJior ale nor slept 
the less, but, nevertheless, was not easy till I had vented 
my wrath and my rhyme, in the same pages, against every 
tiling and every body. Like George, in llie Vicar of 
VValtetield, 'the fato of my paradoxes' woulti allow me to 
per<!eivo no merit in another. I renu'mbert>d only tha 
maxim of my boxing-master, which, in my youtJi, wa« 
found useful in all general riot.s, — ' Whoever is not for you 
is against you — 7nill away right and lefi,' and so 1 did;— 
like Ishmuel, mv hand wo-s against nil men, and all ui«n'a 
ancnt mo. I did wonder, to be sure, at my own meet 

•Am) iL\.n VI In K.I much Wilis all hit owu,' 



232 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



as Hobhouse sarcastically says of somebody, (not unlikely 
myself, as we are old friends ;) — but were it to come over 
again, I would not. I have since redde* the cause of my 
couplets, and it is not adequate to the effect. C -^ * told 
me that it was believed I alluded to poor Lord Carlisle's 
nervous disorder in one of the lines. I thank Heaven I 
did not know it — and would not, could not, if I had. I 
must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects 
or maladies. 

" Rogers is silent, — and, it is said, severe. When he 
does talk, he talks well ; and, on all subjects of taste, his 
delicacy of expression is pure as his poetry. If you enter 
his house — his drawing-room — his library — you of your- 
self sav, this is not the dwelling of a common mind. There 
is not a gem, a coin, a book, thrown aside on his chimney- 
piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost 
fastidious elegance in the possessor. But this very deli- 
cacy must be the misery of his existence. Oh tlie jar- 
rings his disposition must have encountered through life ! 

" Southey I have not seen much of. His appearance 
is Epic ; and he is the only existing entire man of letters. 
All the others have some pursuit annexed to their author- 
ship. His manners are mild, but not those of a man of 
the world, and his talents of the first order. His prose is 
perfect. Of his poetry there are various opinions: there is, 
perhaps, too much of it for the present generation : — pos- 
terity will probably select. He has passages equal to any 
tiling. At present, he has a parti/, but no public — except 
for his prose writings. The life of Nelson is beautiful. 

« * * is z. Litterateur, the Oracle of the Coteries, of the 
* * s, L * W *, (Sidney Smith's ' Tory Virgin,') Mrs. 
Wilmot, (she, at least, is a swan, and might frequent a 
purer stream,) Lady B * *, and all the Blues, with Lady 
Caroline at their head — ^but I say nothing of Tier — 'look 
in her face, and you forget them all,' and every thing else. 
Oh that face ! — ^by ' te, Diva potens Cypri,' I would, to be 
beloved by that woman, build and burn another Troy. 

" Moore has a peculiarity of talent, or rather talents, — 
poetrj', music, voice, jjl his own ; and an expression in 
each, which never was, nor will be, possessed by another. 
But he is capable of still higher flights in poetry. By-the- 
by, what humour, what — every thing in the ' Post-Bag 1' 
There is nothing Moore may not do, if he will but seri- 
ously set about it. In society, he is gentlemanly, gentle, 
and altogether more pleasing than any individual with 
whom I am acquainted. For his honour, principle, and 
independence, his conduct to * * * * speaks ' trumpet- 
tongued.' He has but one fault — and that one I daily 
regret — he is not here. 

"Nov. 23. 
"Ward— I like Ward.j 'By Mahomet! I begin to 
think I like every body ; a disposition not to be encou- 
raged ; a sort of social glutton)^, that swallows every thing 
set before it. But I like Ward. He is piquant ; and, in 
my opinion, will stand very high in the House and every 
where else — if he applies regularly. By-the-by, I dine 
with him to-morrow, which may have some influence on 
my opinion. It is as well not to trust one's gratitude after 
dinner. I have heard many a host libelled by his guests, 
with his burgundy yet reeking on their rascally hps. 
****** 
"I have taken Lord Salisbury's box at Covent-garden 
for the season ; — and now I must go and prepare to join 
Lady Holland and party, in theirs, at Drury-lane, questa 
sera. 

" Holland does n't think the man is Junius; but that the 
yet unpublished journal throws great light on the obscuri- 
ties of that part of George the Seconds reign. — What is 
this to George the Third's ? I don't know what to think. 
Why should Junius be yet dead ? If suddenly apoplexed, 
would he rest in his grave without sending his tihuiXov to 



' It was thus tlint he, in general, ipellad thl» word, 
t The i.re.tei)t Lord Duilluy. 



shout in the ears of posterity, ' Junius was X. Y. Z. Esq. 
buried in the parish of * * *, Repair his monument, ye |i 
church- wardens ? Print a new edition of his letters, ye ^s 
booksellers!' Impossible; the man must be alive, and 
will never die without the disclosure. I hke him ; he was 
a good hater. ■ , 

"Came home unwell and went to bed, — not so sleepy 
as might be desirable. 

« Tuesday morning. 

"I awoke from a dream — ^well! and have not others 
dreamed ? — Such a dream ! but she did not overtake me. 
I wish the dead would rest, however. Ugh! how my 
blood chilled — and I could not wake — and — and — ^heigho ! 

' Shadows to-night 
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, 
Than Could the substance often thousand * *s, 
Artn'd all in proof, and led by shallow * *.' 

I do not like this dream, — I hate its ' foregone conclusion. 
And am I to be shaken by shadows ? Ay, when they re- 
mind us of— no matter — but, if I dream thus again, I will 
try whether all sleep has the like visions. Since I rose, 
I 've been in considerable bodily pain also ; but it is gone, 
and now, like Lord Ogleby, I am wound up for the day. 

"A note fi-om Mountnorris — I dine with Ward; Can- 
ning is to be there, Frere, and Sharpe, perhaps GifFord. 
I am to be one of ' the five,' (or rather six,) as Lady * * 
said, a little sneeringly, yesterday. They are all good to 
meet, particularly Canning, and — Ward, when he likes. 
I wish I may be well enough to listen to these mtellectuals. 

" No letters to-day ; so much the better, there are no 
answers. I must not dream again ; it spoils even reality. 
I will go out of doors, and see what the fog will do for me. 
Jackson has been here : the boxing world much as usual ; 
but the Club increases. I shall dine at Crib's to-morrow: 
I like energy, even animal energy, of all kinds ; and I have 
need of both mental and corporeal. I have not dined out, 
nor, indeed, at all, lately ; have heard no music, have seen 
nobody. Now for a plunge — high life and low life. 
' Amant alterna Camoense !' 

" I have burned my Roman, as I did the first scenes 
and sketch of my comedy — and, for ought I see, the 
pleasure of btirning is quite as great as that of printing. 
These last two would not have done. I ran into realities 
more than ever ; and some would have been recognised 
and others guessed at. 

" Redde the Ruminator, a collection of Essays, by a 
strange, but able, old man (Sir Edgerton Bridges) and a 
half-wild young one, author of a Poem on the Highlands, 
called ' Childe Alarique.' The word ' sensibility,' (always 
my aversion) occurs a thousand times in these Essays ; 
and, it seems, is to be an excuse for all kinds of discon- 
tent. This yotmg man can know nothing of life ; and, if 
he cherishes the disposition which rttns through his 
papers, will become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, 
after all, which he seems determined to be. God help 
him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any 
thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see Scott 
and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who might all 
have been agents and leaders, now mere spectators. For, 
though they may have other ostensible avocations, these 
last are reduced to a secondary consideration. * *, too, 
frittering away his time among dowagers and unmarried 
girls. If it advanced any serious affair, it were some 
excuse ; but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous spe- 
culation, and tiresome enough, too ; and, with the veterans, 
it is not much worth trying, — unless, perhaps, one in a 
thousand. 

" If I had any views in this country, tliey would proba- 
bly be parliamentary. But I have no ambition ; at least, 
if any, it would be ' aut Caesar aut nihil.' My hopes are 
limited to the arrangement of my affairs, and settling 
either in Italy or the East, (rather the last,) and drinking 
deep of the languages and literature of both. Past events 
[have unnerved me ; and all I can now do is to make life 



LETTERS, 1813. 



233 



an amusement, and look on, while others play. After all 
— even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is 
it? Fic?e Napoleon's last twelvemonth. It has com- 
pletely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if crushed, 
he would have fallen, when ' fractus illabatur orbis,' and 
not have been pared away to gradual insignificance ; — that 
all this was not a mere jeu of the gods, but a prelude to 
greater changes and mightier events. But men never 
advance beyond a certain point ; — and here we are, retro- 
grading to the dull, stupid, old system,— balance of Europe- 
poising straws upon kings' noses, instead of wringing them 
off! Give me a republic, or a despotism of one, rather 
than the mixed government of one, two, three. A republic I 
— look in the history of the Earth — Rome, Greece, Ve- 
nice, France, Holland, America, our short (eheu 1) Com- 
monwealth, and compare it with what they did under 
masters. The Asiatics are not qualified to be republicans, 
but they have the liberty of demolishing despots, — which 
is the next thing to it. To be the first man— not the Dic- 
tator — not the Sylla, but the Washington or the Aristides 
— the leader in talent and truth — ^is next to the Divinity! 
Franklin, Penn, and, next to these, either Brutus or Cas- 
sius — even Mirabeau — or St. Just. I shall never be any 
thing, or rather always be nothing. The most I can hope 
is, that some will say, ' He might, perhaps, if he would.' 

" 12, midnight. 

" Here are two confounded proofs from the printer. I 
have looked at the one, but, for the soul of me, I can't look 
over that ' Giaour' again, — at least, just now, and at this 
hour — and yet there is no moon. 

•• Ward talks of going to Holland, and we have partly 
discussed an ensemble expedition. It must be in ten days, 
if at all, if we wish to be in at the Revolution. And why 
not ? * * is distant, and will be at * *, still more distant, 
till spring. No one else, except Augusta, cares for me — 
no ties — notrammels — andiamo dunque — se tomiamo, bene 
— se non ck' imporial Old William of Orange talked of 
dying in ' the last ditch' of his dingy country. It is lucky I 
can swim, or I suppose I should not well weather the first. 
But let us see. I have heard hyenas and jackals in the 
ruins of Asia ; and bull-frogs in the marshes, besides 
wolves and angry Mussulmans. Now, I should like to 
listen to the shout of a free Dutchman. 

" Alia! Viva! For ever ! Hourra! Huzza ! — which is 
the most rational or musical of these cries ? ' Orange 
Boven,' according to the Morning Post. 

" Wednesday, 24th. 

•* No dreams last night of the dead nor the living — so — 
I am ' firm as the marble, founded as the rock' — till the 
next earthquake. 

" Ward's dinner went off well. There was not a dis- 
agreeable person there — unless / offended any body, 
which I am sure I could not by contradiction, for I said 
little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe (a man of elegant 
mind, and who has lived much with the best — Fox, Home 
Tooke, Windham, Fitzpatrick, and all the agitators of 
other times and tongues) told us the particulars of his last 
interview with Windham, a few days before the fatal 
operation, which sent ' that gallant spirit to aspire the 
skies.' Windham, — the first in one department of oratory 
and talent, whose only fault was his refinement beyond 
the intellect of half his hearers, — Windham, half his life 
an active participator in the events of the earth, and one 
of those who governed nations, — he regretted, and dwelt 
much on that regret, that * ho had not entirely devoted 
himself to literature and science ! ! !' His mind certainly 
would have carried him to eminence there, as elsewhere ; 
— hut I cannot comprehend what debility of that mind 
could suggest such a wish. 1, who have heard him, 
cannot regret any thing but that I .shall never hear him 
again. What I would ho have been a ploildor ? a metaphy 



" I am tremendously in arrcar with my letters, — except 
to * * and to her my thoughts overpower me,— my words 
never compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write with 
most pleasure— and her answers, so sensible, so tactiqiu 
—I never met with half her talent. If she had been a few 
years younger, what a fool she would have made of me, 
had she thought it worth her while,— and I should have 
lost a valuable and most agreeable /rienc?. Mem. — a mis- 
tress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you 
are lovers \ and, when it is over, any thing but frfends. 

" I have not answered W. Scott's last letter, — but I will. 
I regret to hear from others that he has lately been unfor- 
tunate in pecuniary involvements. He is undoubtedly 
the monarch of Parnassus, and the most English of bards. 
I should place Rogers next in the living Ust — (I value him 
more as die last of the best school)— Moore and Campbell 

both third — Southey and Wordsworth and Coleridge 

tlie rest, 6i iroWoi — thus : 



sician ? — perhaps a rhymer ? a scribbler ? Such an 
exchange must have been suggested by illness. But he 
is gone, and Time * shall not look upon his like again.' 

30 




There is a triangular 'Gradus ad Parnassum!' The 
names are too numerous for the base of the triangle. Poor 
Thurlow has gone wild about tlie poetry of Q,ueen Bess's 
reign — c'est dommage. I have ranked die names upon my 
triangle more upon what I beheve popular opinion than 
any decided opinion of my own. For, to me, some of 
Moore's last Erin sparks — 'As abeam o'er the face of 
the waters' — ' When he who adores thee' — ' Oh blame not' 
— and ' Oh breathe not his name' — are worth all the Epics 
that ever were composed. 

" * ♦ thinks the (Quarterly will attack me next. Let 
them. I have been ' peppered so highly' in my time, both 
ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to make me taste. 
I can sincerely say that 1 am not very much alive now to 
criticism. But — in tracing this — I rather believe that it 
proceeds from my not attaching that importance to author- 
ship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. 
One gets tired of every thing, my angel,' says Valmont. 
The 'angels' are the only things of which I am not a little 
sick — but I do think the preference of writers to agents — 
the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by them- 
selves and others — a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, 
and weakness. Who would write, who had any thing 
better to do? 'Action' — 'action' — 'action — said Demos- 
thenes: 'Actions — actions,' I say, ajid not writing, — least 
of all rhyme. Look at the querulous and monotonous hves 
of the 'genus ;' — except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ariosto, 
Kleist, (who were brave and active citizens,) .lEschylus, 
SophiKles, and some other of the antiques also-^what a 
worthless, idle brood it is ! 

" 12, Mezxa notte. 
" Just returned from dinner, with Jackson (the emperor 
of Pugilism)and another of the select, at Cribb's the cham- 
pion's. I drank more than I like, and have brought away 
some three bottles of very fair claret — for I have no 
headach. We had Tom Cribb up after dinner ;— verj 



LETTERS, 1813 



facetious, though somewhat prolix. He don't like his 
situation — wants to fight again — pray Pollux (or Castor, 
if he was the miller) he may! Tom has been a sailor — a 
coal-heaver — and some other genteel professions, before 
he took to the cestus. Tom has been in action at sea, 
and is now only three-and-thirty. A great man ! has a 
wife and a mistress, and conversations well — bating some 
sad omissions and misapplications of the aspirate. Tom 
is an old friend of mine ; I have seen some of his best 
battles in my nonage. He is now a publican, and, I fear, 
a sinner ; — for Mrs. * * is on alimony, and * *'s daughter 
Uves with the champion. This * + told me,— Tom having 
an opinion of tny morals, passed her off as a legal spouse. 
Talking of her, he said, ' she was the truest of women' 
—from which I immediately inferred she could not be his 
wife, and so it turned out. 

"These panegyrics do n't belong to matrimony; for if 
' true,' a man do n't think it necessary to say so ; and if not, 
the less he says the better.' * * * * is the only man, except 
***+,! ever heard harangue upon his wife's virtue ; and 
I hstened to both with great credence and patience, and 
stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth, when I found 
yavraing irresistible. By-the-by, I am yawning now — 
so, good night to thee. Ntoatpwv. 

« Thursday, 26th November. 
"Awoke a little feverish, but no headache — no dreams 
neither — thanks to stupor ! Two letters, one from * + * +, 
the other from Lady Melbourne — both excellent in their 
respective styles. * ♦ * *'s contained also a very pretty 
lyric on ' concealed griefs' — if not her own, yet very like 
her. Why did she not say that the stanzas were, or were 
not, of her composition ? — I do not know whether to wish 
them hers or not. I have no great esteem for poetical 
persons, particularly women : — they have so much of the 
* ideal' in practics, as well as ethics. 

" I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. 
How very odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly 
fond of that girl, at an age when I could neither feel pas- 
sion, nor know the meaning of the word. And the effect ! 
— My mother used always to rally me about this childish 
amour ; and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, 
she told me one day, ' Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from 
Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and your old sweet- 
heart Mary Duff is married to a Mr. Co®.' And what was 
my answer ? I really cannot explain or account for my 
feelings at tliat moment ; but they nearly threw me into 
convulsions, and alarmed my mother so much, that, after I 
grew better, she generally avoided the subject — to me — 
and contented herself with telling it to all her acquaintance. 
Now, what could this be ? I had never seen her since her 
mother's faux-pas at Aberdeen had been the cause of her 
removal to her grandmother's at Banff; we were both the 
merest children. I had and have been attached fifty times 
since that period ; yet I recollect all we said to each other, 
all our caresses, her features, my restlessness, sleepless- 
ness, my tormenting my mother's maid to write for me to 
her, which she at last did, to quiet me. Poor Nancy 
thought I was wild, and, as I could not write for myself, 
became my secretary. I remember, too, our walks, and 
the happiness of sitting by Mary, in the children's apart- 
ment, at their house not far from the Plainstones at Aber- 
deen, while her less sister Helen played with the doll, and 
we sat gravely making love, in our way. 

"How the deuce did all this occur so early? where 
could it originate ? I certainly had no sexual ideas for years 
afterward ; and yet my misery, my love for that girl were 
so violent, that I sometimes doubt if I have ever been 
really attached since. Be that as it may, hearing of her 
marriage several years after was like a thunder-stroke — it 
nearly choked me — to the horror of my mother and the 
astonishment and almost incredulity of every body. And 
it is a phenomenon m my existence (for I was not eight 
years old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the 
latest hour of it; and lately, I know not why, the recollec- 



tion (not the attachment) has recurred as forcibly «.s ever. 
I wonder if she can have the least remembrance of it or 
me ? or remember her pitying sister Helen for not having 
an admirer too ? How very pretty is the perfect image of 
her in my memory — her brown dark hair, jind hazel eyes ; 
her very dress ! 1 should be quite grieved to see lier now ; 
the reality, however beautiful, would destroy, or at least 
confuse, the features of the lovely Peri which then existed 
in her, and still lives in my imagination, at the distance 
of more than sixteen years. I am now twenty-five and odd 
months 

" I think my mother told the circumstances (on my hear- 
ing of her marriage) to the Parkynsies, and certainly to 
the Pigot family, and probably mentioned it in her answer 
to Miss. A., who was well acquainted with my childish 
penchant, and had sent the news on purpose for me, — and, 
thanks to her ! 

"Next to the beginning, the conclusion has oflen occu- 
pied my reflections, in the way of investigation. That the 
facts are thus, others know as well as I, and my memory 
yet tells me so, in more than a wliisper. But, the more I 
reflect, the more I am bewildered to assign any cause 
for this precocity of affection. 

" Lord Holland "invited me to dinner to-day ; but three 
days' dining would destroy me. So, without eating at 
all since yesterday, I went to my box at Covent-garden. 
***** 

" Saw * * + * looking very pretty, though quite a differ- 
ent style of beauty from the other two. She has the finest 
eyes in the world, out of which she pretends not to 
see, and the longest eyelashes I ever saw, since Leila's 
and Phannio's Moslem curtains of the fight. She has 
much beauty, — ^just enough, — but is, I think, michante. 
***** 

" I have been pondering on the miseries of separation, 
that — oh how seldom we see those we love ! yet we five 
ages in moments, when met. The only thing that consoles 
me during absence is the reflection that no mental or 
personal estrangement, from ennui or disagreement, can 
■take place ; — and when people meet hereafter, even though 
many changes may have taken place in the mean time, 
still — unless they are tired of each other — they are ready 
to reunite, and do not blame each other for the circum- 
stances that severed them. 

" Saturday, 27th, (I believe — or rather am in doubty 
which is the ne plus ultra of mortal faith.) 

" I have missed a day ; and, as the Irishman said, or 
Joe Miller says for him, ' have gained a loss,' or by the 
loss. Every thing is settled for Holland, and nothing but 
a cough, or a caprice of my fellow-traveller's, can stop us. 
Carriage ordered — funds prepared — and, probably, a gale 
of wind into the bargain. JVHmporte — I beUeve, witli 
Clym o' the Clow, or Robin Hood, 'By our Mary (dear 
name I) that art both Mother and May, 1 think it never 
was a man's lot to die before his day,' Heigh for Hel- 
voetsluys, and so forth ! 

" To-night I went with young Henry Fox to see 'Nour- 
jahad' — a drama, which the Morning Post hath laid to my 
charge, but of which I cannot even guess the author. I 
wonder what they will next inflict upon me. They can- 
not well sink below a Melodrama ; but that is better than a 
Satire, (at least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly 
arraigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved to 
bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even praises for 
bad pantomimes never composed by me, — without even a 
contradictory aspect. I suppose the root of this report is 
my loan to the msmager of my Turkish drawings for his 
dresses, to which he was more welcome than to my name. 
I suppose the real author will soon own it, as it has suc- 
ceeded ; if not. Job be my model, and Lethe my beverage I 

" * * * * has received the portrait safe ; and, m an- 
swer, the only remark she makes upon it is, ' indeed it Is 
like' — and again, ' indeed it is hke.' ♦ * * With her, 
the likeness ' covered a multitude of sins ^ for I happen 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



235 



to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark ajid 
stern, — even black as the mood in which my mind was 
scorching last July, when I sate for it. All the others of 
me — like most portraits whatsoever — are, of course, more 
agreeable than nature. 

"Redde the Ed. Review of Rogers. He is ranked 
highly — but where he should be. There is a summary 
view of us all — Moore and me among the rest ; and both 
(the Jirst justly) praised ; though, by implication (justly 
again) placed beneath our memor3.bie friend. Mackin- 
tosh is the writer, and also of the critic on the Stael. His 
grand essay on Burke, I hear, is for the next number. 
But I know nothing of the Edinburgh, or of any other 
Review, but from rumour ; and I have long ceased — in- 
deed, I could not, injustice, complain of any, even though 
I were to rate poetry in general, and my rhymes in par- 
ticular, more highly than I really do. To withdraw my- 
self (rom myself {oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever 
been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling 
at all ; and publishing is also the continuance of the same 
object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else 
recoils upon itself. If I valued fame, I should flatter re- 
ceived opinions, which have gathered strength by time, 
and will yet v/ear longer than any Uving works to the con- 
trary. But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not give 
the he to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may. 
If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one ; and I envy 
no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. 

" All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a 
lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise ; in which, from 
description, I see nothing very tempting. My restless- 
ness tells me I have something within that ' passeth show.' 
It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celes- 
tial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement ; 
but I see no such horror in a 'dreamless sleep,' and I have 
no conception of any existence which duration would not 
render tiresome. How else ' fell the angels,' even accord- 
ing to your creed ? They were immortal, heavenly, and 
happy as their ajjostate Abdiel is now by his treachery. 
Time must decide ; and eternity won't be the less agree- 
able or more horrible because one did not expect it. In 
the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably 
patient under certain evils — grace k. Dieu et mon bon 
temperament. 

« Sunday, 28th. 



" Monday, 29th. 



« Tuesday, 30th. 

"Two days missed in my log-book; hiatus hand de- 
flendus. They were as Uttle worth recollection as the 
rest ; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from 
notching them. 

"Sunday, I dined with Lord Holland in St. Jamcs's- 
square. Large party — among them Sir S. Romilly and 
Lady Ry. ; General Sir Somebody Bentham, a man of 
science and talent I am told ; Horner — the Horner, an 
Edinburgh Reviewer, an excellent speaker in the ' Ho- 
nourable House,' very pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in 
company, as far as I have seen — Sharpe — Phillips of 
Lancashire — Lord John Russell, and others, * good men 
and true.' Holland's society is very good ; you always 
see some one or other in it worth knowing. Sluflcd my- 
self with sturgeon, and exceeded in champaign and wine 
in general, but not to confusion of head. VVhcn I do dine, 
I gorge like an Arab or a Boa snake, on fi.-ii and vegeta- 
bles, but no meat, lam always better, how(!Vir, on my 
tea and biscuit than any other regimen, — and wen tltal 
sparingly. 

" Why does Lady H. always have that damned screen 
between the whole room and llio fire ? I, wlu> bear cold 
no better than an antelope, aud never yet found a sun 
quite done to my taste, was absolutely petrified, and could 
not even shiver. All tho rest, too, looked as if they were 



just unpacked, like salmon from an ice-basket, and set 
down to table for that day only. When she retired, I 
watched their looks as I dismissed the screen, and every 
cheek thawed, and every nose reddened with the antici- 
pated glow. 

" Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to Nourjahad ; and, 
I believe, convinced him, by incessant yawning, that it 
was not mine. I wish the precious author would own it 
and release me from his fame. The dresses are pretty, 
but not in costume — Mrs. Home's, all but the turban, and 
the want of a small dagger, (if she is a Sultans.,) perfect. 
I never saw a Turkish woman with a turban in my life — 
nor did any one else. The Sultaiias have a small poniard 
at the waist. The dialogue is drowsy — the action heavy 
— the scenery fine — the actors tolerable. I can't say much 
for their seraglio; TeresEi, Phannio, or + * + * were 
worth them all. 

" Sunday, a very handsome note from Mackintosh, who 
is a rare instance of the union of very transcendent talent 
and great good-nature. To-day, (Tuesday,) a very pretty 
billet from M. la Baronne de Stael Holstein. She is 
pleased to be much pleased with my mention of her and 
her last work in my notes. I spoke as I thought. — Her 
works are my delight, and so is she herself, for — half an 
hour. I do n't hke her politics — at least, her having 
changed them ; had she been qiialis ah inccpto, it were 
nothing. But she is a woman by berselfj and has done 
more than all the rest of them together, intellectually, — 
she ought to have been a man. She flatters me very pret- 
tily in her note ; — but I know it. 'I'he reason that adula- 
tion is not displeasing is, that, though untrue, it shows 
one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to 
induce people to lie, to make us their friend : — that is their 
concern. 

" * * is, I hear, thriving on the repute o{ a-pun (which 
was mine at Mackintosh's dinner some time back) on 
Ward, who was asking ' how much it would take to re- 
whig him ?' I ansv.ered that, probably, he ' must first, 
before he was re-ivhigged, be rt:-warded.^ This foolish 
quibble, before the Stael and Mackintosh and a number 
of conversationers, has been mouthed about, and at last 
settled on the head of * *, where long may it remain ! 

"George* is returned from afloat to get a new ship. 
He looks thin, but better tJian I expected. I like George 
much more than most people like their heirs. He is a fine 
fellow, and every inch a sailor. I would do any thing, 
but apostatize, to get him on in his profession. 

" Lewis called. It is a good and good-humoured man, 
but pestilently prolix, and parado.xical, and personal. If 
he would but talk half^ and reduce his visits to an hour, 
he would add to his popularity. As an author, lie is very 
good, and his vanity is ouverte, like Erskine's, and yet not 
offending. 

"Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabel!a,'| 
which I answered. What an odd situation and friend- 
ship is ours ! without one spark of love on cither side, and 
produced by circumstances which in general lead to cold- 
ness on one side, and aversion on tJie other. Siie is a 
very superior woman, and very little spoiled, which is 
strange in an heiress — a ^\r\ of twenty — a peeress that is 
to be, in her own right — an only child, and a sai^ante, who 
lias always had her own way. She is a poetess — a ma- 
tiiematician — ametaphysirinn ; and yet, willml, vory kiiid, 
generous, and gentle, with very little pretension. Any 
other head would bo turned witli half her acquisitions 
and a tenth of her advantages. 

" Wodnosday, December 1, 1813. 
"To-day responded to La Baronne do Stael Ht>latoin, 
and sent to Leigh Hunt (an acquisition lo my ncqunint- 
anco — through Moore — of last summer) a copy of tlie 
two Turkish Tulos. Hunt is nn cxtraonlinary oluu-acter, 
and not exactly of the present uge. He rominils mo more 



• HU coii»in, *fi«rwi>ril Lord Byron. 

t Min iyiilt>niil«, nHerwRrtl Lady P»rpn 



236 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



of llie Pym and Hampden times — much talent, great in- 
dependence of spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive, 
aspect. If he goes on qualis ah incepto, I know few men 
who will deserve more praise or obtain it. I must go and 
see him again ; the rapid succession of adventure since 
last summer, added to some serious uneasiness and busi- 
ness, have interrupted our acquaintance ; but he is a man 
worth knowing ; and tliough, for his own sake, I wish him 
out of prison, I like to study character in such situations. 
He has been unshaken, and will continue so. I do n't 
think him deeply versed in life ; — he is the bigot of virtue, 
(not religion,) and enamoured of the beauty of that 
' empty name,' as the last breath of Brutus pronounced, 
and every day proves it. He is, perhaps, a little opinion- 
ated, as all men w ho are the centre of circles^ w ide or nar- 
row — the Sir Oracles, in whose name two or three are 
gathered together — must be, and as even Jolmson was ; 
but, wiihal, a valuable man, and less vain tham success 
and even the consciousness of preferring ' the right to the 
expedient' might excuse. 

"To-morrow there is a party of purple at the 'blue' 
Miss * * *'s. Shall I go? um! I don't much affect 
your blue-bottles ; but one ought to be civil. There will 
be, ' I guess now,' (as the Americans say,) the Staels and 
Mackintoshes — good — the * * *s and '^ * *s — not so 
good — the * * *s, &c. &c. — good for nothing. Perhaps 
that blue-winged Kashmirian butterfly of book-learning, 
Lady * * * *j will be there. I hope so ; it is a pleasure 
to look upon that most beautiful of faces. 

" Wrote to Hodgson ; he has been telling that I .* 

[ am store, at least, / did not mention it, and I wish he 
had not. He is a good fellow, and I obliged myself ten 
times more by being of use than I did him 5 and there 's 
an end on 't. 

" Baldwin is boring me to present their King's Bench 
petition. I presented CartwTight's last year ; and Stan- 
hope and I stood against the whole House, and mouthed 
it valiantly — and had some fun and a little abuse for our 
opposition. But 'I am noti' th' vein' for this business. 
Now, had * * been here, she would have made me do it. 
There is a woman, who, amid all her fascination, always 
urged a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained, 
she had been my tutelar genius. * * * 

"Baldwin is very importunate — but, poor fellow, 'I 
can't get out, I can't get out — said the starling.' — Ah, I 
am as bad as that dog Sterne, who preferred whining 
over ' a dead ass to relieving a living mother' — villain — 
hypocrite — slave — sycophant ! but / am no better. Here 
I cannot stimulate myself to a speech for the sake of 
these unfortunates, and three words and half a smile of 
* *j had she been here to urge it, (and urge it she infalli- 
bly would — at least, she always pressed me on senatorial 
duties, and particularly in the cause of weakness,) would 
have made me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on 
Rochefoucault for being always right ! In him a lie were 
virtue, — or, at least, a comfort to his readers. 

"George Byron has not called to-day ; I hope he will 
be an admiral, and, perhaps. Lord Byron into the bar- 
gain. If he would but marry, I would engage never to 
marry, myself, or cut him out of the heirship. " He would 
be happier, and I should like nephews better than sons. 

" I shall soon be sLx-and-twenty, (January 22d, 1814.) 
Is there any thmg in the future that can possibly console 
us for not being always tvxaity-fu'e ? 

' Oh Giorentu 1 
Oh Primavera ! giovcntu dell' anno. 
Oh Giorentu ! primarera della vita.' 



« Sunday, Dec. 5. 
"Dallas's nepheNY (son to the American Attomey- 

• Two or three word* are here scratched out in the manutcript but 
the import of the ienteiice erideirtly is, that Mr. Hodgson (to whom the 
pasMg^ refers) had been reTealioe to lome friends lh« secret of Lord 
B/ron'f kiadneulo hira. — Moert. 



general) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas that 
my rh>-mes are very popular in the United States. These 
are the first tidings that have ever sounded like Fame to 
my ears — to be redde on the banks of the Ohio ! The 
gieatest pleasure I ever derived, of this kind, was from an 
extract, in Cooke the actor's Life, from his Journal, sta- 
ting, that in the reading-room of Albany, near Washing- 
ton, he perused English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
To be popular in a rising and far country has a kind of 
posthumous feel; very difterent from the ephemeral edat 
and fete-ing, buzzing and party-ing compliments of tlie 
well-dressed multitude. I can safely say that, during my 
reign in the spring of 1812, I regretted nothing but its 
duration of six weeks instead of a fortnight, and was 
heartily glad to resign. 

"Last night I supped with Lewis; — and, as usual, 
though I neither exceeded in solids nor fluids, have been 
half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely destroyed 
by long abstinence, and the rest will probably follow. Let 
it — I only w ish the pain over. The ' leap in the dark' is 
the least to be dreaded. 

" The Duke of * * called. I have told them forty 
times that, except to half-a-dozen old and specified ac- 
quaintances, I am invisible. His grace is a good, noble, 
ducal person : but 1 am content to think so at a distance, 
and so — I v>as not at home. 

"Gait called. — Mem. — to ask some one to speak to 
Raymond in favour of his play. We are old fellow- 
travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, he has much 
strong sense, experience of the world, and is, as far as I 
have seen, a good-natured, philosophical fellow. I show- 
ed him Sligo's letters on the report of the Turkish girl's 
avaiiure at Athens soon after it happened. He and Lord 
Holland, Lewis, and Moore, and Rogers, and Lady Mel- 
bourne have seen it. Murray hats a copy. I thought it 
had been unknown^ and wish it were ; but Sligo arrived 
only some days after, and the rumours are the subject of 
his letter. That I shall preserve — it is as icell. Lewis 
and Gait were both horrified; and L. wondered 1 did not 
introdiice the situation into 'the Giaour.' He may won- 
der — he might wonder more at that production's being 
written at all. But to describe the feelings of that situa- 
tion were impossible — it is icy even to recollect them. 

" The Bride of Abydos was published on Thursday 
the second of December ; but how it is liked or disliked, 
I know not. Whether it succeeds or not is no fault of 
the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But 
I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be 
to the most partial reader ; as it wrung my thoughts from 
reality to imagination — from selfish regrets to vivid re- 
collections — and recalled me to a country replete with 
the brightest and darkest, but always most lixxly colours 
of my memory. Sharpe called, but was not let in, which 
I regret. 

"Saw * * yesterday. I have not kept my appoint- 
ment at Middleton, which has not pleased him, perhaps ; 
and my projected voyage with * * will, perhaps, please 
him less. But I wish to keep well with both. They are 
instruments that don't do, in concert; but, surely, their 
separate tones are very musical, and I won't give up 
either. 

" It is well if I do n t jar between these great discords 
At present, I stand tolerably w ell with all, but I cannot 
adopt their dislikes; — so many sets. Holland's is the 
first ; — every thing distingue is welcome there, and cer- 
tainly the ton of his society is the best. Then there is 
M^le. de Stael's — there I never go, tliough I might, had I 
courted it. It is composed of the + *s and the * ♦ 
family, with a strange sprinkling, — orators, dandies, and 
all kinds of Blue, from the regular Grub-street uniform, 
down to the azure jacket of the Littirateur. To see * * 
and * * sitting together, at dinner, always reminds me of 
the grave, where all distinctions of friend and foe are 
levelled; and they— the Reviewer and Review^e, the 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



237 



Rhinoceros and Elephant, the Mammoth and Megalonyx 
— all will lie quietly together. They now sit together, as 
silent, but not so quiet, as if they were already immured. 

* + * * + * 

"I did not go to the Berry's the other night. The 
elder is a woman of much talent, and both are handsome, 
and must have been beautiful. To-night asked to Lord 
H.'s — shall I go ? urn ! perhaps. 

" Morning, two o'clock. 

•Went to Lord H.'s, — ^party numerous — milady in 
perfect good-humour, and consequently perfect. No one 
more agreeable, or perhaps so much so, when she will. 
Asked for Wednesday to dine and meet the Stael ; — 
asked particularly, I beheve, out of mischief, to see the 
first interview after the Tiote^ with which Corinne pro- 
fesses herself to be so much taken. I do n't much like 
it ; — she always talks of r/it/self or herself, and I am not 
(except, in soliloquy, as now) much enamoured of either 
subject — especially one's Works. What the devil shall 
I say about 'De I'Allemagne?' I like it prodigiously; 
but unless I can twist my admiration into some fantastical 
expression, she won't believe me ; and I know, by expe- 
rience, I shall be overwhelmed with fine things about 
rh3rme, &c. &c. The lover, Mr, Rocia, was there to- 
night, and Campbell said ' it was the only proof he had 
seen of her good taste.' Monsieur L'Amant is remark- 
ably handsome ; but I do n't think more so then her book. 

"Campbell looks well — seemed pleased, and dressed to 
sprucert/. A blue coat becomes him, so does his new 
wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent him a birth- 
day suit, or a wedding-garment, and was witty and lively. 
* * * He abused Corinne's book, which I regret; 
because, firstly, he understands German, and is conse- 
quently a fair judge ; and. secondly, he is Jirst rate, and 
consequently, the best of judges. I reverence and admire 
him ; but I won't give up my opinion — why should 1 ? I 
read her again and again, and there can be no affectation 
in this. I cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book 
I read and lay down, and take up again ; and no book 
can be totally bad, which finds one, even one reader, who 
can say as much sincerely. 

" Campbell talks of lecturing next spring ; his last lec- 
tures were eminently successful. M<jore throught of it, 
but give it up, I don't know why. * * had been prating 
dignity to him, and such stuff; as if a man disgraced 
himself by instructing and pleasing at the same time. 

" Introduced to Marquis Buckingham — saw Lord Gower 
— he is going to Holland ; Sir J. and Lady Mackintosh 
and Homer, G. Lamb, with, I know not how many, (R. 
Weilesley, one — a clever man,) grouped about the room. 
Little Henry Fox, a fine boy, and very promising in mind 
and manner, — he went away to bed, before I had lime to 
talk to him. I am sure I had rather hear him than all 
the savanx. 



« Monday, Dec. 6. 

*• Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the 
thing was called tlie Bride of Abydos ? It is a cursed 
awkward question, brin^ luvinswcrable. She is not a 
bridt, only about to be one : but for, &c. &c. &r. 

"I don't wonder at his finding out tlw Bull; but the 
defection * * * is too late to do any good. I waa 
a great fool to make ii, and am ashamed of not being an 
Irishman. * « * * 

"Campbell last niglit secrord a little nettled at some- 
thing or other — I know not what. We were standmg in 
the anlo-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other 
room a vp-jscI of some composition similar to that which 
is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclainjoJ, 
' Here is some inncnsc for you.' Campbell answered — 
•Carry it to Lord Byron — he is used to il.'' 

" Now, this comes of ' bearing no brother near the 
throne.' I, who have no throno, nor wish to havo onr 



7iou>— whatever I may have done— am at perfect peace 
vnth all the poetical fraternity ; — or, at least, if I dislike 
any, it is not poetically, but personoUy. Surely, the field 
of thought is infinite ; — what does it signify who is before 
or behind in a race where there is no gord 7 The temple 
of Fame is like that of the Persians, the Universe ; — our 
altar, the tops of mountains. I should be equally con- 
tent with Mount Caucasus or Mount Anything ; and 
those who hke it may have Mont Blanc or Chimborazo 
without my envy of their elevation. 

" I think I may now speak thus ; for I have just pub- 
lished a Poem, and am quite ignorant whether it is likely 
to be liked or not. I have hitherto heard Uttle in its com- 
mendation, and no one can downright abuse it to one's 
face, except in print. It cant be good, or I should not 
have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my 
very title. But I begun it with heart full of * * *, and 
my head of orientalJii^s, (I can't call them isms,) and 
wrote on rapidly, 

"This joumail is a relief. When I am tired — as I 
generally am — out come this, and down goes every thing. 
But I can't read it over ; — and God knows what contra- 
dictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself 
(but I fear one lies more to one's self than to any one 
else,) every page should confute, refute, and utterly 
abjure its predecessor. 

" Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the petitioner : 
I have neither head nor nerves to present it. That con- 
founded supper at Lewis's has spoiled my digestion and 
my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet 
of vinegar. Would I were an ostrich and dieted on 
fire-irons, — or any thing that my gizzards could get the 
better of. 

" To-day saw W. His uncle is dying, and W. do n't 
much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine with him 
on Thursday, provided Foncle is not dined upon, or pe- 
remptorily bespoke by the posthumous epicure?, before that 
day. I wish he may recover — not for our dinner's sake, 
but to disappoint the undertaker, and the rascally reptiles 
that may well wait, since they will dine at last. 

" Gell called — he of Troy — after I was out. Mem. — 
to return his visit. But my Mems. are the very land- 
marks of forgetfulness : — something like a lighthouse, with 
a ship wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never 
look at a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to 
forget. Mem. — I have forgotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and 
suppose I shall be surcharged. ' An I do not turn rebel 
when thou art king* — oons ! I believe my very biscuit is 
leavened with that impostor's imposts. 

"L7. M«. returns from Jersey's to-morrow; — I must 
call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a song, which I must 
applaud. I hate annoying them with censure or silence : 
and yet I hate lettering. 

Saw Lord Glenbervie and his Prospectus, at Mur- 
ray's, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here is a 
man more useful than all the historians and rhymers ever 
planted. For, by preserving our woods and forests, he 
furnishes materials for all the history of Britain worth 
reading, and all the odes worth nothing. 

Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head is cram- 
med with the most useless lumber. It is odd that when I 
do read, I can only bear the chicken broth of — any thing 
but novels. It is manv a year since I have looked into 
one. (though they are sometimes ordi-red, by way of expe- 
riment, but never taken,) till I loriked yesterday at the 
worst parts of the Monk. Those descriptions oii;,'ht to 
have been written by Tiberias at Caprea — thoy arc forced 
— the philtred ideas of a jaded voluptuary. It is to me 
inconceivable how thev could have liocn romposod by a 
man of only twnitv — his age when he wroto thcM. They 
have no nature — all the sour cream «>f ranihaiides. I 
should havo suspt-ctcd Buffon of wriimg thrm on the 
death-bod of his dri«»stable dotag*'. I had never reddc 
this edition, and nurclv lo<»k«Hl at thrm from curioMty 



238 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1313. 



and recollection of the noise they made, and the name 
they have left to Lewis. But they could do no harm 
except * * *. 

"Called this evening on my agent — my business as 
Usual. Our strange adventures are the only inheritances 
of our family that have not diminished. * + * * 

" I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to bed. 
The cigars do n't keep well here. They get as old as 
a donna di quaranii anni in the sun of Africa. The 
Havana are the best ; — but neither are so pleasant as 
a hooka or chibouque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, 
and their horses entire — two things as they should be. 
I am so far djliged to this Journal, that it preserves me 
from verse, — at least from keeping it. I have just thrown 
a Poem into the fire (which it has relighted to my great 
comfort,) and have smoked out of my head the plan of 
another. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, or, 
at least, the confusion of thought. 

"Tuesday, Dec. 7. 
" Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, but not refresh- 
ingly. Awoke and up an hour before being called ; but 
dawdled three hours in dressing. When one subtracts 
from hfe infancy (which is vegetation) — sleep, eating, and 
swilling — buttoning and unbuttoning — how much remains 
of downright existence ? The summer of a dormouse. * 

* + + * + * 

" Redde the papers and tea-ed and soda-watered, and 
found out that the fire was badly lighted. Ld. Glenbervie 
wants me to go to Brighton — um ! 

" This morning a very pretty billet from the Stael 
about meeting her at Ld. H.'s to-morrow. She has 
written, I dare say, twenty such this morning to different 
people, all equally flattering to each. So much the better 
for her and those who believe all she wishes them, or they 
wish to believe. She has been pleased to be pleased with 
my slight euiogy in the note annexed to the ' Bride.' 
This is to be accounted for in several ways : — firstly, all 
women like all, or any praise ; secondly, this was unex- 
pected, because 1 have never courted her ; and, thirdly, 
as Scrub says, those who have been all their lives regu- 
larly praised, by regular critics, like a little variety, and 
are glad when any one goes out of his way to say a civil 
thing ; and, fourthly, she is a very good-natured creature, 
which is the best reason, after all, and, perhaps, the only 
one. 

" A knock — knocks single and double. Bland called. — 
He says Dutch society (he has been in Holland) is 
second-hand French ; but the women are like women 
every where else. This is a bore ; I should like to see 
them a little unlike ; but that can't be expected. 

" Went out — came home — this, that, and the other — 
and ' all is vanity, saith the preacher,' and so say I, as part 
of his congregation. Talking of vanity — whose praise 
do I prefer ? Why, Mrs. Inchbald's, and that of the 
Americans. The first, because her ' Simple Story' and 
' Nature and Art' are, to me, true to their tides ; and con- 
sequently, her short note to Rogers about the 'Giaour' 
delighted me more than any thing, except the Edinburgh 
Review. I like the Americans, because / happened to 
be in Asia, while the English Bards and Scotch Review- 
ers were redde in America. If I could have had a speech 
against the Slave Trade, in Africa, and an Epitaph on a 
Dog, in Europe, (i. e. in the Morning Post,) my vertex 
sublimis would certainly have displaced stars enough to 
overthrow the Newtonian system. 

"Friday,Dec. 10, 1813. 

" I am ennuyd beyond my usual tense of that yawning 

verb, which I am always conjugating ; and I do n't find 

that society much mends the matter. I am too lazy to 

shoot myself— and it would annoy Augusta, and perhaps 

* * ; but it would be a good thing for George, on the 
other side, and no bad one for me ; but I won't be 
tempted. 



"I have had die kindest letter from Moore. I do think 
that man is the best-hearted, the only hearted being I ever 
encountered ; and then, his talents are equal to his feel- 
ings. 

" Dined on Wednesday at Lord H.'s — the Staffords, 
Staels, Cowpers, Ossulstones, Melbournes, Mackintoshes, 
&c. &c. — and was introduced to the Marquis and 
Marchioness of Stafford, — an unexpected event. My 
quarrel wilh Lord Carlisle (their or his brother-in-law) 
having rendered it improper, I suppose, brought it about. 
But, if it was to happen at all, I wonder it did not occur 
before. She is handsome, and must have been beautiful 
— and her manners areprincessly. * * * 

" The Stael was at the other end of the table, and less 
loquacious than heretofore. We are now very good 
friends ; though she asked Lady Melbourne whether I 
had really any bonkommie. She might as well have asked 
that question before she told C. L. 'c'est un demon.' 
True enough, but rather premature, for she could not have 
found it out, and so — she wants me to dine there next 
Sunday. 

" Murray prospers, as far as circulation. For my part, 
I adhere (in liking) to my Fragment. It is no wonder 
that I wrote one — my mind is a fragment. 

" Saw Lord Gower, Tierney, &c. in the square. Took 
leave of Lord Gr. who is going to Holland and Germany. 
He tells me, that he carries with him a parcel of 'Harolds' 
and 'Giaours,' &c. for the readers of Berlin, who, it 
seems, read English, and have taken a caprice for mine. 
Um ! — have I been German all this time, when I thought 
myse\{ oriental? * * * 

" Lent Tierney my box for to-morrow ; and received a 
new comedy sent by Lady C. A. — but not hers. I must 
read it, and endeavour not to displease the author. I hate 
aimoying them with cavil ; but a comedy I take to be the 
most difficult of compositions, more so than tragedy. 

" Gait says there is a coincidence between the first part 
of ' the Bride' and some story of his — whether published 
or not, I know not, never having seen it. He is almost the 
last person on whom any one would commit Uterary lar- 
ceny, and I am not conscious of any witting thefts on any 
of the genus. As to originality, all pretensions are ludi- 
crous, — 'there is nothing new under the sun.' 

" Went last night to the play. * * * ♦ 

Invited out to a party, but did not go ; — right. Refused 
to go to Lady * * 's on Monday ; — right again. If I 
must fritter away my life, I would rather do it alone. I 
was much tempted ; — C * * looked so Turkish with her 
red turban, and her regular dark and clear features. Not 
that she and / ever were, or could be, any thing ; but I 
love any aspect that reminds me of the ' children of the 
sun.' 

" To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for which I 
have some appetite, not having tasted food for the pre- 
ceding forty-eight hours. I wish I could leave off eating 
altogether. 

" Saturday, Dec. 11. 
" Sunday, Dec. 12. 

" By Gait's answer, I find it is some story in real life, 
and not any work with which my late composition coin- 
cides. It is still more singular, for mine is drawn from 
existence also. 

" I have sent an excuse to M. de Stael. I do not feel 
sociable enough for dinner to-day ; and I will not go to 
Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not that I do not admire 
and prefer his unequalled conversation ; but — that ' but^ 
must only be intelligible to thoughts I cannot write. She- 
ridan was in good talk at Rogers's the other night, but I 
only stayed till nine. All the world are to be at the Stael's 
to-night, and I am not sorry to escape any part of it. I 
only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. 
Went out — did not go to the Stael's, but to Ld. Holland's. 
Party numerous— conversation general. Stayed late — 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 



239 



made a blunder — got over it — came home and went to 
bed, not having eaten. Rather empty, but fresco^ which 
is the great point with me. 

« Monday, Dec.l3, 1813. 

*' Called at three places — read, and got ready to leave 
town to-morrow. Murray has had a letter from his 
brother Bibliopole of Edinburgh, v/ho says 'he is lucky in 
having such a poet'' — something as if one was a pack- 
horse, or 'ass, or any thing that is his :' or, like Mrs. Pack- 
wood, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on 
Razors, ' Law, sir, we keeps a Poet.' The same illus- 
trious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, 
poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript — ^ The 
Harold and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame, 
and, after all, quite as good as any other ' life in other's 
breath.' 'T is much the same to divide purchasers with 
Hannah Glasse or Hannah More. 

"Some editor of some Magazine has announced to 
Murray his intention of abusing the thing ' without read- 
ing it.' So much the better ; if he redde it first, hp 
would abuse it more. ^ 

" Allen (Lord Holland's Allen — the best informed and 
one of the ablest men I know — a perfect Magliabecchi — 
a devourer, a Helluo of books, and an observer of men) 
has lent me a quantity of Burns's unpubhshed, and never- 
to-be-published, Letters. They are full of oaths and 
obscene songs. What an antithetical mind ! — tenderness, 
roughness— delicacy, coarseness — sentiment, sensuality — 
soaring and grovelling, dirt and deity — all mixed up in 
that one compound of inspired clay ! 

" It seems strange ; a true voluptuary will never aban- 
don his mind to the grossness of reality. It is by exalting 
the earthly, the material, the physique of our pleasures, 
by veiling these ideas, by forgetting them altogether, or, 
at least, never naming them hardly to one's self, that we 
alone can prevent them from disgusting. 

+ * + **♦* 

«Dec.l4, 15,16. 
" Much done, but nothing to record . It is quite enough 
to set down my thoughts; my actions will rarely bear 
retrospection. 

"Dec. 17,18. 

" Lord Holland told me a curious piece of sentimentality 
in Sheridan. The other night we were all delivering our 
respective and various opinions on him and other hommes 
marquans, and mine was this. 'Whatever Sheridan has 
done or chosen to do, has been, par excellence^ always the 
best of its kind. He has written the best comedy, (School 
for Scandal,) the bent drama, (in my mind, far before that 
St. Giles's lampoon, the Beggar's Opera,) the best farce, 
(the Critic — it is only too good for a farce,) and the best 
Address, (Monologue on Garrick,) and, to crovm all, 
delivered the very best Oration (the famous Begum 
Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country.' Some- 
body told S. this the next day, and on hearing it, he burst 
into tears ! 

" Poor Brinsley ! if they were tears of pleasure, I 
would rather have said these few, but most sincere words, 
than have written the Iliad, or made his own celebrated 
Philippic. Nay, his own comedy never gratified me more 
than to hear that he had derived a moment's gratification 
from any praise of mine, humble as it must appear to 
' my elders and my betters.' 

" Went to my box at Covent-garden to-night ; and my 
delicacy felt a little shocked at seeing S * + *'s mistress 
(who, to my certain knowledge, was actually educated, 
from licr birth, for her profession) sitting with her mother, 

• a three-piled b— d, b d-Major to the army,' in a 

private box opposite. I felt rather indignant ; but, casting 
my eyes round the house, in the next box to nii>, and the 
next, and tlio next, were the most distinguished old and 



young Babylonians of quality ; — so I burst out a laughing. 
It was really odd ; Lady + * divorced — Lady * * and 
her daughter. Lady * *, both divorceable — Mrs. * *, f in 
the next, the like, and still nearer * + + ***! "VVTiat 
an assemblage to me, who know all their histories. It 
was as if the house had been divided between your pub- 
lic and your understood courtesans ; but the Intriguantes 
much outnumbered the regular mercenaries. On the 
other side were only Pauline and her mother, and, next 
box to her, three of inferior note. Now, where lay the 
difference between her and mamma, and Lady * * and 
daughter ? except that the two last may enter Carleton 
and any other hovjse, and the two first are limited to the 

opera and b house. How I do delight in observing 

hfe as it really is ! and myself, after all, the worst of any. 
But, no matter, I must avoid egotism, which, just now, 
would be no vanity. 

"I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished 
rhapsody, called ' The Devil's Drive,| the notion of which 
I took from Person's ' Devil's Walk.' 

"Redde some Italian, and wrote two Sonnets on 
* * *§. I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that 
was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise — 
and I will never write another. They are the most 
puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions. I de- 
test the Petrarch so much, that I would not be the man 
even to have obtained his Laura, which the metaphysical, 
whining dotard never could 

******* 

"Jan. 16,1814. 

♦ + * * + * 

" To-morrow I leave town for a few days. I saw 
Lewis to-day, who has just returned from Oatlands, where 
he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stael about him- 
self, Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, and me. My homage- 
has never been paid in that quarter, or we would have 
agreed still worse. I do n't talk — I can't flatter, and 
won't listen, except to a pretty or a foolish woman. She 
bored Lewis with praises of himself till he sickened — 
found out that Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh 
the first man in England. There I agree, at least, 07ie of 
the first — but Lewis did not. As to Clarissa, I leave to 
those who can read it to judge and dispute. I could not 
do the one, and am, consequently, not qualified for the 
other. She told Lewis wisely, he being my friend, that I 
was affected, in the first place, and that, in the next place, 
I committed the heinous oflience of sitting at dinner with 
my eyes shut, or half shut. * * * I wonder if I 
really have this trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. 
One insensibly acquires awkward habits, whicii should be 
broken in time. If this is one, I wish I had been told of 
it before. It would not so much signify if one was always 
to be checkmated by a plain woman, but one may as well 
see some of one's neighbours, as well as the plate upon 
the table. 

" I should like, of all things, to have heard the Amabiran 
eclogue between her and Lewis, — both obstinate, clever, 
odd, garrulous, and shrill. In fact, one could have hoard 
nothing else. But they fell out, alas ! — and now they 
will never quarrel again. Could not one reconcile them 
for the ' nonce ?' Poor Corinne, — she will find that some 
of htT fine sayings won't suit our fine ladies aiul gentle- 
men. 

" I am getting rather into admiration of * *, tlie young- 
est sister of ♦ ♦. A wife would bo my salvation. I am 
sure the wives of my acquaintances have hilliorto done 
me little good. * * is beautiful, but very young, and, I 
think, a (<x)I. But I have not scon enough to judgo ; bo- 
siilos, I linto an esprit in petticoats. That slu> woji't love 
me Mi very prohabh^, nor shall 1 love hor. But, on my 



The** uame* uro kII led blank in tli« oriflnnlc 
S»e Pnrin*, p. iT9. 
Spc Pi)rin«, II. liiS. 



240 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814, 



system, and the modern system in general, that do n't 
signify. The business (if it came to business) would 
probably be arranged between papa and me. She would 
have her own way ; I am good-humoured to women, and 
docile ; and, if I did not fall in love with her, which I 
should try to prevent, we should be a very comfortable 
couple. As to conduct, that she must look to. ***** 
But if I love, I shall be jealous ; — and for that reason I 
will not be in love. Though, after all, I doubt my temper, 
and fear I should not be so patient as becomes the 
bienseance of a married man in my station. ***** 
Divorce ruins the poor femme, and damages are a paltry 
compensation. I do fear my temper would lead me into 
some of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, at any rate, 
into a summary appeal to the court of twelve paces. So 
* I '11 none on 't,' but e'en remain single and solitary ; — 
though I should lilce to have somebody now and then, to 
yawn with one. 

"AVard, and, after him, * *, has stolen one of m 
buffooneries about Mde. de Stael's Metaphysics and th 
Fog, and passed it, by speech and letter, as their own 
As Gibbet says, ' they are the most of a gentleman of 
any on the road.' W. is in sad enmity with the Whigs 
about this review of Fox, (if he did revnew him ;) — all 
the epigrammatists and essayists are at him. I hate 
odds, and wish he may beat them. As for me, by the 
blessing of indifference, I have simplified my politics into 
an utter detestation of all existing governments ; and, as it 
is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling 
imaginable, the first moment of a universal republic would 
convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted 
despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty 
is slavery, all over the earth, and one sort of establishment 
is no better, nor worse, for a. people than another. I shall 
adhere to my party, because it would not be honourable 
to act otherwise ; but, as to opiniwis, I do n't think poli- 
tics worth an opinion. Conduct is another thing : — if you 
begin with a party, go on with them. I have no consis- 
tency, except in politics , and that probably arises from 
my indifference on the subject altogether." 

" February 18. 
" Better than a month since I last journalized : — most 
of it out of London, and at Notts., but a busy one and a 
pleasant, at least three weeks of it. On my return, I find 
all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, 
on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Prin- 
cess Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauder- 
dale in 1812. They are daily at it still; — some of the 
abuse good, all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in 
our House upon it — be it so. 

" Got up — read the Morning Post containing the batde 
of Buonaparte, the destruction of the Custom-house, and 
a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vitupera- 
tive, as usual. * * * 

"Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my best 
friend, the most lively, and a man of the most sterling 
talents extant. 

" ' The Corsair' has been conceived, written, published. 
&c. since I last took up this Journal. They tell me it 
has great success ; — it was written con amore^ and much 
from existence. Murray is satisfied with its progress ; and 
if the pubUc are equally so with the perusal, there 's an 
end of the matter. 



" Nine o'clock, 
"Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers, and 
had a note from Lady Melbourne, who says, it is said 
that I am ' much out of spirits.' I wonder if I really am 
or not? I have certainly enough of 'that perilous stuff 
which weighs upon the heart,' and it is better they should 
believe it to be the result of these attacks than of the 
real cause ; but — ay, ay, always but, to the end of the 
chapter. ♦ * * 



"Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes of 
Napoleon, all good and true. My friend H. is the most 
entertaining of companions, and a fine fellow to boot. 

"Redde a little — wrote notes and letters, and am alone, 
which, Locke says, is bad company. 'Be not solitary, b« 
not idle' — Um ! — the idleness is troublesome ; but I can't 
see so much to regret in the solitude. The more I see 
of men, tlie less 1 like them. If 1 could but say so of 
women too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am 
now six-and-twenty ; my passions have had enough to 
cool them: my affections more than enough to wither 
them, — and yet — and yet — always yet and but — ' Excel- 
lent well, you are a fishmonger — get thee to a nunnery.' 
' They fool me to the top of my bent.' 

f " Midnight. 

I " Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. Redde 
-V-but to little purpose. Did not visit Hobhouse, as 
l\ promised and ought. No matter, the loss is mine. 
Si^oked cigars. 

Napoleon I — this week will decide his fate. All seems 
st him ; but I believe and hope he will win— at 
least, beat back the invaders. What right have we to 
prescribe sovereigns to France ? Oh for a republic ! 
' Brutus, thou sleepest.' Hobhouse abounds in conti- 
nental anecdotes of this extraordinary man ; all in favour 
of his intellect and courage, but against his bonhommie. 
No wonder ; — how should he, who knows mankind well, 
do other tlian despise and abhor them. 

" The greater the equality, the more impartially evil is 
distributed, and becomes lighter by tlie division among so 
many — therefore, a republic ! 

"More notes from Mad. de Stael unanswered — and 
so they shall remain. I admire her abilities, but really 
her society is overwhelming — an avalanche that buries 
one in glittering nonsense — all snow and sophistry. 

" Shall I go to Mackintosh's on Tuesday ? um ! — I did 
not go to Marquis Lansdowne's, nor to Miss Berry's, 
though both are pleasant. So is Sir James's, — but I 
do n't know— I beheve one is not the better for parties ; 
at least, unless some regnanie is there. 

" I wonder how the deuse any body could make such a 
world ; for what purpose dandies, for instance, were or- 
dained — and kings — and fellows of colleges — and women 
of ' a certain age' — and many men of any age — and 
myself, most of all! 

' Divesne prisco el uatus ab Iiiacho, 

Nil interest, an pauper, et infimi 

De gente, sub dio moreris, 

Victima nil miserantia Orci. 

Omnes eodem cogimur.' 

"Is there any thing beyond? — who knows? He that 
can't tell. Who tells that there is? He who don't 
know. And when shall he know? perhaps, when ho 
do n't expect, and, generally, when he do n't wish it. In 
this last respect, however, all are not alike : it depends a 
good deal upon education, — something upon nerves and 
habits — but most upon digestion. 

« Saturday, Feb. 19. 

"Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By 
Jove, he is a soul ! Life — nature — truth — without ex- 
aggeration or diminution. Kemble's Hamlet is perfect ; — 
but Hamlet is not Nature. Richard is a man ; and Kean 
is Richard. Now to my own concerns, 

***** 

" Went to Waite's. Teeth all right and white ; but he 
says that I grind them in my sleep and chip the edges. 
That same sleep is no friend of mine, though I court him 
sometimes for half the 24. 



" February 20. 
" Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal — 1 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 



241 



do n't know why. Hodgson just called and gone. He 
has much bonhommie with his other good qualities, and 
more talent than he has yet had credit for beyond his 
circle. 

* An mvitation to dine at Holland-house to meet Kean. 
He is worth meeting ; and I hope, by getting into good 
society, he will be prevented from falling like Cooke. He 
is greater now on the stage, and off he should never be 
less. There ia a stupid and underrating criticism upon 
him in one of the newspapers. I thought that, last night, 
though great, he rather underacted more than the first 
time. This may be the effect of these cavils ; but I hope 
he has more sense than to mind them. He cannot expect 
to maintain his present eminence, or to advance still 
higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, and 
the nibbling of their admirers. But, if he do n't beat 
them all, why, then — merit hath no purchase in 'these 
coster-monger days.' 

" I wish that I had a talent for the drama ; 1 would 
write a tragedy now. But no, — it is gone. Hodgson 
talks of one, — he will do it well ; — and I think Moore 
should try. He has wonderful powers, and much variety ; 
besides, he has lived and felt. To write so as to bring 
home to the heart, the heart must have been tried, — but, 
perhaps, ceased to be so. ^, While you are under the influ- 
ence of passions, you only feel, but cannot describe them, 
— any more th»n, when in action, you could turn round, 
and tell the story to your next neighbour ! When all is 
over, — all, all, and irrevocable, — trust to memory — she is 
then but too faithful. 

" Went out, and answered some letters, yawned now 
and then, and redde the Robbers. Fine, — but Fiesco is 
better ; and Alfieri and Monti's Aristodemo best. They 
are more equal than the Tedeschi dramatists. 

"Answered — or, rather, acknowledged — the receipt of 
young Reynold's Poem, Safie. The lad is clever, but 
much of his thoughts are borrowed, — whence, the Review- 
ers may find out. I hate discouraging a young one; and 
I think, — though wild, and more oriental than he would 
be, had he seen the scenes where he has placed his Tale, 
— that he has much talent, and certainly, fire enough, 

" Received a very singular epistle ; and the mode of its 
conveyance, though Lord H.'s hands, as curious as the 
letter itself. But it was gratifying and pretty. 

"Sunday, Feb. 27. 

" Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, 
where I was asked, — but not inclined to go any where. 
Hobhouso says I am growing a loup garou, — a solitary 
hobgoblin. True ; — ' I am myself alone.' The last week 
has been passed in reading — seeing plays — now and then, 
visiters — sometimes yawning and sometimes sighing, but 
no writing — save of letters. If I could always read, I 
should never feel the want of society. Do I regret it ? — 
um I — *Man delights not me,' and only one woman — at a 
time. 

" There is something to me very softening in the pre- 
sence of a woman, — some strange influence, even if one 
is not in love with them, — which I cannot at all account 
for, having no very high opinion of the sex. But yet, — I 
always feel in better humour with myself and every thing 
else, if there is a woman within ken. Even Mrs. Mule, 
my fire-lighter, — the most ancient and withered of her 
kind, — and (except to myself ) not the best tempered — 
always makes me laugh, — no difficult task when I am 
• i' the vein.' 

" Heigho ! I would I were in mine island ! — I am not 
well; and yet I look in good health. At times, I fear, 
*I am not in my perfect mind ;' — and yet my heart and 
head have stood many a crash, and what should ail tliem 
now ? They proy upon themselves, and I am sick — sick 

—■'Prithee, undo this button; why should a cat, a rat, a „ ... 

dog, have life, and thou no life at all?' Six-aiid-lwonty (the exhortation,) which mode mo turn away, not to laugh 
years, as they call them :-— why, I might and should have | in the face of tJie surplicoman. Made one blunder, wh«l 

31 



been a Pasha by this time. ' I 'gin to be a weary of th« 
sun.' 

"Buonaparte is not yet beaten; but has rebutted 
Blucher, and repiqued Swartzenburg. This it is to hav© 
a head. If he again wins, ' Vae victis '.' 

"Sunday, March 6. 
"On Tuesday last dined with Rogers,— Mad«. da 
Stael, Mackintosh, Sheridan, Erskine, and Payne Knight, 
Lady Donegall and Miss R. there. Sheridan told a 
very good story of himself and Me. de Recamier's hand- 
kerchief; Erskine a few stories of himself only. She is 
going to write a big book about England, she says ; — I 
believe her. Asked by her how I liked Miss * * 's thing, 
called * *, and answered (very sincerely) that I thought 
it very bad for Aer, and worse than any of the others. 
Afterward thought it possible Lady Donegall, being Irish, 
might he a Patroness of * *, and was rather sorry for 
my opinion, as I hate putting people into fusses, either 
with themselves, or their favourites; it looks as if one did 
it on purpose. The party went off very well, and the 
fish was very much to my gusto. But we got up too 
soon after the women ; and Mrs. Corinne always lingers 
so long after dinner, that we wish her in — the drawing- 
room. 

" To-day C. called, and, while sitting here, in came 
Merivale. During our colloquy, C. (ignorant that M. 
was the writer) abused the * mawkishness of the Quar- 
terly Review of Grimm's Correspondence.' I (knowing 
the secret) changed the conversation as socm as I could; 
and C. went away, quite convinced of having made the 
most favourable impression on his new acquaintance. 
Merivale is luckily a very good-natured fellow, or God 
he knows what might have been engendered from such a 
malaprop. I did not look at him while this was going on, 
but I felt like a coal, — for I like Merivale, as well as the 
article in question. * + * * * * ^c 

" Asked to Lady Keith's to-morrow evening — I think I 
will go ; but it is the first party invitation I have accepted 
this ' season,' as the learned Fletcher called it, when that 
youngest brat of Lady ♦ * 's cut my eye and cheek open 
with a misdirected pebble — ' Never mind, my lord, the 
scar will be gone before the seeison ;' as if one's eye was 
of no importance in the mean time. 

" Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famous pamph- 
let, with a marginal note and corrections in his handwri- 
ting. Sent it to be bound superbly, and shall treasure it. 

" Sent my fine print of Napoleon to be framed. It is 
framed ; and the emperor becomes his robes as if he had 
been hatched in them. 

« March 7. 

" Rose at seven — ready by half past eight — went to 
Mr. Hanson's, Berkeley-square — went to church with 
his eldest daughter, Mary Anne, (a good girl,) and gave 
her away to the Earl of Portsmouth. Saw her fairly a 
countess — congratulated the family and groom (bride) — 
drank a bumper of wine (wholesome sherris) to thoir 
felicity, and all that, — and came home. Asked to stay 
to dinner, but could not. At three sat to Philli|)s for 
faces. Called on Lady M. — I like her so well, that I 
always stay too long, (Mem. — to mend of that.) 

• Passed the evening with Hobhouse, who has begun a 
Poem, which promises highly; — wish he would go on 
witJ^ it. Heard some curious extracts from a life of 
Morosini, the blundering Venetian, who blew up the 
Acropolis at Athens with a bomb, and be d— d to him ! 
Waxed sleepy, — just come home, — must go to bod, and 
am engaged to moot Sheridan to-morrow at Rogers's. 

" Queer ceremony that same of marriage — saw many 
abroad, Greek and Catholic— one, ot home^ many years 
ago. There be some strango phmses in tho prologue, 



) 



i4f 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 



1814. 



'^H 



I joined the hands of the happy — rammed their left 
hands, by mistake, into one another. Corrected it — 
bustled back to the altar-rail, and said ' Amen.' Ports- 

1 mouth responded as if he had got the whole by heart ; 

* and, if any thing, was rather before the priest. It is now 

midnight, and * * * * 

« March 10, Thor's Day. 

«0n Tuesday dined with Rogers — Mackintosh, Sherl 
dan, Sharpe — much talk, and good — all, except my own 
little prattiement. Much of old times— Home Tooke,— 
the Trials, — evidence of Sheridan, — and anecdotes of 
those times, when /, alas ! was an infant. If I had been 
a man, I would have made an English Lord Edward 
Fitzgerald. 

" Set down Sheridan at Brookes's — where, by-the-by, 
he could not have well set down himself, as he and I were 
the only drinkers. Sherry means to stand for Westmin- 
ster, as Cochrane (the stock-jobbing hoaxer) must vacate. 
Brougham is a candidate. I fear for poor dear Sherry. 
Both have talents of the highest order, but the youngster 
has yet a character. We shall see, if he lives to Sherry's 
age, how he will pass over the red-hot ploughshares of 
public Ufe. I do n't know why, but I hate to see the old 
ones lose ; particularly Sheridan, notwithstanding all his 
meckancete. 

" Received many, and the kindest, thanks from Lady 
Portsmouth, pire and m^re, for my match-making. I do n't 
regret it, as she looks the countess well, and is a very good 
girl. It is odd how well she carries her new honours. 
She looks a different woman, and high-bred, too. I had 
no idea that I could make so good a peeress. 

"Went to the play with Hobhouse. Mrs. Jordan 
superlative in Hoyden, and Jones well enough in Fop- 
pington. What plays! what wit! — helas! Congreve 
and Vanbrugh are your only comedy. Our society is too 
insipid now for the like copy. Would not go to Lady 
Keith's. Hobhouse thought it odd. I wonder he should 
like parties. If one is in love, and wants to break a com- 
mjmdment and covet any thing that is there, they do very 
well. But to go out among the mere herd, \vithout a 
motive, pleasure, or pursuit — 'sdeath ! ' I '11 none of it.' 
He told me an odd report ; that / am the actual Conrad, 
the veritable Corsair, and that part of my travels are sup- 
posed to have passed in privacy. Um ! people sometimes 
hit near the truth ; but never the whole truth. H. do n't 
know what I was about the year after he left the Levant ; 
nor does any one — nor — nor — nor — however, it is a lie ; 
but, ' I doubt the equivocation of the fiend that lies like 
truth !' 

"I shall have letters of importance to-morrow. Which, 
♦*,**, or * *? heigho! — * + is in my heart, * * in my 
head, * * in my eye, and the single one, Heaven knows 
where. All write, and will be answered. ' Since I have 
crept in favour with myself, I must maintain it ;' but / 
never 'mistook my person,' though I think others have. 

" * * called to-day in great despair about his mistress, 
who has taken a freak of * * *. He began a letter to 
her, but was obliged to stop short — I finished it for him, 
and he copied and sent it. If he holds out and keeps to 
my instructions of affected indifference, she will lower her 
colours. If she do n't, he will, at least, get rid of her, 
and she do n't seem much worth keeping. But the poor 
lad is in love— if that is the case, she will wan. When 
they once discover their power, Jinita h la musica. 

" Sleepy, and must go to bed. 

"Tuesday, March 15. 
"Dined yesterday with R., Mackintosh, and Sharpe. 
Sheridan could not come. Sharpe told several very 
amusing anecdotes of Henderson, the actor. Stayed till 
late, and came home, — ^having drank so much tea, that I 
did not get to sleep till six this morning. R. says I am 
to be in this (Quarterly — cut up, I presume, as they *hate 



us youth.' N''importe. As Sharpe was passing by the 
doors of some Debating Society (the Westminster Fo- 
rum) in his way to dinner, he saw rubricked on the walls, 
Scotts name and mine — 'Which the best poet?' being 
the question of the evening ; and I suppose all the Tem- 
plars and wotddrbes took our rhymes in vain, in the course 
of the controversy. Which had the greater show of 
hands, I neither know nor care ; but I feel the coupling of 
the names as a compliment, — though I think Scott de- 
serves better company. 

+ + * * ♦ 

« W. W. caUed— Lord Erskine, Lord HoUand, &c. &c. 
Wrote to * * the Corsair report. She says she do n't 
wonder, since ' Conrad is so like.^ It is odd that one, who 
knows me so thoroughly, should tell me this to my face. 
However, if she do n't know, nobody can. 

"Mackintosh is, it seems, the writer of the defensive 
letter in the Morning Chronicle. If so, it is very kind, 
and more than I did for myself. 

***** 

"Told Murray to secure for me Bandello's Italian 
Novels at the sale to-morrow. To me they will be nuts. 
Redde a satire on myself, called ' Anti- Byron,' and told 
Murray to publish it if he liked. The object of the 
author is to prove me an Atheist and a systematic con- 
spirator against law and government. Some of the verse 
is good ; the prose I do n't quite understand . He asserts 
that my ' deleterious works' have had an ' effect upon civil 
society, which requires, &c. &c. &c.' and his own poetry. 
It is a lengthy poem, and a long preface, with an harmo- 
nious titlepage. Like the fly in the fable, I seem to have 
got upon a wheel which makes much dust ; but, unlike 
the said fly, I do not take it all for my own reusing. 

"A letter from Bella, which I answered. I shall be in 
love with her again, if I do n't take care. 

***** 

I shall begin a more regular system of readmg soon, 

« Thursday, March 17. 
I have been sparring with Jackson for exercise this 
morning ; and mean to continue and renew my acquaint- 
ance with the muffles. My chest, and arms, and wind 
are in very good plight, and I am not in flesh. I used to 
be a hard hitter, and my arms are very long for my height 
(5 feet 8i inches.) At any rate, exercise is good, and 
this the severest of all ; fencing and the broadsword never 
fatigued me half so much. 

"Redde the 'Ctuarrels of Authors' (another sort of 
sparring) — a new work, by that most entertaining and 
researching writer, Israeli. They seem to be an irritable 
set, and I wish myself well out of it. ' I 'II not march 
through Coventry with them, that 's flat.' What the 
devil had I to do with scribbling ? It is too late to inquire, 
and all regret is useless. But, an' it were to do again,— 
I should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, 
at least my share of it ; — though I shall think better of 
myself, if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, 
and that wife has a son — by any body — I will bring up 
mine heir in the most anti-poetical way — make him a 
lawyer, or a pirate, or — any thing. But if he writes too, 
I shall be sure he is none of mine, and cut him off with a 
bank token. Must write a letter — three o'clock. 

"Sunday, March 20. 
" I intended to go to Lady Hardwicke's, but won't. I 
always begin the day with a bias towards going to parties ; 
but, as the evening advances my stimulus fails, and I 
hardly ever go out — aind, when I do, always regret it. 
This might have been a pleasant one ; — at least the 
hostess is a very superior woman. Lady Lansdowne's to- 
morrow — ^Lady Heathcote's Wednesday. Um ! — I must 
spur myself into going to some of them, or it will look like 
rudeness, and it is better to do as other people do— con- 
found them ' 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 



243 



"Redde Machiavel, parts of Chardin, and Sismondi, 
and Bandello, — by starts. Redde the Edinburgh, 44, 
just come out. In the beginning of the article on 'Edge- 
v/orth's Patronage,' I have gotten a high compliment, I 
perceive. Whether this is creditable to me, I know not ; 
but it does honour to the editor, because he once abused 
me. Many a man will retract praise ; none but a high- 
spirited mind will revoke its censure, or can praise the 
man it has once attacked. I have often, since my return 
to England, heard Jeffrey most highly commended by 
those who know him for things independent of his talents. 
I admire him for this — not because he has praised me {\ 
have been so praised elsewhere and abused, alternately, 
that mere habit has rendered me as indifferent to both as 
a man at twenty-six can be to any thing,) but because he 
is, perhaps, the only man who, under the relations in which 
he and I stand, or stood, with regard to each other, would 
have had the liberality to act thus ; none but a great soul 
dared hazard it. The height on which he stands has not 
made him giddy ; — a little scribbler would have gone on 
cavilling to the end of the chapter. As to the justice of 
his panegyric, that is matter of taste. There are plenty 
to question it, and glad, too, of the opportunity. 

"Lord Erskine called to-day. He means to carry 
down his reflections on the war — or rather wars — to the 
present day. I trust that he will. Must send to Mr. 
Murray to get the binding of my copy of his pamphlet 
finished, as Lord E. has promised me to correct it, and 
add some marginal notes to it. Any thing in his hand- 
writing will be a treasure, which will gather compound 
interest from years. Erskine has high expectations of 
Mackintosh's promised History. Undoubtedly it must be 
a classic, when finished. 

" Sparred with Jackson again yesterday morning, and 
shall to-morrow. I feel all the better for it, in spirits, 
though my arms and shoulders are very stiff from it. 
Mem . — to attend the pugilistic dinner . Marquis Huntley 
is in the chair. 

****** 

« Lord Erskine thmks that ministers must be in peril of 
going out. So much the better for him. To me it is the 
same who are in or out ; — we want something more than 
a change of ministers, and some day we will have it. 

" I remember, in riding from Chrisso to Castri (Dcl- 
phos) along the sides of Parnassus, I saw six eagles in 
the air. It is uncommon to see so many together ; and 
it was the number — not the species, which is common 
enough — that excited my attention. 

" I'he last bird I ever fired at was an eaglet^ on the 
shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vostitza. It was 
only wounded, and I tried to save it, the eye was so 
bright ; but it pined, and died in a few days ; and I never 
did since, and never will, attempt the death of another 
bird. I wonder what put these two things into my head 
just now ? I have been reading Sismondi, and there is 
nothing there that could induce the recollection. 

" I am mightily taken with Braccio di Montone, G io- 
vanni Galeazzo, and Eccellino. But the last is not 
Bracciaferro, (of the same name,) Count of Ravenna, 
whose history I want to trace. There is a fine engraving 
in Lavater, from a picture by Fuseli, of that Ezzcliu, 
over the body of Meduna, punished by him for a hitch in 
her constancy during his absence in the Crusades. He 
was right — but I want to know the story. 

♦ ♦♦*♦♦ 

"Tuesday, March 22. 
" Last night, party at Lansdowne-housc, To-night, 
party at Lady Charlotte Grevillc's — deplorable waste of 
time, and something of temper. Nothing imparled — 
nothing acquired — talking without ideas — if any thing 
like thought in my mind, it was not on the subjects on 
which we were gabbling. Heigho! — and in this way 
half London pass what is called life. To-morrow there 



is Lady Heathcote's — shall I go ? yes— to punish myself 
for not having a pursuit. 

" Let me see — what did I see ? The only person who 
much struck me was Lady S * + d's eldest daughter, 
Lady C. L. They say she is not pretty. I do n't loiow 
— every thing is pretty that pleases ; but there is an air 
of soul about her — and her colour changes — and there is 
that shyness of the antelope (which 1 delight in) in her 
manner so much, that I observed her more than I did any 
other woman in the rooms, and only looked at any thing 
else when I thought she might perceive and feel embar- 
rassed by my scrutiny. After all, there may be some- 
thing of association in this. She is a friend of Augus- 
ta's, and whatever she loves, I can't help liking. 

" Her mother, the marchioness, talked to me a little ; 
and I was twenty times on the point of asking her to 
introduce me to saJUle, but I stopped short. This comes 
of that affray with the Carlisles. 

" Earl Grey told me, laughingly, of a paragraph in the 
last Momteur, which has stated, among other symptoms 
of rebellion, some particulars of the sensation occasioned 
in all our government gazettes by the ' tear' lines, — ordy 
amplifying, in its restatement, an epigram (by-the-by, no 
epigram except in the Greek acceptation of the word) 
into a roman. I wonder the Couriers, &c. &c. have not 
translated that part of the Moniteur, with additional 
comments. 

" The Princess of Wales has requested Fuseli to 
paint from ' the Corsair ;' leaving to him the choice of any 
passage for the subject : so Mr. Locke tolls me. Tired, 
jaded, selfish, and supine — must go to bed. 

" Roman, at least Romance, means a song sometimes, 
as in the Spanish. I suppose this is the Moniteur's 
meaning, unless he has confused it with ' the Corsair.' 

"Albany, March 28. 

"This night got into my new apartments, rented of 
Lord Althorpe, on a lease of seven years. Spacious, and 
room for my books and sabres. In the house, too, another 
advantage. The last few days, or whole week, have 
been very abstemious, regular in exercise, and yet very 
wnwell. 

"Yesterday, dined tHe-h-tcte at the Cocoa with Scrope 
Davies — sate from six till midnight — drank between us 
one bottle of champaign and six of cluret, neither of 
which wines ever alfect me. Offered to take Scrope 
home in my carriage ; but he was tipsy and pious, and I 
was obliged to leave him on his knees, praying to I know 
not what purpose or pagod. No headache, nor sickness 
that night nor to-d.iy. Got up, if any thing, earlier than 
usual — sparred with Jacltson ad siidorcm, and have been 
much better in hop.lth than for many days. I have heard 
nothing more from Scrope. Yesterday paid him four 
thousand eight hundred pounds — a d<'bt of some stand- 
ing, and which I wished to have paid before. My mind 
is much relieved by the nemoval of that dMt. 

"Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. I 
have refused every botly else, but I can't d<Miy Iut any 
thing ; so I must e'en do it, thougii I had as lief 'drink up 
Kiscl — eat a crocodile.' Let me see — Ward, the Hol- 
lands, the Lambs, Rogers, &c. &c. — every body more or 
less, have been trying for the last two years to accommo- 
date this couplet (juarrcl to no purpose. I shall lau^h if 
Augusta succeeds. 

"Redde a little of many things — shall gel in all my 
books to-morrow. Luckily, this n>om will holil them — 
with 'ample room and verge, &.c. the eliaructers of hell to 
trace,' I must set about some employment soon ; my 
ht^art begins to cat itself again. 

" April 8. 

"Out of town six days. On my rrliirn, fin«l my poor 

littlo pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedosttil; the 

thieves are in Paris. It is his own fault. Like Mila h« 

would rend the oak ; but it cloicd a^'ain, wedgod bii 



#* 



344 



EXTRACTS PROM A JOURNAL, 1816. 



hands, and now the beasts — lion, bear, down to the dirti- 
est jackall — may all tear him. That Muscovite winter 
wedged his arms ; ever since, he has fought vnth his feet 
and teeth. The last may still leave their marks ; and ' I 
guess now' (as the Yanldes say) that he will yet play 
them a pass. He is in their rear — between them and 
their homes. Q,uery — will they ever reach them ? 

« Saturday, April 9, 1814. 
* I mark this day ! 

"Napoleon Buonaparte has abdicated the throne of the 
world. 'Excellent well.' Methinks Sylla did better; 
for he revenged, and resigned in the height of his sway, 
red with the slaughter of his foes — the finest instance of 
glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Diocletian 
did well too — Amurath not amiss, had he become aught 
except a dervise — Charles the Fifth but so, so — ^but Na- 
poleon, worst of all. What ! wait till they were in his 
capital, and then talk of his readiness to give up what is 
already gone I ! * What whining monk art thou — what 
holy cheat?' 'Sdeath! Dionysius at Corinth was yet a 
king to this. The ' Isle of Elba' to retire to ! Well— if 
it had been Caprea, I should have marvelled less, ' I see 
men's minds are but a parcel of their fortunes.' I am 
utterly bewildered and confounded. 

" I do n't know — but I think /, even /, (an insect com- 
pared with this creature,) have set my Ufe on casts not a 
milhonth part of this man's. But, after all, a crown may 
be not worth dyhig for. Yet, to outUve Lodi for this ! ! ! 
Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead ! 
•Expende — quot libras in duce summo invenies?' I 
knew they were light in the balance of mortality ; but I 
thought their living dust weighed more carats, Alas ! this 
imperial diampjid hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly fit to 
stick in a glazier's pencil ; the pen of the historian won't 
rate it worth a ducat. 

**Psha'. 'something too much of this.' But I won't give 
him up even now ; though all his admirers have, ' Uke the 
Thanes, fall'n from him.' 



«AprU 10. 
"I do not know that I am happiest when alone ; but 
this I am sure of, that I never am long in the society even 
of ^ I love, (God knows too well, and the Devil probably 
too,) without a yearning for the company of my lamp 
and my utterly confused and tumbled-over library. Even 
in the day, I send away my carriage oftener than I use or 
abuse it. Per esetnpio^ — I have not stirred out of these 
rooms for these four days past: but I have sparred for 
exercise (windows open) with Jackson an hour daily, to 
attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me. The 
more violent the fatigue, the better my spirits for the rest 
of the day ; and then, my evenings have that calm nothing- 
ness of languor, which I most delight in. To-day I have 
boxed one hour — ^written an ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
—copied it — eaten six biscuits — drunk four bottles of 
soda-water — redde away the rest of my time — besides 
giving poor * * a world of advice about this mistress of 
his, who is plaguing him into a phthisic and intolerable 
tediousness. I am a pretty fellow truly to lecture about 
' the sect.' No matter, my counsels are all thrown away. 

« April 19, 1814. 
"There is ice at both poles, north and south — all 
extremes are the same — misery belongs to the highest 
and the lowest only, — to the emperor and the beggar, 
when tmsixpenced and unthroned. There is, to be sure, 
a damned insipid medium — an equinoctial line — no one 
knows where, except upon maps and measurement. 

' And all our yesterdays have lighted fool» 
The way to dusty death.' 

I vrill keep no further journal of that same hesternal 
torchlight ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a 
dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining 
leaves of this volume, and write, in ipecacuanha^ — ' that 
the Bourbons are restored!!!' 'Hang up philosophy.' 
To be sure, I have long despised myself and man, but I 
never spat in the face of my species before — ^ O fool ! I 
shall go mad,' " .^ 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



IN SWITZERLAND. 



" September 18, 1816. 
" Yesterday, September 17th, I set out with Mr. Hob- 
house on an excursion of some days to the mountains. 

"September 17. 
"Rose at five ; left Diodati about seven, in one of the 
country carriages, (achar-k-banc,) our servants on horse- 
back. Weather very fine ; the lake calm and clear ; 
Mont Blanc and the Aiguille of Argentiferes both very 
distinct; the borders of the lake beautiful. Reached 
Lausanne before sunset ; stopped and slept at . 

Went to bed at nine ; slept till five o'clock. 

« September 18. 
« Called by my courier ; got up. Hobhouse walked on 
before. A mile from Lausanne, the road overflowed by 



the lake ; got on horseback, and rode till within a mile of 
Vevay. The colt young, but went very well. Overtook 
Hobhouse, and resumed the carriage, which is an open 
one. Stopped at "Vevay two hours, (the second time I 
had visited it ;) walked to the church ; view from the 
churchyard superb : within it General Ludlow (the regi- 
cide's) monument — ^black marble — long inscription — 
Latin, but simple ; he was an exile two-and-thirty years 
—one of king Charles's judges. Near him Broughton 
(who read Kmg Charles's sentence to Charles Stuart) is 
buried, with a queer and rather canting, but still a republi- 
can inscription. Ludlow's house shown ; it retains still 
its inscription — ^'Omne solum forti patria.' Walked 
down to the lake side ; servants, carriage, saddle-horses 
— all set off and left nspUmtis Uty by some mistake, and 
we walked on after them towards Clarens : Hobhouse 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1816. 



245 



ran on before, and overtook them at last. Arrived the 
second time (first time was by water) at Clarens. Went 
to Chillon through scenery worthy of I know not whom ; 
went over the Castle of Chillon again. On our return 
met an English party in a carriage ; a lady in it fast 
asleep — fast asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot in the 
world — excellent ! I remember at Chamouni, in the very 
eyes of JMont Blanc, hearing another woman, English 
also, exclaim to her party, ' Did you ever see any thing 
more rural ?'' — as if it was Highgate, or Hampstead, or 
Brompton, or Hayes — 'Rural!' quotha? — Rocks, pines, 
torrents, glaciers, clouds, and summits of eternal snow far 
above them — and ' rural !' 

" Afcer a sUghl and short dinner we visited the Chateau 
de Clarens ;* an English woman has rented it recently 
(it was not let when I saw it first ;) the roses are gone 
with their summer; the family out, but the servants de- 
sired us to walk over the interior of the mansion. Saw 
on the table of the saloon Blair's Sermons, and somebody 
else (I forget who's) sermons, and a set of noisy children. 
Saw all worth seeing, and then descended to the ' Bosquet 
de Julie,' &c. &c. ; our guide full of Rousseau, whom he 
is eternally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing the 
man and the book. Went again as far as Chillon to 
revisit the little torrent from the hill behind it. Sunset 
reflected in the lake. Have to get up at five to-morrow 
to cross the mountains on horseback ; carriage to be sent 
round ; lodged at my old cottage — hospitable and com- 
fortable ; tired with a longish ride on the colt, and the 
subsequent jolting of the char-k-banc, and my scramble 
in the hot sun. 

"Mem. The corporal who showed the wonders of 
Chillon was as drunk as Bliccher ; he was deaf also, and 
thinking every one else so, roared out the legends of the 
casde so fearfully. — However, we saw things from the 
gallows to the dungeons,! (the potence and the cachols,) and 
returned to Clarens with more freedom than belonged to 
the fifteenth century. 

"September 19. 
"Rose at five. Crossed the mountains to Montbovon 
on horseback, and on mules, and, by dint of scrambling, on 
foot also ; the whole route beautiful as a dream, and now 
to me almost as indistinct. I am so tired ; — for though 
healthy, I have not the strength I possessed but a few 
years ago. At Montbovon we breakfasted ; afterward, 
on a steep ascent, dismounted ; tumbled down ; cut a 
finger open ; the baggage also got loose and fell down a 
ravine, till stopped by a large tree ; recovered baggage ; 
horse tired and drooping; mounted mule. At the ap- 
proach of the summit of Dent JumentJ dismounted again 
with Hobhouse and all the party. Arrived at a lake in 
the very bosom of the mountains ; left our quadrupeds 
with a shepherd, and ascended farther ; came to some 
snow in patches, upon which my forehead's perspiration 
fell like rain, making the same dints as in a sieve ; the chill 
of the wind and the snow turned me giddy, but I scram- 
bled on and upwards, Hobhouse went to the highest 
pinnacle ; I did not, but paused within a few yards (at an 
opening of the clifl") In coming down, the guide tumbled 
three times; I fell a laughing, and tumbled too— the 
descent luckily sofi, though steep and slippery : Hobhouse 
also fell, but nobody hurt. The whole of the mountains 
superb. A shepherd on a very steep and high cliff' play- 
ing upon his pipe ;§ very different from Arcadia^ where I 
saw the pastors with a long musket instead of a crook, 
and pistols in their girdles. Our Swiss siiephcnl's pipe 
was sweet, and his tunc agreeable. I saw a cow strayed ; 
am told that tliey often break their necks on ami over the 
crags. Descended to Montbovon ; j)retty scraggy village, 
with a wild river and a wooden bridge. Hobhouse went 



• See Childe Harold, Cnmo III. Slaiir.a 99, Ac. 22(1 Nolo to Chllde 
Harold, Canto III. t Prlioner of Chillon, NoIl- 3J, 4c. 

I DmiI de Jaman. § Manfred, Act I. Scene 'M. 



to fish — caught one. Our carriage not come ; our horses, 
mules, &c. knocked up ; ourselves fatigued. 

" The view from the highest points of to-day's journey 
comprised on one side the greatest part of Lalte Leman ; 
on the other, the valleys and mountain of the canton of 
Fribourg, antl an immense plain, with the lakes of Neuf- 
chatel and Morat, and all which the borders of the Lake 
of Geneva inherit; we had both sides of the Jura before 
us in one point of view, with Alps in plenty. Li passing a 
ravine, the guide recommended strenuously a quickening 
of pace, as the stones fall with great rapidity and occa- 
sional damage ; the advice is excellent, but, like most good 
advice, impracticable, the road being so rough that neither 
mules, nor mankind, nor horses, can make any violent 
progress. Passed without fractures or menace thereof. 

" The music of the cow's bells* (for their wealth, like the 
patriarch's, is cattle) in the pastures, which reach to a 
height far above any mountains in Britain, and the shep- 
herds shouting to us from crag to crag, and playing on 
their reeds where the steeps appeared almost inaccessible, 
with the surrounding scenery, realized all that I have ever 
heard or imagined of a pastoral existence : — much more so 
than Greece or Asia Minor ; for there we are a little too 
much of the sabre and musket order, and if there is a crook 
in one hand, you are sure to see a gun in the other: — but 
this was pure and unmixed — soUtary, savage, and patri- 
archal. As we went, they played the 'Rans des Vaches' 
and other airs, by way of farewell. I have lately repeopled 
my mind with nature. 

"September 20. 

" Up at six ; off" at eight. The whole of this day's 
journey at an average of between from 2700 to 3000 feet 
above the level of the sea. This valley, the longest, nar- 
rowest, and considered die finest of the Alps,Uttle traversed 
by travellers. Saw the bridge of La Roche. The bed of 
the river very low and deep, between immense rocks, and 
rapid as anger ; — a man and mule said to have tumbled 
over without damage. The people looked free, and happy, 
and rich (which last implies neither of the former;) the 
cows superb ; a bull nearly leaped into the char-Ji-banc — 
'agreeable companion in a postchaise;' goats and sheep 
very thriving. A mountain with enormous glaciers to the 
right — the Klitzgerberg ; farther on, the Hockthorn — nice 
names — so soft! — Stockliom^ I believe, very lofty and 
scraggy, patched with snow only; no glaciers on it, but 
some good epaulettes of clouds. 

" Passed tlie boundaries, out of Vaud and into Berne 
canton ; French exchanged for bad German ; the district 
famous for cheese, liberty, property, and no taxes. Hob- 
house went to fish — caught none. Strolled to llie river ; 
saw boy and kid; kid followed him like a dog ; kid could 
not get over a fence, and bleated piteously ; tried myself, 
to help kid, but nearly overset both self and kid into the 
river. Arrived here about six in the evening. Nine 
o'clock — going to bed ; not tired to-day, but hope to sleep, 
nevertheless. 

"September 21. 
"Off* early. The valley of Simnienthal as before. En- 
trance to the plain of Thoun very narrow; high rocks, 
wooded to the top ; river ; new mountains, with fine glaciers. 
Lake of Thoun; extensive plain with a girdle of AlpS. 
Walked down to the Chateau do Schadaii; vit>w along 
the lake ; crossed the river in a boat rowed by women. 
Thoun a very pretty town. The wholo day's journey 
Alpine and proud. 

«Septombor2-2. 
"Left Thoun in a boat, which carried us the length of 
the lalte in three hours. The lake small; but tlio bank* 
fine. liocks down to the water's edge. Liuided at Now- 
hause; passed Inlerlnohen; n\tereii upon a rnngt' of 
scenes beyond all description, or previous conception. 



Manfred, Act I.Seenefld. 



«r* 



246 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1816. 



Passed a rock ; inscription — two brothers— one murdered 
the other; just the place for it. After a variety of windings 
came to an enormous rock. Arrived at the foot of the 
mountain, (the Jungfrau, that is, the Madden ;) glaciers ; 
torrents; one of these torrents nine hundred feet in height 
of visible descent. Lodged at the curate's. Set out to 
see the valley; heard an avalanche fall, like thunder; 
glaciers enormous ; storm came on, thunder, lightning, hail ; 
all in perfection, and beautiful. I was on horseback ; guide 
wanted to carry my cane ; I was going to give it him, 
when I recollected that it was a sword-stick, and I thought 
the lightning might be attracted towards him; kept it 
myself: a good deal incumbered with it, as it was too 
heavy for a whip, and the horse was stupid, and stood with 
every other peal. Got in, not very wet, the cloak being 
stanch. Hobhouse wet through ; Hobhouse took refuge 
in cottage ; sent man, umbrella, and cloak (from the 
curate's when I arrived) after him. Swiss curate's house 
very good indeed — much better than most EngUsh vicar- 
ages. It is immediately opposite the torrent I spoke of 
The torrent is in shape curving over the rock, lilce the tail 
of a white horse streaming in the wind, such as it might 
be conceived would be that of the 'pale horse' on which 
Death is mounted in the Apocalypse.* It is neither mist 
nor water, but a something between both ; its immense 
height (nine hundred feet) gives it a wave or curve, a 
spreading here, or condensation there, wonderful and inde- 
scribable. I think, upon the whole, that this day has been 
better than any of this present excursion. 

« September 23. 

"Before ascending the mountain, went to the torrent 
^seven in the morning) again ; the sun upon it, forming a 
rainbow] of the lower part of all colours, but principally 
purple and gold ; the bow moving as you move ; 1 never 
«aw any thing like this ; it is only in the sunshine. As- 
cended the Wengen mountain ; at noon reached a valley 
on the summit ; left the horses, took off my coat, and 
went to the summit, seven thousand feet (English feet) 
above the level of the sea, and about five thousand above 
ithe valley we left in the morning. On one side, our view 
comprised the Jungfrau, with all her glaciers ; then the 
Dent d'Argent, shining hke truth ; then the Little Giant, 
(the Kleine Eigher ;) and the Great Giant, (the Grosse 
Eigher,) and last, not least, the Wetterhorn. The height 
of the Jungfrau is 13,000 feet above the sea, 11,000 above 
the valley : she is the highest of this range. Heard the 
avalanches falling every five minutes nearly. From 
whence we stood, on the Wengen Alp,! we had all these 
in view on one side ; on the other, the clouds rose from 
the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices 
like the foam of the ocean of hell, during a spring tide — 
it was white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in 
appearance. The side we ascended was (of course) not 
of so precipitous a nature ; but on arriving at the sunjmit, 
we looked down upon the other side upon a boiling sea 
of cloud, dashing against the crags on which we stood, 
(these crags on one side quite perpendicular.) Stayed 
a quarter of an hour ; began to descend ; quite clear from 
cloud on that side of the mountain. In passing the masses 
of snow, I made a snowball and pelted Hobhouse with it. 

"Got down to our horses again; eat something; re- 
mounted : heard the avalanches still ; came to a morass ; 
Hobhouse dismounted to get over well ; I tried to pass 
my horse over ; the horse sunk up to the chin, and of 
course he and I were in the mud together ; bemired, but 
not hurt ; laughed, and rode on. Arrived at the Grindel- 
wald; dined, mounted again, and rode to the higher 
glacier— like a frozen hurricane.^ Starlight, beautiful, 
but a devil of a path ! Never mind, got safe in ; a little 
lightning, but the whole of the day as fine in point of 
weather as the day on which Paradise was made. Passed 



* Manfred Act 11. Scene S 
t Ibid, Act II. Scens 2d 



1 Manfred, Act I. Scene 2d. 
\ Ibid, Aci II. SccDS 8d. 



whole woods of withered pines, all withered;* trunks 
stripped and lifeless, branches lifeless ; done by a single 
winter. 

" September 24. 
« Set off at seven ; up at five. Passed the black 
glacier, the mountain Wetterhorn on the right ; crossed 
the Scheideck mountain ; came to the Rose glacier, said 
to be the largest and finest in Switzerland. / think the 
Bossons glacier at Chamouni as fine ; Hobhouse does not. 
Came to the Reichenbach waterfall, two hundred feet 
high ; halted to rest the horses. Arrived in the valley 
of Oberland ; rain came on ; drenched a little ; only four 
hours' rain, however, in eight days. Came to the lake 
of Brientz, then to the town of Brientz ; changed. In 
the evening, four Swiss peasant girls of Oberhash came 
and sang the airs of their country ; two of the voices 
beautiful — the tunes also ; so wild and original, and at the 
same time of great sweetness. The singing is over ; but 
below stairs I hear the notes of a fiddle, which bode no 
good to my night's rest : I shall go down and see the 
dancing. 



I 



" September 25. 

" The whole town of Brientz were apparently gathered 
together in the rooms below ; pretty music and excellent 
waltzing : none but peasants ; the dancing much better 
than in England ; the English can't waltz, never could, 
never will. One man with his pipe in his mouth, but 
danced as well as the others ; some other dances in pairs 
and in fours, and very good. I went to bed, but the 
revelry continued below late and early. Brientz but a 
village. Rose early. Embarked on the lake of Brientz; 
rowed by the women in a long boat ; presently we put to 
shore, and another woman jumped in. It seems it is the 1 
custom here for the boats to be manned by women ; four i 
or five men and three women in our bark, all the women 
took an oar, and but one man. 

" Got to Interlachen in three hours ; pretty lake ; not 
so large as that of Thoun. Dined at Interlachen. Girl 
gave me some flowersf and made me a speech in German, 
of which I know nothing; I do not know whether the 
speech was pretty, but as the woman was, 1 hope so. 
Re-embarked on the lake of Thoun ; fell asleep part of 
the way ; sent our horses round ; found people on the 
shore, blowing up a rock with gunpowder ; they blew it 
up near our boat, only telling us a minute before ; — mere 
stupidity, but they might have broken our noddles. Got 
to Thoun in the evening ; the weather has been tolerable 
the whole day. But as the wild part of our tour is 
finished, it do n't matter to us ; in all the desirable part, 
we have been most lucky in warmth and clearness of 
atmosphere. 

•= September 26. 
" Being out of the moimtains, my journal must be as 
flat as my journey. From Thoun to Berne, good road, 
hedges, villages, industry, property, and all sorts of tokens 
of insipid civilization. From Berne to Fribourg ; diffe- 
rent canton ; Catholics ; passed a field of battle ; Swiss 
beat the French in one of the late wars against the 
French republic. Bought a dog. The greater part of 
this tour has been on horseback, on foot, and on mule. 

« September 28. 
"Saw the tree planted in honour of the battle of 
Morat ; three hundred and forty years old ; a good deal 
decayed. Left Fribourg, but first saw the cathedral; 
high tower. Overtook the baggage of the nuns of La 
Trappe, who are removing to Normandy , afterward a 
coach, with a quantity of nuns in it. Proceeded along 
the banks of the lake of Neufchatel ; very pleasing and 



• Manfred, Act I. Scene 2d. 

t Childe Harold, Canto III.— Song aft*r StfozsSS. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



247 



Bofl, but not so mountainous — at least, the Jura, not ap- 
pearing so, after the Bernese Alps. Reached Yverdun 
in the dusk ; a long line of large trees on the border of 
the lake ; fine and sombre ; the Auberge nearly full — a 
German Princess and suite ; got rooms. 

" September 29. 
"Passed through a fine and flourishing country, but not 
mountsdnous. In the evening reached Aubonne, (the 



entrance and bridge something like that of Durham,) 
which commands by far the fairest view of the Lake of 
Geneva ; twilight ; the moon on the lake ; a grove on the 
height, and of very noble trees. Here Tavernier (tho 
eastern traveller) bought (or built) the chateau, because 
the site resembled and equalled that of Erivan, a frontier 
city of Persia ; here he finished his voyages, and I this 
little excursion, — for I am within a few hours of Diodati 
and have little more to see, and no more to say." 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



IN ITALY. 



"Ravenna, January 4, 1821. 

**A sudden thought strikes me.' Let me begin a 
Journal once more. The last I kept was in Switzerland, 
in record of a tour made in the Bernese Alps, which I 
made to send to my sister in 1816, and I suppose that she 
has It still, for she wrote to me that she was pleased with 
it. Another, and longer, 1 kept in 1813-1814, which I 
gave to Thomas Moore in the same year. 

« This morning 1 gat me up late, as usual — weather 
bad — bad as England — worse. The snow of last week 
melting to the sirocco of to-day, so that there were two 
d — d things at once. Could not even get to ride on 
horseback in the forest. Stayed at home all the morning 
—looked at the fire — wondered when the post would 
come. Post came at the Ave Maria, instead of half-past 
one o'clock, as it ought. Galignani's Messengers, six in 
number — a letter from Faenza, but none from England, 
Very sulky in consequence, (for there ought to have been 
letters,) and ate in consequence a copious dinner; for 
when I am vexed, it makes me swallow quicker — but 
drank very liitle. 

" I was out of spirits — read the papers — thought what 
fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that ' Mr. 
Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, 
cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy 
woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faith- 
fully) a 6oofc, the Life of Pamela, which he was tearing 
for waste paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c. 
and a leaf of Pamela ivrupped round the bacon? What 
would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living 
authors (i. e. while alive) — he who, with Aaron Hill, 
used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of 
Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature) and of 
Pope (the most beautiful of poets) — what would he have 
said could he have traced his pages from their place on 
the French prince's toilets (see Boswell's Johnson) to the 
grocer's counter and the gipsy-murdcrcss's bacon ! ! ! 

" What would he have said ? what can any bcxly say, 
save what Solomon said long before us ? Afler all, it 
is but passing from one counter to another, from the book- 
sellers to the other tradesman's — grocer or pastry-cook. 
For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks ; 
80 that 1 am apt to consider the trunk-maker as tho sex- 
ton of authorship. 



" Wrote five letters in about half an hour, short and 
savage, to all my rascally correspondents. Carriage 
came. Heard the news of three murders at Faenza and 
Forli — a carabinier, a smuggler, and an attorney — all last 
night. The first two in a quarrel, the latter by preme- 
ditation.* 

" Three weeks ago — almost a month — the 7th it was— 
I picked up the Commandant, mortally wounded, out of 
the street ; he died in my house ; assassins unknown, but 
presumed political. His brethren wrote from Rome last 
night to thank me for having assisted him in his last 
moments. Poor fellow ! it was a pity ; he was a good 
soldier, but imprudent. It was eight in the evening when 
they killed him. We heard the shot ; my servants and I 
ran out, and found him expiring, with five wounds, two 
whereof mortal — by slugs they seemed. I examined him, 
but did not go to the dissection next morning. 

" Carriage at 8 or so — went to visit La Contessa G. — 
found her playing on the piano-forte — talked till ten, when 
the Count, her father, and the no less Count, her brother, 
came in from the theatre. Play, they said, Alfieri's 
Filippo — well received. 

" Two days ago the King of Naples passed through 
Bologna on his way to congress. My servant Luigt 
brought the news. I had sent him to Bologna for a 
lamp. How will it end ? Time will show. 

" Came home at eleven, or rather before. If the road 
and weather are conformable, mean to ride to-morrow. 
High time — almost a week at this work — snow, sirocco, 
one day — frost and snow the other — sad climate for Italy. 
But the two seasons, last and present, are extraordinary. 
Read a Life of Leonardo da Vinci by Rossi — ruminated 
— wrote this much, and will go to bed. 

"January 5, 182L 
"Rose late — dull and drooping — the weather drifjping 
and dense. Snow on tho ground, and sirocco above in 
the sky, like yesterday. Roads up to the horse's belly, 
so that riding (at least for pleasure) is not very feasible. 
Added a postcript to my letter to Murray. Head the 
conclusion, for tlio fiftieth time (I Imve read all W. Scott'B 
novels at least fifty times) of the third series of ' Tales of 
my Landlord,' — grand work — Scoteh Fielding, as well M 



8m L«tUr MS, ftc. 



248 



XTRACTS PROM A JOURNAL. 



great English poet— wonderful man ! I long to get drunk 
with him. 

" Dined versus six o' the clock. Forgot that there was 
a plumpudding, (I have added, lately, eating to my 
'family of vices,') and had dined before I knew it. 
Drank half a bottle of some sorts of spirits— probably 
spirits of wine ; for, what they call brandy, rum, &c. &c. 
here is nothing but spirits of wine, coloured accordingly. 
Did not eat two apples, which were placed, by way of 
dessert. Fed the two cats, the hawk, and the tame (but 
not tamed) crow. Read Milford's History of Greece— 
Xenophon's Retreat of the Ten Thousand. Up to this 
present moment writincf, 6 minutes before 8 o' the clock 
— French hours, not ItaUan. 

" Hear the carriage — order pistols and great coat, as 
usual— necessary articles. Weather cold— carriage open, 
and inhabitants somewhat savage— rather treacherous 
and highly inflamed by politics. Fine fellows, though- 
good materials for a nation. Out of chaos God made a 
world, and out of high passions comes a people. 

"Clock strikes — going out to make love. Somewhat 
perilous, but not disagreeable. Memorandum — a new 
screen put up to-day. It is rather antique, but will do 
with a little repair. 

« Thaw continues— hopeful that riding may be practi- 
cable to-morrow. Sent the papers to AlU— grand events 
coming. 

" 11 o' the clock and nine minutes. Visited La Con- 
tessa G. Nata G. G. Found her beginning my letter of 
answer to the thanks of Alessio del Pinto of Rome for 
assisting his brother the late Commandant in his last 
moments, as I had begged her to pen my reply for the 
purer Italian, I being an ultra-montane, little skilled in 
the set phrase of Tuscany. Cut short the letter— finish 
it another day. Talked of Italy, patriotism, Alfieri, 
Madame Albany, and other branches of learning. Also 
Sallust's Conspiracy of Catiline, and the war of Jugurtha. 
At 9 came in her brother, II Conte Pietro— at 10, her 
father, Conte Ruggiero. 

" Talked of various modes of warfare — of the Hun- 
garian and Highland modes of broadsword exercise, in 
both whereof I was once a moderate ' master of fence.' 
Settled that the R. will break out on the 7th or 8th of 
March, in which appointment I should trust, had it not 
been settled that it was to have broken out in October. 
1820. But those Bolognese shirked the Romagnuoles. 

"'It is all one to Ranger.' One must not be parti- 
cular, but take rebellion when it lies in the way. Came 
home — read the ' Ten Thousand' again, and will go to 
bed. 

" Mem.— Ordered Fletcher (at four o'clock this after- 
noon) to copy out 7 or 8 apophthegms of Bacon, in which 
I have detected such blunders as a schoolboy might de- 
tect, rather than commit. Such are the sages ! What 
must they be, when such as I can stumble on their mis- 
takes or mistatements ? I will go to bed, for I find that I 
grow cynical. 

"January 6, 1821. 

" Mist — thaw — slop — rain. No stirring out on horse- 
back. Read Spence's Anecdotes. Pope a fine fellow — 
always thought him so. Corrected blunders in nine apo- 
phthegms of Bacon — all historical — and read Mitford's 
Greece. Wrote an epigram. Turned to a passage in 
Guinguene — ditto, in Lord Holland's Lope de Vega. 
Wrote a note on Don Juan.* 

" At eight went out to visit. Heard a little music — 
like music. Talked with Count Pietro G. of the Italian 
comedian Vestris, who is now at Rome — have seen him 
often act in Venice — a good actor — very. Somewhat of 
a mannerist ; but excellent in broad comedy, as well as in 
sentimental pathetic. He has made me frequently laugh 



Don Juan, note 9lh to Canto V. 



and cry, neither of which is now a very easy matter— at 
least, for a player to produce in me. 

"Thought of the state of women under the ancient 
Qreeks — convenient enough. Present state, a remnant 
of the barbarism of the chivalry and feudal ages— artifi- 
cial and unnatural. They ought to mind home— and be 
well fed and clothed— but not mixed m society. Well 
educated, too, in religion— but to read neither poetry nor 
politics— nothing but books of piety and cookery. Music 
—drawing— dancing— also a little gardening and plough- 
ing now and then. I have seen them mending the roads 
in Epirus with good success. Why not, as well as hay- 
making and milking ? , j • . 

« Came home, and read Mitford again, and played wath 
my mastiflf— gave him his supper. Made another read- 
ing to the epigram, but the turn the same. To-night at 
the theatre, there being a prince on his throne m the last 
scene of the comedy,— the audience laughed, and asked 
him for a Constitution. This shows the state of the pub- 
lic mind here, as well as the assasinations. It won't do. 
There must be a universal republic,— and there ought 

to be. • u J 

« The crow is lame of a leg— wonder how it happened 
—some fool trod upon his toe, I suppose. The falcon 
pretty brisk— the cats large and noisy— the monkeys I 
have not looked to since the cold weather, as they suffer 
by being brought up. Horses must be gay— get a ride as 
soon as weather serves. Deused muggy still— an Italian 
winter is a sad thing, but all the other seasons are charm- 
ing. 

" What is the reason that I have been, all my lifetime, 
more or less ennuye ? and that, if any thing, I am rather 
less so now than I was at twenty, as far as my recollec- 
tion serves ? I do not know how to answer this, but pre- 
sume that it is constitutional,— as well as the waking in 
low spirits, which I have invariably done for many years. 
Temperance and exercise, which I have practised at 
times, and for a long time together vigorously and vio- 
lently, made little or no difference. Violent passions did ; 
— when under their immediate influence — it is odd, but — 
I was in agitated, but not in depressed spirits. 

"A dose of salts has the effect of a temporary inebria- 
tion, like light champaign, upon me. But w'ine and spirits 
make me sullen and savage to ferocity— silent, however, 
and retiring, and not quarrelsome, if not spoken to. Swim- 
ming also raises my spirits,— but in general they are low, 
and get daily lower. That is hopeless ; for 1 do not think 
I am so much enmiyd as I was at nineteen. The proof 
is, that then I must game, or drink, or be in motion of 
some kind, or I was miserable. At present, I can mope 
in quietness ; and like being alone better than any com- 
pany—except the lady's whom I serve. But I feel a 
something, which makes me think that, if I ever reach 
near to old age, Uke Swift, 'I shall die at top' first. 
Only I do not dread idiotism or madness so much as he 
did. On the contrary, I think some quieter stages of both 
must be preferable to much of what men think the pos- 
session of their senses. 

« January 7, 1821, Sunday. 

"Still rain — mist — snow — drizzle — and all the incal- 
culable combinations of a climate, where heat and cold 
struggle for mastery. Read Spence, and turned over 
Roscoe, to find a passage I have not found. Read the 
4th vol. of W. Scott's second series of ' Tales of my 
Landlord.' Dined. Read the Lugano Gazette. Read 
—I forget what. At 8 went to conversazione. Found 
there the Countess Geltrude, BetU V. and her husband, 
and others. Pretty black-eyed woman that— orjir/ twenty- 
two— same age as Teresa, who is prettier, though. 

" The Count Pietro G. took me aside to say that the 
Patriots have had notice from ForU (twenty miles off) 
that to-night the government and its party mean to strike 
a stroke— that the Cardinal here has had orders to make 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



249 



several arrests immediately, and that, in consequence, 
the Liberals are arming, and have posted patrols in the 
streets, to sound the alarm and give notice to fight for it. 

"He asked me ' what should be done?' — I answered, 
* fight for it, rather than be tal^en in detail ;' and offered, 
if any of them are in immediate apprehension of arrest, 
to receive them in my house, ( which is defensible,) and to 
defend them, with my servants and themselves, (we have 
arms and ammunition,) as long as we can, — or to try to 
get them away under cloud of night. On going home, I 
offered him the pistols which I had about me — but he 
refused, but said he would come off to me in case of acci- 
dents. 

" It wants half an hour of midnight, and rains ; — as 
Gibbet says, 'a fine night for their enterprise — dark as 
hell, and blows like the devil.' If the row do n't happen 
now, it must soon. I thought that their system of shoot- 
ing people would soon produce a reaction — and now it 
seems coming. I will do what I can in the way of com- 
bat, though a little out of exercise. The cause is a good 
one. 

" Turned over and over half a score of books for the 
passage in question, and can't find it. Expect to hear 
the drum and the musketry momently (for they swear to 
resist, and are right) — but I hear nothing, as yet, save the 
plash of the rain and the gusts of the wbid at intervals. 
Don't like to go to bed, because I hate to be waked, and 
would rather sit up for the row, if there is to be one. 

" Mended the fire — have got the arms — and a book or 
two, which I shall turn over. I know little of their num- 
bers, but think the Carbonari strong enough to beat the 
troops, even here. With twenty men this house might 
be defended for twenty-four hours against any force to be 
brought against it, now in this place, for the same time ; 
and, in such a time, the country would have notice, and 
would rise, — if ever they loill rise, of which there is some 
doubt. In the mean time, I may as well read as do any 
thing else, being alone. 

« January 8, 1821, Monday. 

" Rose, and found Count P. G. in my apartments. Sent 
away the servant. Told me that, according to the best 
information, the Government had not issued orders for the 
arrests apprehended ; that the attack in Forli had not 
taken place (as expected) by the Sanfedisti — (he oppo- 
nents of the Carbonari or Liberals — and that, as yet, they 
are still in apprehension only. Asked me for some arms 
of a better sort, which I gave him. Settled tliat, in case 
of a row, the Liberals were to assemble here, (with me,) 
and that he had given the word to Vincenzo G. and others 
of the Chiefs for that purpose. He himself and father are 
going to the chase in the forest ; but V. G. is to come to 
me, and an express to be sent off to him, P. G. if any thing 
occurs. Concerted operations. They are to seize — but 
no matter. 

" I advised them to attack in detail, and in different 
parties, in different peaces, (though at the same time,) so 
as to divide the attention of the troops, who, though few, 
yet being disciplined, would beat any body of people (not 
trained) in a regular fight — unless dispersed in small 
parties, and distracted with different assaults. Offered to 
let them assemble here, if they choose. It is a strongish 
post — narrow street, commanded from within — and tena- 
ble walls. * ♦ * 

"Dined. Tried on a new coat. I^etter to Murray, with 
corrections of Bacon's Apophthegms and an epigram — the 
tatter vat for publication. At eight wont to Teresa, 
Countess G. * * ♦ ♦At nine and a half 
came in II Conte P. and Count P. G. Talked of a cer- 
tain proclamation lately issued. Count R.G.Iiad be"n 
with ♦ ♦ (the ♦ *,) to sound him about the iirrt^sts. He, 
♦ ♦, is a trimmer, and deals, at present, his rards with both 
hands. If he don't mind, they '11 be full. ♦ * pretends (/ 
doubt him — they don't, — wo shall see) that (hero is no 
Buch order, and seems staggered by the immense exertions I 

32 



of the Neapolitans, and the fierce spirit of the Liberals here. 
The truth is, that * * cares for httle but his place (which 
is a good one) and wishes to play pretty with both parties. 
He has changed his mind thirty times these last three 
moons, to my knowledge, for he corresponds with me. 
But he is not a bloody fellow — only an avaricious one. 

"It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia Languish 
says) there will be no elopement after all. I wish that I 
had known as much last night — or, rather, this morning — 
1 should have gone to bed two hours earlier. And yet I 
ought not to complain; for, though it is a sirocco, and 
heavy rain, I have not ycaimed for these two days. 

"Came home — read History of Greece — before dinner 
had read Walter Scott's Rob Roy. Wrote address to the 
letter in answer to Alessio del Pinto, who has thanked me 
for helping his brother (the late Commandant, murdered 
here last month) in his last moments. Have told him I 
only did a duty of humanity — as is true. The brother 
lives at Rome. 

"Mended the fire with some 'sgobole,' (a Romagnuole 
word,) and gave the falcon some water. Drank some 
Seltzer-water. Mem. — received to-day a print, or etching 
of the story of Ugolino, by an Itahan painter — different, of 
course, from Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and I think (as far as 
recollection goes) no worse, for Reynolds is not good in 
history. Tore a button in my new coat. 

" I wonder what figure these Italians will make in a 
regular row. I sometimes think that, like the Irishman's 
gun, (somebody had sold him a crooked one,) they will 
only do for ' shooting round a corner 5' at least this sort of 
shooting has been the late tenor of their exploits. And 
yet, there are materials in this people, and a noble energy, 
if well directed. But who is to direct them ? No matter. 
Out of such times heroes spring. Difficulties are the hot- 
beds of high spirits, and Freedom the mother of the few 
virtues incident to human nature. 

"Tuesday. January 9, 1821. 

"Rose — the day fine. Ordered the horses, but Lega 
(my secretary, an ItaUanism for steward or chief servant) 
coming to tell me that the painter had finished the work 
in fresco, for the room he has been employed on lately, I 
went to see it before I set out. The painter has not 
copied badly the prints from Titian, &c. considering all 
things. + * + * * + 

" Dined. Read Johnson's ' Vanity of Human Wishes,' 
— all the examples and mode of giving them sublime, as 
well as the latter part, with the exception of an occasional 
couplet. I do not so nmch admire the openmg. I remem- 
ber an observation of Sharpe's (the Conversatioiiist, as ho 
was called in London, and a very clever man,) (hat the 
first line of this poem was superfluous, and tliat Pope (the 
very best of poets / think) would have begun at once, only 
changing the punctuation — 

' Survey mankind Irom Cliina to Peru I' 

The former line, 'Let observation,' &c. is certainly heavy 
and useless. But't is a grand poem — and so hue .'—true as 
the lOdi of Juvenile hiinsolf. The lajjse of ages change* 
all things — time — language — die earth — the bounds of tlie 
sea — the stars of the sky, and every tlung 'about, around, 
and underneiith' man, except ni(m hiviself, who has always 
boen, and always will he, an unlucky rascal. The infinitp 
variety of lives conducts but to doatli, and (ho infinity of 
wishes leads but to disappointment. All the discovcriog 
which have yet been made have multiplied little but oxist- 
vncp. An extir|)ated disease is sureeeded by some now 
pestilenre; and a discovered world has brought little to 
the old one, except the \t — first and freeilom aflerward— 
the laitir a fine thing, particularly as they gave it to Eu- 
rope in exchange lor shivery, lint it is iloubifid wlwlhor 
' the Sovereigns' would not Uiink \l\c^rst Uio best prea«>nt 
of (he two to (heir subjec(s. 

" At eight went out— heard some nows. Thrv say tho 
king of Naples has doclorod, by couriers from Florence, 



250 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



to the Powers (as they call now those wretches with 
crowns) that his Constitution was compulsive, &c. &c. 
and that the Austrian barbarians are placed again on war 
pay, and will march. Let them — ' they come like sacri- 
fices in their trim,' the hounds of hell!* Let it still be a 
hope to see their bones piled like those of the human 
dogs at Morat, in Switzerland, which I have seen. 

" Heard some music. At nine the usual visiters — news, 
war, or rumours of war. Consulted with P. G. &c. &c. 
They mean to insurrect here, and are to honour me with 
a call thereupon. I shall not fall back ; though I don't 
think them in force or heart sufficient to make much of it 
But onward ! — ^it is now the time to act, and what signifies 
self, if a single spark of that which would be worthy of the 
past can be bequeathed unquenchedly to the future ? It is 
not one man, nor a million, but the ^rit of liberty, which 
must be spread. The waves which dash upon the shore 
are, one by one, broken, but yet the ocean conquers, never- 
theless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears the rock, 
and, if the Neptunians are to be believed,, it has not only 
destroyed, but made a world. In like manner, whatever 
the sacrifice of individuals, the great cause will gather 
strength, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilize (for 
tea-weed is manure) what is cultivable. And so, the mere 
selfish calculation ought never to be made on such occa- 
sions ; and, at present, it shall not be computed by me. I 
■was never a good arithmetician of chances, and shall not 
commence now. 

"January 10, 1821. 

" Day fine — rained only in the morning. Looked over 
accounts. Read Campbell's Poets — ^marked errors of Tom 
(the author) for correction.! Dined — went out — music — 
Tyrolese air, with variations. Sustained the cause of the 
origmal simple air against the variations of the Italian 
school. ***** * 

"Politics somewhat tempestuous,^ and cloudier daily. 
To-morrow being foreign post-day, probably something 
more will be known.. 

" Came home — read^ Corrected Tom Campbell^s slips 
of the pen. A good work, though — style affected — hut his 
defence of Pope is glorious. To be sure, it is Eds own 
cause too, — but no matter, it is very good, and does him 
great credit. 

"Midnight. 
" I have been turning over different Lives of the Poets. 
I rarely read their works, unless an occasional flight over 
the classical ones, Pq)e,Dryden, Johnson, Gray, and those 
who approach them nearest, (Heave the rant of the rest to 
the cant of the day,) and — I had made several reflections, 
but I feel sleepy, and may as well go to bed. 

"January 11, 1821. 

"Read the letters. Corrected the tragedy and the 
•Hints fi-om Horace.' Dined, and got into better spirits. 
Went out — ^returned — finished letters, five in number. 
Read Poets, and an anecdote in Spence. 

« All» writes to me that the Pope, and Duke of Tuscany, 
and King of Sardinia have also been called to Congress ; 
but the Pope will only deal there by proxy. So the inter- 
ests of millions are in the hands of about twenty coxcombs, 
at a place called Leibach ! 

"I should almost regret that my own affairs went well, 
when those of nations are m peril. If the interests of man- 
kind could be essentially bettered, (particularly of these 
oppressed Italians,) I should not so much mind my own 
• sma* peculiar.' God grant us all better times, or more 
philosophy. 

"In reading, I have just chanced upon an expression of 
Tom Campbell's ; — speaking of Collins, he says that 'no 
reader cares any more about the eharacteristic manners of 
his Eclogues dian about the authenticity of the tale of 



• ChJldt Harold, 8d Canto, (tan , 68, and not« 14. 
t DoD Juao, Dot* 9 1« C^ato S. 



Troy.' 'T is false — ^we do care about ' the authenticity of 
the tale of Troy.' I have stood upon that plain daily, for 
more than a month, in 1810 ; and, if any thing diminished 
my pleasure, it was that the blackguard Bryant had 
impugned its veracity. It is true I read ' Homer Tra- 
vestied,' (the first twelve books,) because Hobhouse and 
others bored me with their learned localities, and I love 
quizzing. But I still venerated the grand original as the 
truth of history (in the material /acte) and of place. Other- 
wise, it would have given me no delight. Who will per- 
suade me, when I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did 
not contain a hero '? — its very magnitude proved this. Men 
do not labour over the ignoble and petty dead — and why 
should not the dead be Homer's dead ? The secret of Torn 
Campbell's defence of inaccuracy in costume and descrip- 
tion is, that his Gertrude, &c. has no more locality in com- 
mon with Pennsylvania than with Penmanmaur. It is 
notoriously full of grossly false scenery, as all Americans 
declare, though they praise parts of the Poem. It is thus 
that self-love for ever creeps out,, like a snake, to sting any 
thing which happens, even accidently, to stumble upon it. 

"Jjinuary 12, 1821. 

"The weather still so humid and impracticable, that 
London, in its most oppressive fogs, were a summer-bower 
to this mist and sirocco, which has now lasted, (but with 
one day's interval,) checkered with snow or heavy rain only, 
since the 30th of December, 1820. It is so far lucky that 
I have a literary turn ; but it is very tii-esome not to be 
able to stir out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, for 
so many days. The roads are even worse than the 
weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy soil, and the 
growth of the waters. 

"Read the Poets — English, that is to say — out of 
Campbell's edition. There is a good deal of taffeta in 
some of Tom's prefatory phrases, but his work is good as 
a whole. I like him best, though, in his own poetry. 

" Murray writes that they want to act the tragedy of Mas- 
rino Faliero ; more fools they — it was written for the closet. 
I have protested against this piece of usurpation, (which, 
it seems, is legal for managers over any printed work, 
against the author's will,) and I hc^e they will not attempt 
it. Why do n't they bring out some of the numberless 
aspirants for theatrical celebrity, now incumbering their 
shelves, instead of lugging me out of the Ubrary ? I have 
written a fierce protest against any such attempt, but I 
still would hope that it will not be necessary, and that they 
will see, at once, that it is not intended for the stage. It 
is too regular — ^the time, twenty-four hours — the change 
of place not frequent — nothing weZo-dramatic — no sur- 
prises, no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities 'for 
tossing their heads and kicking their heels' — and no love-^ 
the grand ingredient of a modern play. 

" I have found out the seal cut on Murray's letter. It 
is meant for Walter Scott — or Sir Walter — he is the first 
poet knighted since Sir Richard Blackmore. But it does 
not do Iiim justice. Scott's — particularly when he recites 
— is a very intelligent countenance, and this seal says 
nothing. 

"Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of the day. 
His novels are a new Uterature in themselves, and his 
poetry as good as any — if not better (only on an erroneous 
system) — and only ceased to be so popular, because the 
vulgar learned were tired of hearing 'Aristides called the 
Just' and Walter Scott the Best, and ostracised him. 

" I like him, too, for his manliness of character, for the 
extreme pleasantness of his conversation, and his good- 
nature towards myself, personally. May he prosper !— 
for he deserves it. I know no reading to which I fall 
with such alacrity as a work of W. Scott's. I shall give 
the seal, with his bust on it, to Madame la Contessa G. 
this evening, who will be curious to have the effigies of a 
man so celebrated. 

" How strange are my thoughts ! — The reading of the 
song of Milton. ' Sabrina fair ' has brought back upon ma 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821, 



251 



—I know not how or why — the happiest, perhaps, days of 
my life (always excepting, here and there, a Harrow holy- 
day in the two latter summers of my stay there,) when 
living at Cambridge with Edward Noel Long, afterward 
of the Guards, — who, after having served honourably in 
the expedition to Copenhagen, (of which two or three 
thousand scoundrels yet survive in plight and pay,) was 
drovvTied early in 1809, on his passage to Lisbon with his 
regiment in the St. George transport, which was run foul 
ofj in the night, by another transport. We were rival 
swimmers — fond of riding — reading — ^and of conviviality. 
We had been at Harrow together ; but — there, at least — 
his was a less boisterous spirit than mine. I was always 
cricketing — rebelling — fighting — routing, (from row, not 
6oo<-rowing, a different practice,) and in all manner of 
mischiefs ; while he was more sedate and polished. At 
Cambridge — both of Trinity — my spirit rather softened, 
or his roughened, for we became very great friends. The 
description of Sabrina's seat reminds me of our rival 
feats in diving. Though Cam's is not a very ' translucent 
wave,' it was fourteen feet deep, where we used to dive 
for, and pick up — having thrown them in on purpose — 
plates, eggs, and even shillings. I remember, in particu- 
lar, there was the stump of a tree (at least ten or twelve 
feet deep) in the bed of the river, in a spot where we 
bathed most commonly, round which I used to cling, and 
• wonder how the devil I came there.' 

*' Our evenings we passed in music (he was musical, 
and played on more than one instrument, flute and violon- 
cello,) in which I was audience ; and I think that our 
chief beverage was soda-water. In the day we rode, 
bathed, and lounged, reading occasionally. I remember 
our buying, with vast alacrity, Moore's new quarto, (in 
1806,) and reading it together in the evenings. 

" We only passed the summer together ; — ^Long had 
gone into the Guards during the year I passed in Notts, 
away from college. His friendship and a violent, though 
pnre, love and passion — which held me at the same period 
—were the then romance of the most romantic period of 
my life. 

♦ ***♦♦ 

' « I remember that, in the spring of 1809, H * + laughed 
at my being distressed at Long's death, and amused him- 
self with making epigrams upon his name, which was 
susceptible of a pun — Long, short, &c. But three years 
after he had ample leisure to repent it, when our mutual 
friend, and his, H * *'s, particular friend, Charles Mat- 
thews, was drowned also, and he, himself, was as much 
affected by a similar calamity. But / did not pay him 
back in puns and epigrams, for I valued Matthews too 
much, myself, to do so ; and, even if I had not, I should 
have respected his griefs, 

"Long's father wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. 
I promised, — but I had not the heart to complete it. He 
was such a good, amiable being as rarely rema'ms long in 
tliis world ; with talent and accomplishments, too, to 
make him tlie more regretted. Yet, although a cheerful 
companion, he had strange, melancholy thoughts some- 
times. I remember once that we were going to his 
uncle's, I think, — I went to accompany him to the door 
merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or Brook 
street, I forget which, but it was in a street leading out of 
some square, — he told me that, the night before, he 'had 
taken up a pistol — not knowmg or examining whether it 
was loaded or no—and had snapped it at liis head, leaving 
it to chance whether it might, or might not, be charged.' 
The letter too, which he wrote me, on leaving college, to 
join the Guards, was as melancholy in its tenor as it 
could well bo on such an occasion. But he showed 
nothing of this in his deportment, being mild and gontlo ; 
—and yet with much turn for the ludicrous in his disposi- 
tion. Wo were botJi much attached to Harrow, and 
sometimes made excursions there together from I-ondon, 
lo revive our schoolboy recollections. 



"Midnight. 

•' Read the Italian translation by Guido Sorelli of the 
German Grillparzer — a devil of a name, to be sure, for 
posterity ; but they must learn to pronounce it. With 
Eill the aJlowance for a translation, smd, above all, an Italian 
translation (they are the very worst of translators, except 
from the Classics — Annibale Caro, for instance — and 
there the bastardy of their language helps them, as, by 
way of looking legitimate, they ape their father's tongue) 
— but with every allowance for such a disadvantage, the 
tragedy of Sappho is superb and subhme ! There is no 
denying it. The man has done a great thing "m writing 
that play. And who is he ? I know him not ; but aget 
will. "T is a high intellect. 

" I must premise, however, that I have read nothing of 
Adolph MuUner's, (the author of 'Guilt,') and much less 
of Goethe, and Schiller, and Wieland than I could wish. 
I only know them through the medium of English, French, 
and Italian translations. Of the real language I know 
absolutely nothing,— except oaths learned from postillions 
and officers in a squabble. I can swear in German po- 
tently, when I hke — ' Sacrament — Verflutcher — Hunds- 
fott' — and so forth ; but I have little of their less energetic 
conversation. 

" I like, however, their women, (I was once so despe- 
rately in love wath a German woman, Constance.) and all 
that I have read, translated of their writings, and all that I 
have seen on the Rhine of their country and people — all, 
except the Austrians, whom I abhor, loathe, and — I cannot 
find words for my hate (^ them, and should be sorry to 
find deeds correspondent to my hate ; for I abhor cruelty 
more than I abhor the Austrians — except on an impulse, 
and then I am savage — but not deliberately so. 

"Grillparzer is grand — antique — not so simple as the 
ancients, but very simple for a modern — too Madame de 
Stael-isA now and then — but altogether a great and 
goodly writer. 

« January 13, 1821, Saturday. 

"Sketched the outline and Drams. Pers. of an intended 
tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have for some time 
meditated. Took the names from Diodorus Siculus, (I 
know tlie history of Sardanapalus, and have known it 
since I was twelve years old,) and read over a passage in 
the ninth vol. octavo of Miiford's Greece, where he 
rather vindicates the memory of this last of the Assy- 
rians. 

" Dined — news come — tlie Powers mean to war with 
the peoples. The inielligence seems positive — let it be 
so — they will be beaten in the end. The king-times are 
fast finishing. There will be blood shed like water, and 
tears like mist ; but the peoples will conquer in the end. 
I shall not live to see it, but I foresee it. 

"I carried Teresa the ItaUan transbtion of Grillparzcr's 
Sappho, which she promises to read. She quarrelled 
with me, because I said that love was not the loftiest theme 
for true tragedy ; and, having the advantage of her native 
language, and natural female eloquence, she overcame my 
fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put 
more love into ' Sardanapalus' tlian I intended. I speak, 
of course, if the times will allow ue leisure. That i/" 
will hardly be a peacemaker. 

"January 14, 1821. 

" Turned over Seneca's tragedies. Wrote tJio open- 
ing lines of the intended tragedy of Sardanapalus. Rode 
out some miles into the forest. Misty and rainy- Re- 
turned — dined — wrote some more of my tragedy. 

"Read Diodorus Sioilus — turned over Seneca, and 
some other books. Wrote some more of the tragedy. 
Took a glass of grog. AOer having ridden hard in rainy 
weather, and scribbled, and scribbled again, the spirits 
(at least mine) need a little exhilaration, and I do n't tike 
laudanum now as I used to do. So I have mixed a glua 
of strong waters and single waters whidi I shall now 



252 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOUR NAL, 1821. 



proceed to empty. Therefore and thereunto I conclude 
this day's diary. 

" The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is, how- 
ever, strange. It settles, but it makes me gloomy — gloomy 
at the very moment of their effect, and not gay hardly 
ever. But it composes for a time, though sullenly. 

"January 15, 1821. 
"Weather fine. Received visit. Rode out into the 
forest — fired pistols. Returned home — dined — dipped 
into a volume of Mitford's Greece — wrote part of a scene 
of ' Sardanapalus.' Went out — heard some music — 
heard some politics. More ministers from the other 
Italian powers gone to Congress. War seems certain — 
in that case, it will be a savage one. Talked over vari- 
ous important matters with one of the initiated. At ten 
and half returned home. 

"I have just thought of something odd. In the year 
1814, Moore ('the poet,' par excellence, and he deserves 
it) and I were going together, in the same carriage, to 
dine with Earl Grey, the Capo Pohtico of the remaining 
Whigs. Murray, the magnificent, (the illustrious pub- 
lisher of that name,) had just sent me a Java gazette — I 
know not why or wherefore. Pulling it out, by way of 
curiosity, we found it to contain a dispute (the said Java 
gazette) on Moore's merits and mine. I think, if I had 
been there, that I could have saved them the trouble of 
disputing on the subject. But, there is fame for you at 
six-and-twenty ! Alexander had conquered India at the 
same age ; but I doubt if he was disputed about, or his 
conquests compared with those of Indian Bacchus, at Java, 
"It was great fame to be named with Moore ; greater 

to be compared with him ; grea.test— pleasure, at least 

to be with him ; and, surely, an odd coincidence, that we 
should be dining together while they were quarrelling 
about us beyond the equinoctial line. 

"Well, the same evening I met Lav/rence, the painter, 
and heard one of Lord Grey's daughters (a fine, tall, 
spirit-looking girl, with much of the patrician thorough- 
bred look of her father, which I dote upon) play on the 
harp, so modestly and ingenuously, tliat she looked music. 
Well, I would rather have had my talk with Lawrence 
(who talked delightfully) and heard the girl, than have had 
all the fame of Moore and me put together. 

" The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the way to 
pleasure; and the more intellectual our pleasure, the 
better for the pleasure and for us too. It was, however, 
agreeable to have heard our fame before dinner, and a 
girl's harp after. 

"January 16, 1821. 

" Read — rode — fired pistols — ^returned — dined — ^wrote 
— visited— heard music — talked nonsense — and went 
home. 

" Wrote part of a Tragedy — advance in Act 1st with 
* all deliberate speed.' Bought a blanket. The weather 
is still rriuggy as a London May — mist, mizzle, the air 
replete with ScoUicisms, which, though fine in the descrip- 
tions of Ossian, are somewhat tiresome, in real, prosaic 
perspective. Politics still mysterious. 

"January 17, 1821. 

" Rode i' the forest — fired pistols — dined. Arrived a 
packet of books from England and Lombardy — English 
Italian, French, and Latin. Read till eight— went out. 
"January 18,1821. 

« To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. Read 
letters— only two gazettes, instead of twelve now due. 
Made Lega write to that negligent Galignani, and added 
a postscript. Dined. 

« At eight proposed to go out. Lega came in with a 
letter about a bill unpaid at Venice, which I thought paid 
months ago. I flew into a paroxysm of rage, which 
almost made me faint. I have not been well ever since. 
I deserve it for being such a fool— but it vxis provoking— a 
set of scoundrels ! It is, however, but five-and-twenty 
pounds. 



"January 19, 1821. 
" Rode. Winter's wind somewhat more unkind than 
ingratitude itself, though Shalcespeare says othei-wise. At 
least, I am so much more accustomed to meet with 
ingratitude than the north wind, that I thought the latter 
the ^sharper of the two. I had met vn\h both in the 
course of the twenty-four hours, so could judge. 

" Thought of a plan of education for my daughter 
Allegra,who ought to begin soon witli her studies. Wrote 
a letter — afterward a postscript. Rather in low spirits — 
certainly hippish — liver touched — will take a dose of salts. 
"I have been reading the Life, by himself and daugh- 
ter, of Mr. R. L. Edgeworth, the father oi the Miss 
Edgeworth. It is altogether a great name. In 1813, 1 
recollect to have met them in the fashionable world of 
London (of which I then formed an item, a fraction, the 
segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of 
something) in the assemblies of the hour, and at a break- 
fast of Sir Humphiy and Lady Davy's, to which I was 
invited for the nonce. I had been the lion of 181 2 5 Miss 
Edgeworth and Madame de Stael, with 'the Cossack,' 
towards the end of 1813, were the exhibitions of the suc- 
ceeding year. 

" I thought Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of a clarety, 
elderly, red complexion, but active, brisk, and endless. He 
was seventy, but did not look fifty — no, nor forty-eight 
even. I had seen poor Fitzpatrick not very long before 
— a man of pleasure, wit, eloquence, all things. He tot- 
tered — but still talked like a gentleman, though feebly. 
Edgeworth bounced about, and talked loud and long ; but 
he seemed neither weakly nor decrepit, and hardly old. 

"He began by telling 'that he had given Dr. Parr a 
dressing, who had taken him for an Irish bog-trotter,' &c. 
&c. Now I, who know Dr. Parr, and who know {not by 
experience — for I never should have presumed so far as 
to contend with him — but by hearing him with others, and 
of others) that it is not so easy a matter to ' dress him,' 
tihought Mr. Edgeworth an assertor of what was not 
true. He could not have stood before Parr an instant. 
For the rest, he seemed intelligent, vehement, vivacious, 
and full of life. He bids fair for a hundred years. 

" He was not much admired in London, and I remem- 
ber a 'ryghte merrie' and conceited jest which was rife 
among the gallants of the day, — viz. a paper had been 
presented for the recoil of Mrs. Siddons to the stage, (she 
having lately taken leave, to the loss of ages,— for nothing 
ever was, or can be, like her,) to which all men had been 
called to subscribe. Whereupon, Thomas Moore, of 
profane and poetical memory, did propose that a similar 
paper should be subscribed and circu/nscribed 'for the 
recall of Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland.'* 

" The fact was — every body cared more about her. 
She was a nice little unassuming ' Jeannie Deans'-looldng 
bodie,' as we Scotch say — and, if not handsome, certainly 
not ill-looking. Her conversation was as quiet as her- 
self. One would never have guessed she could write her 
name ; whereas her father talked, not as if he could write 
nothing else, but as if nothing else was worth writing. 

"As for Mrs. Edgeworth, I forget — except that I think 
she was the youngest of the party. Altogether, they 
were an excellent cage of the kind ; and succeeded for 
two months, till the landing of Madame de Stael. 

" To turn from them to their works, I admire them ; 
but they excite no feeling, and they leave no love — except 
for some Irish steward or postillion. However, the im- 
pression of intellect and prudence is profound — and may 
be useful. 

"January 20, 1821. 

"Rode — fired pistols. Read from Grimm's Corre- 
spondence. Dined — went out — heard music — returned— 
wrote a letter to the Lord Chamberlain to request him to 
prevent the theatres from representing the Doge, which 



* In this, I rather think he was misinformed ;— whatever merit thera 
may be in the jest, I have not, at far as I can recollect, the sligbtett claim 



EXTRACTS PROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



253 



the Italian papers say that they are going to act. This is 
pretty work — what ! without asking my consent, and even 
in opposition to it ! 

"January 21, 1821. 
" Fine, clear, frosty day — that is to say, an Italian frost, 
for their winters hardly get beyond snow ; for which rea- 
son nobody knows how to skate (or skait) — a Dutch and 
English accompUshment. Rode out, as usual, and fired 
pistols. Good shooting — broke four common, and rather 
small, bottles, in four shots, at fourteen paces, with a com^ 
mon pair of pistols and indifferent powder. Almost as 
good wafering or shooting — considering the difference of 
powder "and pistols— as when, in 1809, 1810, 1811, 1812. 
1813, 1814, it was my luck to split walking-sticks, wafers, 
half-crowns, shillings, and even the eye of a wallung-stick, 
at twelve paces, with a single bullet — and all by eye and 
calculation ; for my hand is not steady, and apt to change 
with the very weather. To the prowess which I here 
note, Joe Manton and others can bear testimony ; — ^for the 
former taught, and the latter have seen m.e do, these feats. 

"Dined — visited — came home — read. Remarked on 
an anecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which says that 
* Regnard et la plupart des poetes comiques etaient gens 
bilieux et melancoliques ; et que M. de Voltaire, qui est 
tr^s gai, n'a jamais fait que des tragedies — et que la come- 
die gaie est le seul genre ou il n'ait point reussi. C'est 
que celui qui rit et celui qui fait rire sent deux hommes 
fort differens.' — Vol. vi. 

" At this moment I feel as bilious as the best comic 
writer of them all, (even as Regnard himself, the next to 
Moliere, who has written some of the best comedies in 
any language, and who is supposed to have committed 
suicide,) and am not in spirits to continue my proposed 
tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have, for some days, 
ceased to compose. 

" To-morrow is my birthday — that is to say, at twelve 
o' the clock, midnight, i. e. in twelve minutes, I shall have 
completed thirty and three years of age ! ! ! — and I go to 
my bed with a heaviness of heart at having lived so long, 
and to so little purpose. 

"It is three minutes past twelve. — ''T is the middle of 
night by the castle clock,' and I am now thirty-three ! 

' Eheu, fugaces, PoslhuniC, Posthurae, 
Labiintur anni ;' — 

but I do n't regret them so much for what I have done, as 
for what I might have done. 

" Through life's road, so dim and dirty, 
I have dragg'd lo three-and-thirty. 
What have these years left lo me ? 
Nothing — except thirty-three. 

"January 22, 1821.* 



1821. 

HERE LIES, 
INTERRED IN THE ETERNITY 

OF THE PAST, 

FROM WHENCE THERE IS NO 

RESURRECTION 

FOR THE DAYS— WHATEVER THERE MAY BE 

FOR THE DUST — 

THE THIRTY-THIRD YEAR 

OF AN ILL-SPENT LIFE, 

WHICH, AFTER 

A LINaERINO DISEASE OF MANY MONTHS, 

SUNK INTO A LETHARGY, 

AND EXPIRED, 

JANUARY 22d, IvS'21, a. D. 

LEAVING A SUCCESSOR 

INCONSOLABLE 

FOR THE VERY LOSS WHICH 

OCCASIONED IT8 

EXISTENCE. 



"January 23, 1B21. 
"Fine day. Road — rode — fired pistols, ami icturnod 



See Loiter 472. 



Dined— read. Went out at eight— made the usual visit. 
Heard of nothing but war, — ' the cry is still, They come.' 
The Car', seem to have no plan — nothing fixed among 
themselves, how, when, or what to do. In that case, they 
will make nothing of this project, so often postponed, and 
never put in action. 

" Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in case 
of circumstances requiring a change of place. I shall 
act according to what may seem proper, when I hear 
decidedly what the Barbarians mean to do. At present, 
they are building a bridge of boats over the Po, wMch 
looks very warlilie. A few days wiO probably show. I 
think of retiring towards Ancona, nearer the northern 
frontier ; that is to say, if Teresa and her father are 
obliged to retire, which is most lilcely, as all the family are 
Liberals. If not, I shall stay. But my movements will 
depend upon the lady's wishes, for myself it is much the 
same. 

" I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my litde 
daughter, and my effects, which are of some quantity and 
value, — and neither of them do in the seat of war where 
I think of going. But there is an elderly lady who will 
take charge oiher, and T. says that the Marchese C. will 
undertake to hold the chattels in safe keeping. Half the 
city are getting their affairs in marching trim. A pretty 
Carnival ! The blackguards might as well have waited 
till Lent. 

« January 24, 182L 

" Returned — met some masques in the Corso— ' Vive 
la bagatelle !' — the Germans are on the Po, the Barbari- 
ans at the gate, and their masters in coimcil at Leybach, 
(or whatever the eructation of the sound may syllable 
into a human pronunciation,) and lo! they dance and 
sing, and make merry, 'for to-morrow they may die.' 
Who can say that the Arlequins are not right ? Like 
the Lady Baussiere, and my old friend Burton — I * rode 
on.' 

"Dined — (damn this pen!) — beef tough — there is no 
beef in Italy worth a curse ; unless a man could eat an 
old ox with the hide on, singed in the sun. 

" The principal persons in die events which may occur 
"in a few days, are gone out on a shooting party. If it were 
like a ' highland hunting,' a pretext of tlie chase for a 
grand reunion of counsellors and chiefs, it would be all 
very well. But it is nothing more or less tlian a real 
snivelling, popping, small-shot, water-hen waste of powder, 
ammunition, and shot, for their own special amusement : 
— a rare set of fellows for ' a man to risk his neck with,' 
as 'Marishal Wells' says in the Black Dwaif. 

" If tl:ey gather, — ' whilk is to be doubted,' — they will 
not musti-r a thousand men. The reason of this is, that 
the populace are not interested, — only the higher and 
middle ordei-s. I wish that the peasantry were: they are 
a fine savage race of two-legged leopards. But the 
Bolognese won't — the Romagnuoles can't without them. 
Or, if they try — what dien ? They will try, and man can 
do no more — and, if he woidd but try his utmost, much 
might be done. Tho Dutch, for instance, against the 
Spaniards — then, the tyrants of Europe — since, the slaves 
— and, lately, the frccdmen. 

" The year 1820 was not a fortunate one for the indi- 
vidual me, whatever it may be for tho nations. I lost a 
lawsuit, after two decisions in my favour. The project of 
lending money on an Irish mortgage was finally rejected 
by my wife's trustee after a year's hope and trouble. Tho 
Rochdale lawsuit had endured fifteen years, and always 
prospered till I married ; since which, every thing has 
gono wrong — with me, at least. 

" In the same year, 1820, the Countess T. G. nata G*. 
Gl. in despite of all I said and did to prevent it, uk)uU 
separate from her husband, II C'aviilier ( ■oinnirndntoro 
Gl. &c. &r. &c. ami all on the aroount of 'P. P. clerk 
of thus parish.' The other liltl.< p<'tty vexations of tlia 
year — overturns in carriages — the murder of people before 
one's door, and dying in one's beds — the cramp in 8wun> 



§54 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 



1821. 



ming — colics — indigestions and bilious attacks, &c. &c 
&c.— 

• Many small articles make up a sum, 
And hey ho for Caleb Q,uotera, oh !' 

"January 25, 1821. 
« Received a letter from Lord Sidney Osborne state 
secretary of the Seven Islands — a fine fellow — clever — 
dished in England five years ago, and came abroad to 
retrench and to renew. He wTOte from Ancona, in his 
way back to Corfu, on some matters of our own. He is 
son of the late Duke of Leeds by a second marriage. He 
wants me to go to Corfu. Why not? — perhaps I may, 
next spring. 

" Answered Murray's letter — read — ^lounged. Scrawl- 
ed this additional page of life's log-book. One day more 
is over, of it and of me ; — but * which is best, life or death, 
the gods only know,' as Socrates said to his judges, on 
the breaking up of the tribunal. Two thousand years 
since that sage's declaration of ignorance have not 
enlightened us more upon this important point; for, 
according to the Christian dispensation, no one can know 
whether he is sure of salvation — even the most righteous 
— since a single slip of faith may throw him on his back, 
like a skater, while gliding smoothly to his paradise. 
Now, therefore, whatever the certainty of faith in the facts 
may be, the certainty of the individual as to his happiness 
or misery is no greater than it was under Jupiter. 

" It bas been said that the immortality of the soul is a 
grand peutetre' — but still it is a grand one. Every body 
clings to it — the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of 
human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal. 

"January 26, 1821. 
« Fine day — a few mares' tails portending change, but 
the sky clear, upon the whole. Rode — fired pistols — good 
shooting. Coming back, met an old man. Charity — 
purchased a shilling's worth of salvation. If that was to 
be bought, I have given more to my fellow-creatures in 
this life — sometimes for vice, but, if not more often, at 
least more considerably, for virtue — than I now possess. I 
never in my life gave a mistress so much as I have some- 
times given a poor man in honest distress ; — but, no mat- 
ter. The scoundrels who have all along persecuted me* 
(with the help of * * who has crowned their efforts) will 
triumph ; — and, when justice is done to me, it wUl be when 
this hand that writes is as cold as the hearts which have 
stung me. 

" Returning, on the bridge near the mill, met an old 
woman. I asked her age — she said, ' Tre croci.^ I asked 
my groom (though myself a decent Italian) what the devil 
her three crosses meant. He said, ninety years, and that 
she had five years more to boot!! I repeated the same 
three times, not to mistake — ninety-five years ! ! ! — and 
she was yet rather active — heard my question, for she 
answered it — saw me, for she advanced towards me ; and 
did not appear at all decrepit, though certainly touched 
with vears. Told her to come to-morrow, and will exa- 
mine her myself I love phenomena. If she is ninety- 
five years old, slie must recollect the Cardinal Alberoni, 
who was legate here. 

"On dismounting, found Lieutenant E. just arrived 
from Faenza. Invited him to dine with me to-morrow. 
Did not invite him for to-day, because there was a small 
turbot, (Friday, fast regularly and religiously,) which I 
wanted to cat all myself. Ate it. 

"Went out — found Teresa as usual — music. The 
gentlemen, who make revolutions, and are gone on a 
shooting, are not yet returned. They do n't return till 
Sunday — that is to say, they have been out for five days, 
buffooning, while the mterests of a whole country are at 
stake, and even they themselves compromised. 

" It is a difficult part to play among such a set of assas- 
sins and blockheads — ^but, when the scum is skimmed off. 



or has boiled over, good may come of it. If this country 
could but be freed, what would be too great for the accom- 
plishment of that desire ? for the extinction of that Sigh 
of Ages ? Let us hope. They have hoped these thc%- 
sand years. The very revolvement of the chances may 
bring it — it is upon the dice. 

"If the Neapolitans have but a single Massaniello 
among them, they will beat the bloody butchers of the 
crown and sabre. Holland, in worse circumstances, beat 
the Spains and Philips ; America beat the English ; 
Greece beat Xerxes ; and France beat Europe, till she 
took a tyrant ; South America beats her old vultures out 
of their nest ; and, if these men are but firm in them- 
selves, there is nothing to shake them from without. 

« January 28, I82L 
" Lugano Gazette did not come. Letters from Venice. 
It appears that the Austrian brutes have seized my three 
or four pounds of English powder. The scoundrels ! — ^I 
hope to pay them in ball for that powder. Rode out till 
twilight. 

" Pondered the subjects of four tragedies to be vvTitten, 
(life and circumstances permitting,) to wit, Sardanapalus, 
already begun ; Cain, a metaphysical subject, sometliing 
in the style of Manfred, but in five acts, perhaps, with the 
chorus ; Francesca of Rimini, in five acts ; and I am not 
sure that I would not try Tiberius. I think that I could 
extract a something, of my tragic, at least, out of the 
gloomy sequestration and old age of the tyrant — and even 
out of his sojourn at Caprea — by softening the details, 
and exhibiting the despair which must have led to those 
very vicious pleasures. For none but a powerful and 
gloomy mind overthrown would have had recourse to such 
solitary horrors, — being also, at the same time, old, and 
the master of the world. 

" Memoranda. 
" What is poetry ? — The feeling of a Former world 
and Future. 

« Thought Seamd. 
" Why, at the very height of desire and human plea- 
sure, — worldly, social, amorous, ambitious, or even avari- 
cious, — does there mingle a certain sense of doubt and 
soiTOw — a fear of what is to come — a doubt of what is — 
a retrospect to the past, leading to a prognostication of 
the future. (The best of Prophets of the Future is the 
Past.) Why is this? or these? — I know not, except 
that on a pinnacle we are most susceptible of giddiness, 
and that we never fear falling except from a precipice — 
the higher, the more awful, and the more sublime ; jmd, 
therefore, I am not sure that fear is not a pleasurable sen- 
sation ; at least, Hope is ; and what Hope is there without 
a deep leaven of Fear ? and what sensation is so delight- 
ful as Hope ? and, if it were not for Hope, where would 
the Future be ? — in hell. It is useless to say where the 
Present is, for most of us knoAv ; and as for the Past, whcU 
predominates in memory ? — Hope baffled. Ergo, in all 
human affairs, it is Hope — Hope — Hope. I allow sixteen 
minutes, though I never counted them, to any given or 
supposed possession. From whatever place we com- 
mence, we know where it all must end. And yet, what 
good is there in knowmg it ? It does not make men better 
or wiser. During the greatest horrors of the greatest 
plagues, (Athens and Florence, for example — see Thucy- 
dides and Machiavelli,) men were more cruel and profli- 
gate than ever. It is all a mystery. I feel most things, 
but I know nothing, except — — — 



Childe Harold, Canto IV. Stanza 137, and Note to the Two * Thus marked, with impatient elrokes of the pen, by himtelf in th« 
Foecari. original. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



255 



" Thought for a speech of Lucifer ^ in the tragedy of Cain : — 

" Were Death an evil, would / let thee live7 
Fool! live as I live— as thy father lives, 
And thy son's bods shall live for evermore. 

" Past midnight. One o' the clock. 

« I have been reading W. F. Schlegel (brother to the 
other of the name) till now, and I can make out nothing. 
He evidently shows a great power of words, but there is 
nothing to be taken hold of. He is like Hazlitt, in Eng- 
lish, who talks pimples — a red and white corruption rising 
up, (in little imitation of mountains upon maps,) but con- 
taining nothing, and discharging nothing, except their own 
humours. 

"I dislike him the worse, (that is, Schlegel,) because 
he always seems upon the verge of meaning ; and, lo, he 
goes down like sunset, or melts Uie a rainbow, leaving a 
rather rich confusion, — to which, however, the above com- 
parisons do too much honour. 

"Continuing to read Mr. F. Schlegell. He is not such 
a fool as I took him for, that is to say, when he speaks of 
the North. But still he speaks of things aU over the world 
with a Idnd of authority that a philosopher would disdam,. 
and a man of common sense, feeling, and knowledge of 
his own ignorance, would be ashamed of. The man is 
evidently wanting to malie an impression, like his brother, 
—or hke George in the Vicar of Wakefield, who found 
out that all the good things had been said already on the 
right side, and therefore 'dressed up some paradoxes' 
upon the wrong side — ingenious, but false, as he himself 
says — to which ' the learned world said nothing, nothing 
at all, sir.' The ' learned world,' however, has said some- 
thing to the brothers Schlegel. 

" It is high time to think of something else. What they 
say of the antiquities of the North is best. 

"January 29, 1821. 

"Yesterday the woman of ninety-five years of age was 
with me. She said her eldest son (if now alive) would 
have been seventy. She is thin — short, but active — 
hears, and sees, and talks incessantly. Several teeth 
left — all in the lower jaw, and single front teeth. She is 
very deeply wrinkled, and has a sort of scattered gray 
beard over her chin, at least as long as my mustachios. 
Her head, in fact, resembles the drawing in crayons of 
Pope the poet's mother, which is in some editions d" his 
works. 

" I forgot to ask her if she remembered Alberoni, (legate 
here,) but will ask her next time. Gave her a louis — 
ordered her a new sidt of clothes, and put her upon a 
weekly pension. Till now, she had worked at gathering 
wood and pine-nuts in the forest, — pretty work at ninety- 
five years old ! She had a dozen children, of whom some 
are alive. Her name is Maria Montanari. 

" Met a company of the sect (a kind of Liberal Club) 
called the * Americani' in tlie forest, all armed, and sing- 
ing, with all their might, in Romagnuole — ^ Sem tutti 
Boldat' per la liberla,' (' we are all soldiers for liberty.') 
They cheered me as I passed — I returned their salute, 
and rode on. This may show the spirit of Italy at pre- 
sent. 

" My to-day's journal consists of what I omitted yes- 
terday. To-day was much as usual. Have rather a 
better opinion of the writings of tlie Schlegels tlian I had 
four-and- twenty hours ago ; and will amend it still farther, 
if possible. 

" They say that the Piedmontese have at lengtli risen 
-fa ira ! 

" Read Schlegel, Of Dante he says that ' at no time 
has the greatest and most national of all Italian pools 
ever been much the favourite of his countrymen.' 'T is 
false ! There have been more editors and commentators 
(and imitators, ultimately) of Dante than of all thfir pools 
put together. Not a favourite ! Why, they talk Dante — 
write Dante — and think and droam Dante at this moment 



(1821) to an excess, which would be ridiculous, but that 
he deserves it. 

" In the same style this German talks of gondolas on 
the Arno— a precious fellow to dare to speak of Italy ! 

" He says also that Dante's chief defect is a want, in a 
word, of gentle feelings. Of gentle feelings ! — and Fran- 
cesca of Rimini — and the father's feelings in Ugolino — 
and Beatrice — and ' La Pia !' Why, there is a gentleness 
in Dante beyond all gentleness, when he is tender. It ia 
true that, treating of the Christian Hades, or HeU, there 
is not much scope or site for gentleness — but who but 
Dante could have introduced any ' gentleness' at all into 
Hellf Is there any in Milton's? No — and Dante'a 
Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty. 

« I o'clock. 
" I have found out, however, where the German is right 
—it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. ' Of all romances 
in miniature, (and, perhaps, this is the best shape in which 
romance can appear,) the Vicar of Wakefield is, I think, 
the most exquisite.' He thinks ! — he might be sure. But 
it is very well for a Schlegel. I feel sleepy, and may as 
well get me to bed. To-morrow there will be fine wea- 
ther. 

' Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.' 

« January 30, 1821. 

" The Count P. G. this evening (by commission from 
the Ci.) transmitted to me the new words for the next six 
months. + * * and * + *. The new sacred word is 
* ♦ + — the reply * * * — the rejoinder * + *. The 
former word (now changed) was * * * — there is also 
+ * * — * * *.f Things seem fast coming to a crisis — 
fo ira ! 

"We talked over various matters of moment and move- 
ment. These I omit ; — if they come to any thing, they 
will speak for themselves. After these, we spoke of 
Kosciusko. Count R. G. told me that he has seen the 
Polish officers in the Italian war burst into tears on hear- 
ing his name. 

" Something must be up in Piedmont — all the letters 
and papers are stopped. Nobody knows any thing, and 
the Germans are concentrating near Mantua. Of the 
decision of Laybach, nothing is known. This state of 
things cannot last long. The ferment in men's minds at 
present cannot be conceived without seeing it. 

"January 31, 1821. 

" For several days I have not written any thing except 
a few answers to letters. In momentary expectation of 
an explosion of some kind, it is not easy to settle down to 
the desk for the higher kinds of composition. I could do 
it, to be sure, for, last summer, I wrote my drama in tho 
very bustle of Madame la Contesse G.'s divorce, and all 
its process of accompaniments. At the same time, I 
also haid the news of the loss of an important lawsuit in 
England. But these were only private and personal 
business ; the present is of a diflTcrent nature. 

" I suppose it is this, but have some suspicion that it 
may be laziness, which prevents me from writing ; espe- 
cially as Rochefoucault says that ' laziness oflon masters 
them all' — speaking of the passions. If tliis wore true, 
it could Iiardly bo said that ' idleness is the root of all evil,' 
since this is supposed to spring from the passions only ; 
orgo, that which masters all the passions (Uizincss, to wit) 
would in so much bo a good. Who knows ? 

"Midnight. 
"I have been reading Grimm's Corrcspondonoo. Ho 
repeats frequently, in spoaiung of a pool, or of u miui of 
genius in any dcportmont, even in music, (Grotry, for in- 
stance,) tliat ho must have ' uno ame qui s© tourmcntr, 



t In thtorlgiiml MS. Uiese wMchwortli »r* UloUeJ over to »■ lo b* 
Ul((ibU. 



256 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



im esprit violent,' How far tJiis may be true, I knoAv 
not ; but if it were, I should be a poet ' per eccellenza ;' 
for I hflave always had ' une ame,' which not only tor- 
mented itself but every body else in contact with it ; and 
an ' esprit violent,' which has almost left me without any 
' esprit' at all. As to defining what a poet should be, it is 
not worth while, for what are they worth ? what have they 
done? 

"Grimm, however, is an excellent critic and literary 
historian. His Correspondents forms the annals of the 
literary part of that age of France, with much of her 
politics, and still more of her ' way of life.' He is as 
valuable, and far more entertaining that Muratori or 
Tiraboschi — I had almost said, than Guingene — but there 
we should pause. However 't is a great man in its line. 

" Monsieur St. Lambert has 

' Etlorsqu'k ses regards la lumifere est ravie, 
II n'a plus, en mourant, 6. perdre que la vie.' 

This is, word for word, Thomson's 

' And dying, all we can resign is breath,' 

without the smallest acknowledgment from the Lorraine 
of a poet. M. St. Lambert is dead as a man, and (for 
any thing I know to the contrary) damned as a poet, by 
this time. However, his Seasons have good things, and, 
it may be, some of his own. 

"February 2, 1821. 

"I have been considering what can be the reason why 
I always wake at a certain hour in the morning, and 
always in very bad spirits — I may say, in actual despair 
and despondency, in all respects — even of that which 
pleased me over night. In about an hour or two, this 
goes off, and I compose either to sleep again, or at least, 
to quiet. Li England, five years ago, I had the same 
kind of hypochondria, but accompanied with so violent a 
thirst that I have drank as many as fifteen bottles of soda- 
water in one night, after going to bed, and been still thirsty 
— calculating, however, some lost from the bursting out 
and effervescence and overflo^^^ng of the soda-water, in 
drawing the corks, or striking off the necks of the bottles 
from mere thirsy impatience. At present, I have not tlie 
thirst ; but the depression of spiiits is no less violent. 

" I read in Edgeworth's Memoirs of something similar 
(except that his thirst expended itself on srncdl beer) in the 
case of Sir F. B. Delaval; — ^but then he was, at least, 
twenty years older. What is it ? — ^liver ? In England, 
Le Man (the apothecary) cured me of the thirst in three 
days, and it had lasted as many years. I suppose that it 
is all hypochondria. 

" What I feel most growing upon me are lazinesss and 
a disrehsh more powerful than indifference. If I rouse, 
it is into fury. I presume that I shall end (if not earlier 
by accident, or some such termination) lilce Swift — ' dying 
at top.' I confess I do not contemplate this with so much 
horror as he apparently did for some years before it hap- 
pened. But Swift had hardly begun life at the very period 
(thirty-three*) when I feel quite an old sort of feel. 

" Oh ! there is an organ playing m the street — a waltz, 
too ! I must leave off to listen. They are playing a 
waltz, which I have heard ten thousand times at the balls 
in London, between 1812 and 1815. Music is a strange 
thing. 

"Februarys, 1821. 

"At last, 'the kiln's in a low.' The Germans are 
ordered to march, and Italy is, for the ten thousandth time, 
to become a field of battle. Last night the news came. 

" This afternoon. Count P. G. came to me to consult 
upon divers matters. We rode out together. They have 
sent off to the C. for orders. To-morrow the decision 
ought to arrive, and then something will be done. Returned 
—dined — read — went out — talked over matters. Made 
a purchase of some arms for the new enrolled Americani, 



See Journal, January 6, 



who are all on tiptoe to march. Gave orders for some 
harness and portmanteaus necessary for the horses. 

"Read some of Bowles's dispute about Pope, with all 
the replies and rejoinders. Perceive that my name has 
been lugged into the controversy, but have not time to 
state what I know of tlie subject. On some ' piping day 
of peace' it is probable that I may resume it. 

"February 9, 1821. 

" Before dinner wrote a little ; also, before I rode out. 
Count P. G. called upon me, to let me know the result of 
the meeting of the C'. at F. and at B. * * returned late 
last night. Every thing was combined under the idea that 
the Barbarians would pass the Po on the 15th inst. 
Instead of this, from some previous information or otlier- 
wise, they have hastened tlieir march and actually passed 
two days ago ; so that all that can be done at present in 
Romagna is, to stand on the alert and wait for the advance 
of the Neai)olitans. Every thing was ready, and the 
Neapohtans had sent on their own instructions and inten- 
tions, all calculated for the tenth and eleventh, on which 
days a general rising was to take place, under the suppo- 
sition that the Barbarians could not advance before 
the 15th. 

" As it is, they have but fifty or sixty thousand troops, a 
a number with which they might as well attempt to con- 
quer the world as secure Italy in its present state. The 
artillery marches last, and alone, and there is an idea of 
an attempt to cut part of them off. All this will much 
depend upon the first steps of the Neapolitans. Here, the 
public spirit is excellent, provided it be kept up. This will 
be seen by the event. 

" It is probable that Italy will be delivered from the Bar- 
barians if the Neapolitans will but stand firm, and are 
united among themselves. Here thsy appear so- 

"February 10, 182L 
" Day passed as usual — nothing new. Barbarians still 
in march — not well equipped, and, of course, not well 
received on their route. There is some talk of a commo- 
tion at Paris. 

" Rode out betvs^een four and six — finished my letter to 
Murray on Bowles's pamphlets — added postscript. Passed 
the evening as usual — out till eleven — and subsequently 
at home. 

"February 11, I82L 
" Wrote — had a copy taken of an extract from Petrarch*s 
Letters, with reference to the conspiracy of the Doge, M, 
Faliero, containing the poet's opinion of the matter. Heard 
a heavy firing of cannon towards Comaccliio — the Barba- 
rians rejoicing for their principal pig's birthday, which is 
to-morrow — or Saint day — I forget which. Received a 
ticket for the first ball to-morrow. Shall not go to the 
first, but intend going to the second, as also to the VegUoni, 

"February 13,1821. 
To-day read a little in Louis B 's Hollande, but have 
written nothmg since the completion of the letter on the 
Pope controversy. Politics are quite misty for the pre- 
sent. The Barbarians still upon their march. It is not 
easy to divine what tlie Italians will now do. 

"Was elected yesterday ' Socio' of the Carnival baJI 
society. This is the fifth carnival that I have passed. 
In the four former, I racketed a good deal. In the pre- 
sent, I have been as sober as Lady Grace herself. 

"February 14, 1821. 
Much as usual. Wrote, before riding out, part of a 
scene of ' Sardanapaliis.' The first act nearly finished. 
The rest of the day and evening as before — partly without, 
in conversazione — partly at home. 

" Heard the particulars of the late fray atRussi, a town 
not far from this. It is exactly the fact of Romeo and 
Giulietta — not Romeo, as the Barbarian writes it. Two 
families of Contadini (peasants) are at feud. At a ball, 
the younger part of the families forget their quarrels^ and 



I 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



257 



dance together. An old man of one of them enters, and 
reproves the young men for dancing with the females of 
the opposite family. The male relatives of the latter 
resent this. Both parties rush home, and arm themselves. 
They meet directly, by moonlight, in the public way, and 
fight it out. Three are killed on the spot, and six wounded, 
most of them dangerously, — pretty well for two families, 
methinks— and all fact, of the last week. Another assas- 
sination has taken place at Cesenna, — in all about forty 
in Romagna virithin these last three months. These people 
retain much of the middle ages. 

"February 15, 1821. 
"Last night finished the first act of Sardanapalus. To- 
night, or to-morrow, I ought to answer letters. 

"February 16, 1821. 

"Last night H Conte P. G. sent a man with a bag full 
of bayonets, some muskets, and some hundreds of car- 
tridges to my house, without apprizing me, though I had 
seen him not half an hour before. About ten days ago, 
when there was to be a rising here, the Liberals and my 
brethren C. asked me to purchase some arms for a cer- 
tain few of our ragamuffins. I did so immediately, and 
ordered ammunition, &c. and they were armed accord- 
ingly. Well — the rising is prevented by the Barbarians 
marching a week sooner than appointed ; and an order is 
issued, and in force, by the Government, ' that all persons 
having arms concealed, &c. &c. shall be hable to,' &c. 
&c. — and what do my friends, the patriots, do two days 
afterward ? Why, they throw back upon my hands, and 
into my house, these very arms (without a word of warn- 
ing previously) with which I had furnished them at their 
owTi request, and at my own peril and expense. 

" It was lucky that Lega was at home to receive them. 
If any of the servants had (except Tita and F. anBLega) 
they would have betrayed it immediately. In the mean 
time, if they are denounced, or discovered, I shall be in a 
scrape. 

"At nine went out — at eleven returned. Beat the 
crow for stealing the falcon's victuals. Read 'Tales of 
my Landlord' — wrote a letter — and mixed a moderate 
beaker of water with other ingredients. 

"February 18, 1821. 

"The news are that the Neapolitans have broken a 
bridge, and slain four pontifical carabiniers, whilk cara- 
biniers, wished to oppose. Besides the disrespect to 
neutrality, it is a pity that the first blood shed in this Ger- 
man quarrel should be Italian. However, the war seems 
begun in good earnest ; for, if the Neapolitans kill the 
Pope's carabiniers, they will not be more delicate towards 
the Barbarians. If it be even so, in a short time, 'there 
will be news o' thae craws,' as Mrs. Alison Wilson says 
of Jenny Blane's 'unco cockernony' in the Tales of my 
Landlord. 

" In turning over Grimm's Correspondence to-day, I 
found a thought of Tom Moore's in a song of Maupertuis 
to a female Laplander. 

< Et tous leg lieux, 
Oii sont Bcsyeux, 
Font la Zone brfilaale.' 

This is Moore's — 

' And lho«e eyes make my climate, wherever I roam.' 

But I am sure that Moore never saw it ; for this song 
was published in Grimm's Corresponrlenco in 1813, and 
I knew Moore's by heart in 1812. There is also anotlier 
but an antithetical coincidence. 

■ I.e lolell luit, 
Dei Juuri inns null 
BientOt II iioui duttiiio ; 
Mais ces longs ]oiirs 
Seroiit trop cuiirls, 
Paasbs prils des Christine' 

Tliis is the ttioug/U, reversedy of the last stanza of tho 

33 



ballad on Charlotte Lynes, given in Miss Seward's Me- 
moirs of Darwin, which is pretty — I quote from memory 
of these last fifteen years. * 

' For my first nij^ht I '11 go 

To those regions of snow, 
Where the sun for six months never shinea ; 

And think, even then, 

He too soon came again, 
To disturb me with fair Charlotte Lynes.' 

" To-day I have had no communication with ray Car- 
bonari cronies ; but, in the mean time, my lower apart- 
ments are full of their bayonets, fusils, cartridges, and 
what not. I suppose that they consider me as a depot, 
to be sacrificed, in case of accidents. It is no great matter, 
supposing that Italy could be hberated, who or what is 
sacrificed. It is a grand object — the very poetry of poli- 
tics. Only think — a free Italy ! ! ! Why, there has been 
nothing hke it since the days of Augustus. I reckon the 
times of Caesar (Julius) free ; because the commotions 
left every body a side to take, and the parties were pretty 
equal at the set out. But, afterward, it was all Pretorian 
and legionary business — we shall see, or at least, some 
will see, what card will turn up. It is best to hope, even 
of the hopeless. The Dutch did more than these fellows 
have to do, in the Seventy Years' War. 

"February 19, 1821. 

"Came home solus — very high wind — lightning — 
moonshine — solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks — women 
in mask — white houses — clouds hurrying over the sky, like 
spilt milk blown out of the pail — altogether very poetical. 
It is still blowing hard — the tiles flying, and the house 
rocking — rain splashing — lightning flashing — quite a fine 
Swiss Alpine evening, and the sea roaring in the distance. 

"Visited — conversazione. All the women frightened 
by the squall : they won!t go to the masquerade because it 
lightens — the pious reason! 

" Still blowing away. A. has sent me some news to- 
day. The war approaches nearer and nearer. Oh those 
scoundrel sovereigns I Let us but see them beaten — let 
the Neapolitans but have the pluck of the Dutch of old, or 
of the Spaniards of now, or of the German Protestants, the 
Scotch Presbyterians, the Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks 
under Themistocles — all small and solitary nations, 
(except the S{)aniards and German Lutlicrans,) and there 
is yet a resurrection for Italy, and a hope for the world. 

"February 20,1821. 

" The news of the day are, that tlie Neajwlitans are full 
of energy. The public spirit here is certainly well kept 
up. The ' Americani' (a i.>atriotic society here, an under- 
branch of tlie 'Carbonari') give a dinner, in the Forest in 
a few days, and have invited me, as one of tlie C. It 
is to be in tlie Forest of Boccacio's and Dryden's ' Hunts- 
man's Ghost ;' and, even if I had not the same political 
feelings, (to say nothing of my old convivial turn, which 
every now and then revives,) I would go as a poet, or, at 
ast,as a lover of poetry. I shall expect to see tJie spectre 
of'Ostasio* degli Onesti' (Dryden has turned him into 
Guido Cavalcanti — an essentially diffcront person, as may 
be found in Dante) come ' thundering for his prey'f '" 'he 
midst of tho festival. At any rate, whether ho does or no, 
I will get OS tipsy and patriotic as possibk*. 

• WitJiin those few days I have read, but not written. 

"February 21, 1821. 
"As usual, nxle — visited, &c. Bitsini'ss ho^jins to 
thicken. The Pope has printed a deeluralion nizainst tiic 
patriots, who, ho says, nieditutt- a rising. The eonsp- 
(|nenci' of all this will ho, that, in a furliii^hl, thf whole 
country will he \ip. The priM'luinutii>n is not yi't |>iil>lish«Hl, 
hut printed, ready (or distribution. * * sent men ropy 
privately — a sign that ho duos n»t know what to think. 



• In Boccacio, Ihs nam* Is, I ihlnk. NvtUgio. 
t Sue Duo Ju»n, Cniito Sd, 105 and IM. 



258 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



When he wants to be well with the patriots, he sends to 
me some civil message or other. 

" For my own part, it seems to me, that nothing but the 
most decided success of the Barbarians can prevent a 
general and immediate rise of the whole nation. 

"February 23, 1821. 

"Almost ditto with yesterday — rode, &c. — visited — 
wrote nothing — read Roman History. 

"Had a curious letter from a fellow, who informs me 
that the Barbarians are ill-disposed towards me. He is 
probably a spy, or an impostor. But be it so, even as he 
says. They cannot bestow their hostility on one who 
loathes and execrates them more than I do, or who will 
oppose their views with more zeal, when the opportunity 



"February 24, 1821. 

"Rode, &c. as usual. The secret intelligence arrived 
this morning from the frontier to the C'. is as bad as pos- 
sible. The plan has missed — the chiefs are betrayed, 
military as well as civil — and the Neapolitans not only 
have not moved, but have declared to the P. government, 
and to the Barbarians, that they luiow nothing of the 
matter ! ! ! 

" Thus the world goes ; and thus the Italians are always 
lost for lack of union among themselves. What is to be 
done here, between the two fires, and cut off from the N^. 
frontier, is not decided. My opinion was, better to rise 
than be taken in detail ; but how it will be settled now, I 
cannot tell. Messengers are despatched to the delegates 
of the other cities to learn their resolutions. 

"I always had an idea that it would be bungled ; but was 
willing to hope, and am so still. Whatever I can do by 
money, means, or person, I will venture freely for their 
freedom ; and have so repeated to them (some of the 
Chiefs here) half an hour ago. I have two thousand five 
hundred scudi, better than five hundred pounds, in the 
house, which I offered to begin with. 

"February 25, 1821. 
"Came home — my head aches — plenty of news, but too 
tiresome to set downi. I have neither read, nor ^vritten, 
nor thought, but led a purely animal life all day. I mean 
to try to write a page or two before I go to bed. But, as 
Squire Sullen says, 'My head aches consumedly: Scrub, 
bring me a dram ." Drank some Imola wine, and some 
punch. 

Log-book contimied.* 

"February 27, 1821. 

" I have been a day vnthout continuing the log, because 
I could not find a blank book. At length I recollected this. 

" Rode, &c. — dined — wrote down an additional stanza 
for the 5th canto of D. J. which I had composed in bed 
this morning. Visited t Arnica. We are invited on the 
night of the Veglione, (next Domenica) with the Mar- 
chesa Clelia CavaUi and the Countess Spinelli Rusponi. 
I promised to go. Last night there was a row at the ball. 



of which I am a ' socio.' The vice-legate had the impu* 
dent insolence to introduce three of his servants in mask-— 
without tickets, too ! and in spite of remonstrances. The 
consequence was, that the young men of the ball took it 
up, and were near throv^nng the vice-legate out of the win- 
dow. His servants, seeing the scene, withdrew, and he 
after them. His reverence Monsignore ought to know, 
that these are not times for the predominance of priests 
over decorum. Two minutes more, two steps farther, and 
the whde city would have been in arms, and the govern- 
ment driven out of it. 

" Such is the spirit of the day, and these fellows appear 
not to perceive it. As far as the simple fact went, the 
young men were right, servants being prohibited always 
at these festivals. 

"Yesterday wrote two notes on the 'Bowles and Pope' 
controversy, and sent them oflTto Murray by the post. The 
old woman whom I relieved in the forest (she is ninety- 
four years of age*) brought me two bunches of violets, 
' Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus.' I was much pleased 
with the present. An Englishwoman would have pre- 
sented a pair of worsted stockings, at least, in the month 
of February. Both excellent things; but the former are 
more elegant. The present, at this season, reminds one 
of Gray's stanza, omitted from his elegy. 

' Here scatler'd oft, the earliest of the year, 

By haads unseen, are showers of violets found ; 
The redbreast loves to build and warble here, 
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.' 

As fine a stanza as any in his elegy. I wonder that he 
could have the heart to omit it. 

"Last night I suffered horribly — from an indigestion, I 
believe. I never sup — that is, never at home. But, last 
night, I was prevailed upon by the Countess Gamba's 
persuasion, and the strenuous example of her brother, to 
swallow, at supper, a quantity of boiled cockles, and to 
dilute them,not reluctantly, with some Imola wine. When 
I came home, apprehensive of the consequences, I swal- 
lowed three or four glasses of spirits, which men (the 
venders) call brandy, rum, or Hollands, but which gods 
would entitle spirits of wine, coloured or sugared. All was 
pretty well till I got to bed, when I became somewhat 
swollen, and considerably vertiginous. I got out, and 
mixing some soda-powders, drank them off. This brought 
on temporary relief. I returned to bed ; but grew sick 
and sorry once and again. Took more soda-water. At 
last I fell into a dreary sleep. Woke, and was ill aU day, 
till I had galloped a few miles. Q,uery — was it the 
cockles, or what I took to correct them, that caused the 
commotion? I think both. I remarked in my illness the 
complete inertion, inaction, and destruction of my chief 
mental faculties. I tried to rouse them, and yet could not — 
and this is the Soul!! ! I should beUeve that it was mar- 
ried to the body, if they did not sympathize so much with 
each other. If the one rose, when the other fell, it would 
be a sign that they longed for the natural state of divorce. 
But, as it is, they seem to draw together like posthorses. 

" Let us hope the best — it is the grand possessicm." 



' In another paper-book. 



See Journal, Jan. 26. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



(EXTRACTED FROM VARIOUS JOURNALS, MEMORANDUMS, &c. &c.) 



On the first leaf of his " Scriptores Graeci" is in his 
schoolboy hand, the following memorial : — " George Gor- 
don Byron, Wednesday, June 26th, a. d. 1805, 3 quarters 
of an hour past 3 o'clock in the afternoon, 3d school, — 
Calvert, monitor, Tom Wildman on my left hand, and 
Long on my right, Harrow on the Hill." On the same 
leafj written five years after, appears this comment : 

*• Eheu fugaces, Poslhume I Posthume I 
Labunturanni. 

* B. January 9th, 1809. — Of the four persons whose 
names are here mentioned, one is dead, another in a dis- 
tant climate, aU separated, and not five years have elapsed 
since they sat together in school, and none are yet twenty- 
one years of age." 

In some of his other school books are recorded the date 
of his entrance at Harrow, the names of the boys who 
were at that time monitors, and the hst of his fellow-pupils 
under Doctor Drury, as follows : 

"Byron, Harrow on the Hill, Middlesex, Alumnus 
Scholse Lyonensis primus in anno Domini 1801, Ellison 
Duce." 

"Monitors, 1801. — ElUson, Royston, Hunxman, Rash- 
leigh, Rokeby, Leigh." 

" Drury 's Pupils, 1804. — Byron, Drury, Sinclair, Hoare, 
Bolder, Annesley, Calverl, Strong, Acland, Gordon, 
Drummond." 

* * + * + * 

* For several years of my earliest childhood, I was in 
Aberdeen, but have never revisited it since I was ten 
years old. I was sent, at five years old or earlier, to a 
school kept by a Mr. Bowers, who was called ' Bodsy 
Bowers,' by reason of his dapperness. It was a school 
for both sexes. I learned little there except to repeat by 
rote the first lesson of Monosyllables (' God made man' 
— ' Let us love him') by hearing it often repeated, without 
acquiring a letter. Whenever proof was made of my 
progress at homo, I repeated these words with the most 
rapid fluency 5 but on turning over a new leaf, I continued 
to repeat them, so that the narrow boundaries of my first 
year's accomplishments were detected, my ears boxed, 
(which they did not deserve, seeing it was by ear only 
that I had acquired my letters,) and my intellects con- 
signed to a new preceptor. He was a very devout, clever 
little clergyman, named Ross, afterward minister of one 
of the kirks, {kast^ I think.) Under him I made asto- 
nishing progress, and I recollect to this day his mild man- 
ners and good-natured pains-taking. 'I'he moment I 
could read, my grand passion was history, and, wliy I 
know not, but 1 was particularly taken witli the battle 
near the Lake Regillus in the Roman History, put into 
my hands the first. Four years ago, wlion standing on 
the heights of Tusculum, and looking down upon Ujo little 
round lake tliat was once Regillus, and which dots the 
immense expanse below, I remembered my young enthu- 
siasm and my old instructor. Afterward 1 had a very 
serious, saturnine, but kind young man, named Patcrson, 
for a tutor. He was tlie son of my shoemaker, but a 
good scholar, as is common with the Scotch. Ho was a 
rigid Presbyterian also. With him I b»';jan Latin in 
Ruddiman's grammar, and continued till I went to the 



'Grammar School' {Scoticl, «Schule;' Aberdanici, 
< Squeel,') where I threaded all the classes to the fourth, 
when I was recalled to England (where I had been 
hatched) by the demise of my uncle. I acquired tliis 
handwriting, which I can hardly read myself under the 
fair copies of Mr. Duncan of the same city : I do n't 
think he would plume himself much upon my progress. 
However, I wrote much better then than I have ever 
done since. Haste and agitation of one kind or another 
have quite spoiled as pretty a scrawl as ever scratched 
over a frank. The grammar school might consist of a 
hundred and fifty of all ages under age. It was divided 
into five classes taught by four masters, the chief teaching 
the fourth and fifth himself. As in England, the fifth, 
sixth forms, and monitors, are heard by the head masters." 
****** 

"I doubt sometimes whether, after all, a quiet and 
unagitated Ufe would have suited me \ yet I sometimes 
long for it. My earliest dreams (as most boys' dreams 
are) were martial ; but a Uttle later they were all for love 
and retirement, till the hopeless attachment to M * * * 
C + * * began and continued (though sedulously con- 
cealed) very early in my teens ; and so upwards for a 
time. This threw me out again 'alone on a wide, wide 
sea.' In the year 1804, 1 recollect meeting my sister at 
General Harcourt's in Portland-place. I was then one 
thing, and as she had always till then found me. When 
we met again in 1805, (she told me since) my temper and 
disposition were so completely altered that I was hardly 
to be recognised. I was not then sensible of the change ; 
but I can believe it, luid account for it." 

****** 

" In all other respects," (he says, after mentioning hit 
infant passion for Mary Duff,) " I dilfered not at all from 
other cliildrcn, being neither tall nor short, dull nor witty, 
of my age, but rather lively — except in my sullen moods, 
and then I was always a devil. They once (in one of 
my silent rages) wrenched a knife from me, which I had 
snatched from table at Mrs. B.'s dinner, (I always dined 
earlier,) and applied to my breast ; — but tiiis was three or 
four years after, just before the late Lord B.'s decease. 

"My ostoisii/e temper has certainly improved in later 
years; but I shudder, and must, to my latest hour, regret 
the consequence of it and my passions combined. One 
event — but no matter — there are otliors not much bettor 
to tliink of also — and to them I give the preference 

" But I hate dwelling upon incidents. I\Iv temper is 
now undiT management — rarely loud, luul, wht-n loud, 
never deadly. It is when silent, and I feel my forehead 
and my cheek paling, that I cannot control it ; and then 

but unless tliere is a woman (aiul not any or every 

woman) in the way, I have sunk uito tolerable apatliy." 
***♦♦♦ 

" My passions were developed very early — so early 
tliat few would believe me if I were to state the period 
and the facts which accompanied it. Perhaps this was 
one of tlie reasons which caused the antieipnted melan- 
choly of my thoughts, — having anlieipated life. My 
arlier poems are tlie thoughts of one at least ten years 
older than the ago at which they worn writtm, — 1 don^ 



260 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



mean for their solidity, but their experience. The first 
two Cantos of Childe Harold were completed at twenty- 
two ; and they are written as if by a man older than I 
shall probably ever be." 

****** 
"My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It 
was the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Mar- 
garet Parker, (daughter and granddaughter of the two 
Admirals Parker,) one of the most beautiful vf evanes- 
cent beings. I have long forgotten the verses, but it 
would be difficult for me to forget her — her dark eyes — 
her long eyelashes — her completely Greek cast of face 
and figure ! I was then about twelve — she rather older, 
perhaps a year. She died about a year or two afterward, 
in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine, and 
induced consumption. Her sister Augusta (by some 
thought still more beautiful) died of the same malady ; 
and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met 
with the accident which occasioned her own death. My 
sister told me, that when she went to see her, shortly 
before her death, upon accidentally mentioning my name, 
Margaret coloured through tlie paleness of mortality to 
the eyes, to the great astonishment of my sister, who 
(residing with her grandmother. Lady Holdemess, and 
seeing but little of me, for family reasons) knew nothing 
of our attachment, nor could conceive why my name 
should affect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her 
illness, being at Harrow and in the country, till she was 
gone. Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy 
— 9 very dull one.* 

"I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the 
transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of 
her temper, during the short period of our intimacy. She 
looked as if she had been made out of a rambow — all 
beauty and peace. 

"My passion had its usual effects upon me — I could 
not sleep — I could not eat — I could not rest ; and although 
I had reason to know that she loved me, it was the texture 
of my life to tliink of the time which must elapse before 
we could meet again— being usually about twelve hours 
of separation ! But I was a fool tlien, and am not much 



and the whole went off with great effect upon our good- 
natured audience." 



wiser now 

****** 
"When I was fifteen years of age, it happened that, in 
a cavern m Derbyshire, I had to cross in a boat, (in which 
two people only could lie down,) a stream which flows 
under a rock, with the rock so close upon the water as to 
admit the boat only to be pushed on by a ferryman (a 
sort of Charon) who wades at the stern, stooping all the 
time. The companion of my transit was Mary Aime 
ChaworthjWith whom I had been long in love and never 
told it, though she had discovered it without. I recollect 
my sensations, but cannot describe them, and it is as well. 
We were a party, a Mr. W. two Miss W.'s, Mr. and 
Mrs. CI— ke. Miss R. and my M. A. C. Alas! why 
do I say my ? Our union would have healed feuds in 
which blood had been shed by our fathers, it would have 
joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at least 
one heart, and two persons not ill matched in years, (she 
is two years my elder,) and — and — and — what has been 
the result?" 



"When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good actor. 
Besides ' Harrow Speeches', (m which I shone,) I enacted 
Penruddock, in the « Wheel of Fortune,' and Tristram 
Fickle m Allingham's farce of the ' Weathercock,' for 
three nights, (the duration of our compact,) in some 
private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great 
applause. The occasional prologue for our volunteer 
play was also of my composition. The other performers 
were young ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood. 



See preceding Memoranda, on page 229. 



****** 
" When I first went up to college, it was a new and a 
heavy-hearted scene for me : firstly, I so much disliked 
leaving Harrow, that though it was time, (I being seven- 
teen,) it broke my very rest for the last quarter with 
counting tlie days that remained. I always hated Harrow 
till the last year Emd a half, but then I liked it. Secondly, 
I wished to go to Oxford and not to Cambridge. Thirdly, 
I was so completely alone in this new world, that it half 
broke my spirits. My companions were not unsocial, 
but the contrary — lively, hospitable, of rank and fortune, 
and gay far beyond my gayety. I mingled with, and 
dined and supped, &c. with them ; but, I know not how, 
it was one of the deadUest and heaviest feelings of my 
Ufe to feel that I was no longer a boy." 

"From that moment" (he adds) "I began to. grow old 
in my own esteem, and in my esteem age is not estima- 
ble. I took my gradations in the vices with great promp- 
titude, but they were not to my taste ; for ray early pas- 
sions, though violent in the extreme, were concentrated, 
and hated division or spreading abroad. I could have 
left or lost the whole world with, or for, that which I 
loved ; but, though my temperament was naturally burn- 
ing, 1 could not share in the commonplace Ubertinism of 
the place and time without disgust. And yet this very 
disgust, and my heart thrown back upon itself, threw me 
into excesses perhaps more fatal than those from which I 
shrunk, as fixing upon one ( at a time) the passions which 
spread among many would have hurt only myself." 
+ ***«# 

" Till I was eighteen years old (odd as it may seem) I 
had never read a Review. But while at Harrow," my 
general information was so great on modern topics as to 
induce a suspicion that I could only collect so much infor- 
mation from Reviews, because I was never seen reading, 
but always idle, and in mischief^ or at play. The truth is, 
that I read eating, read in bed, read when no one else 
, and had read all sorts of reading since I was five 
years old, and yet never met with a Review, which is the 
only reason I know of why I should not have read them. 
But it is true ; for I remember when Hunter and Curzon, 
in 1804, told me this opinion at Harrow, I made them 
laugh by my ludicrous astonishment in asking them, 
' What is a Review ?' To be sure, they were then less 
common. In three years more, I was better acquainted 
with that same ; but the first I ever read was in 1806-7. 

"At School I was (as I have said) remarked for the 
extent and readiness of my general information ; but in all 
other respects idle, capable of great sudden exertions, 
(such as thirty or forty Greek hexameters, of course with 
such prosody as it pleased God,) but of few continuous 
drudgeries. My qualities were much more oratorical and 
martial than poetical, and Dr. Drury, my grand patron, 
(our head master,) had a great notion that I should turn 
out an orator, from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, 
my copiousness of declamation, and my action. I remem- 
ber that my first declamation astonished him into some 
unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden 
compliments, before the declaimers at our first rehearsal. 
My first Harrow verses, (that is, English, as exercises,) 
a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of ^Eschy- 
lus, were received by him but coolly. No one had the 
least notion that I should subside into poesy. 

"Peel, the orator and statesman, (' that was, or is, or is 
to be,') was my form-fellow, and we were both at the top 
of our remove, -(a public-school phrase.) We were on 
good terms, but his brother was my intimate friend. There 
were always great hopes of Peel, among us all, masters 
and scholars — and he has not disappointed them. As a 
scholar he was greatly my superior ; as a declaimer and 
actor, I was reckoned at least his equal ; as a schoolboy, 
out of school, I was always in scrapes, and he never ; and 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



261 



in school, he always knew his lesson, and I rarely, — but 
when I knew it, I knew it nearly as well. In general 
information, history, &c. &c. I think I was his superior, as 
well as of most boys of my standing. 

" The prodigy of our school-days was George Sinclair, 
(son of Sir John ;) he made exercises for half the school, 
{literalli/,) verses at will, and themes without it. * * * 
He was a friend of mine, and in the same remove, and 
used at times to beg me to let him do my exercise, — a 
request always most readily accorded upon a pinch, or 
when I wanted to do something else, which was usually 
once an hour. On the other hand, he was pacific and I 
savage ; so I fought for him, or thrashed others for him, 
or tlirashed himself to malce him thrash others, when it 
was necessary, as a point of honour and stature, that he 
should so chastise ; or we talked politics, for he was a 
great pohtician, and were very good friends. I have 
some of his letters, written to me from school, still.* 

" Clayton was another school-monster of learning, and 
talent, and hope ; but what has become of him I do not 
know. He was certainly a genius. 

" My school friendships were with me passions, (for I 
was always violent,) but I do not know that there is one 
which has endured (to be sure some have been cut short 
by death) till now. That with Lord Clare began one of 
the earliest and lasted longest — being only interrupted by 
distance — that I know of I never hear the word ' Clare' 
wthout a beating of the heart even now, and I write it 
with the feelings of 1803-4-5 ad infinitum." 

"At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I 

lost but one battle out of seven ; and that was to H ; 

— and the rascal did not win it, but by the unfair treat- 
ment of his own boarding-house, where we boxed — I had 
not even a second. I never forgave him, and I should be 
sorry to meet him now, as I am sure we should quarrel. 
My most memorable combats were with Morgan, Rice, 
Rainsford, and Lord Jocelyn, — but we were always 
friendly afterward. I was a most unpopular boy, but led 
latterly, and have retained many of my school friendships, 
and all my dislikes — except to Doctor Butler, whom I 
treated rebelliously, and have been sorry ever since 
Doctor Drury, whom I plagued sufficiently too, was the 
best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had — 
and I look upon him still as a father. 

"P. Hunter, Curzon, Long, and Tatersall, were my 
principal friends. Clare, Dorset, C«. Gordon, De Bath, 
Claridge, and Jn". Wingfield, were my juniors and favour- 
ites, whom I spoiled by indulgence. Of all human 
beings, I was, perhaps, at one time, the most attached to 
poor Wingfield, who died at Coimbra, 1811, before I 
returned to England." 

+ ♦ * * * 

"I have been thinking over, the other day, on the vari- 
ous comparbons, good or evil, which I have seen published 
of myself in different journals, English and foreign. This 
was suggested to mo by accidentally turning over a 
foreign one lately, — for I have made it a rule latterly never 
to search for any thing of the kind, but not to avoid the 
perusal if presented by chance, 

" To begin, then : I have seen myself compared per- 
sonally or poetically, in English, French, German, {as 
interpreted to me,) Italian, and Portuguese, within these 
nine years, to Rousseau, Goethe, Young, Aretine, Timon 
of Alliens, Dante, Petrarch, ' an alabaster vase, lighted up 
within,' Satan, Shakspeare, Buonaparte, Tiberius, ^schy- 
lus, Sophocles, Euripides, Harlequin, Uic Clown, Stern- 
hold and Hopkins, to the phantasmagoria, to Henry the 
Eighth, to Chenier, to Miraboau, to young 11. Dallas, 
(the schoolboy,) to Michael Angelo, to Raphael, to a 
pelit-maitre, to Diogenes, to Childc Harold, to Lara, to 
the Count in Bcppo, to Milton, to Pope, to Dryden, to 
Burns, to Savage, to Chatterton, to 'oft have I hoard of 



thee, my Lord Biron,' in Shakspeare, to Churchill the 
poet, to Kean the actor, to Alfieri,&c. &c. &c. 

" The likeness to Alfieri was asserted very seriously by 
an Italian who had known him in his younger days. It 
of course related merely to our apparent personal dispo- 
sitions. He did not assert it to me, (for we were not then 
good friends,) but in society, 

" The object of so many contradictory comparisons 
must probably be like something different from them all ; 
but what tJiat is, is more than / know, or anybody else." 
+ * * + * 

"My mother, before I was twenty, would have it that I 
was like Rousseau, and Madame de Stael used to say so 
too in 1813, and the Edinburgh Review has something of 
the sort in its critique on the fourth Canto of Childe 
Harold. I can't see any point of resemblance : — he 
wrote prose ; I verse ; he was of the people ; I of the 
aristocracy:* he was a philosopher; I am none: he 
published his first work at forty ; I mine at eighteen : his 
first essay brought him universfd applause ; mine the 
contrary : he married his housekeeper ; I could not keep 
house with my wife : he thought all the world in a plot 
against him ; my little world seems to think me in a plot 
against it, if I may judge by their abuse in print and 
coterie : he liked botany ; I like flowers, herbs, and trees, 
but know nothing of their pedigrees : he wrote music ; I 
limit my knowledge of it to what I catch by ear — I never 
could learn any thing by sttidi/, not even a language — it 
was all by rote, and ear, and memory : he had a bad 
memory ; I had, at least, an excellent one, (ask Hodgson, 
the poet — a good judge, for he has an astonishing one :) 
he wrote with hesitation and care ; I with rapidity, and 
rarely with pains : he could never ride, nor swim, nor 
' was curming of fence ;' / am an excellent swimmer, a 
decent, though not at all a dashing, rider, (having staved 
in a rib at eighteen in the course of scampering,) and 
was sufficient of fence, particularly of the Highland 
broadsword, — not a bad boxer, when I could keep my 
temper, which was difficult, but which I strove to do ever 
since I knocked down Mr. Purling, and put his kneepan 
out (with the gloves on,) in Angelo's and Jackson's 
rooms, in 1806, during the sparring, — and I was besides a 
very fair cricketer — one of the Harrow eleven, when we 
played against Eton in 1805. Besides, Rousseau's way 
of life, his country, his manners, his whole character, 
were so very different, that I am at a loss to conceive how 
such a comparison could have arisen, as it has done three 
several times, and all in rather a remarkable manner. I 
forgot to say that he was also shortsighted, and that 
hitherto my eyes have been the contrary, to such a 
degree, tliat in the largest tlieatre of Bologna I distin- 
guished and read some busts and inscriptions painted near 
tlie stage from a box so distant and so darkly lighted, that 
none of the company (composed of young and very 
bright-eyed people, some of tliem in the same box) could 
make out a letter, and thought it was a trick, tliough 1 had 
never been in that theatre before. 

" Altogether, I think myself justified in Uiinking tho 
comparison not well founded, I do n't say tliis out of 
pique, for Rousseau was a groat man, and tlie tiling, if 
true, were flattering enough ; — but I have no idea of 
bemg pleased with a chimera," ♦ + ♦ ♦ 

* ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

"I have been thinking of an o<ld circumstance. My 
daughter, (1) my wife, (2) my half-sister, (3) my molhor, 
(4) my sister's moliuT, (5) my natural diiuj.'liter, (6) ami 
myself, (7) are, or were, all only cliildren. ISIy sisU-r'a 
niollier (Lady Conyers) hud only my half-sister by Dial 
second marriaac, (iierself, I»m>, an only chilil,) uiul my 
father had only nu', an only cliihl, by his seoon<l niama^o 
with my mother, an only child \oo. Such a complication 
of only children, all tending to on« family, i» «injuUr 



ChUdi Harold, Ctnto T. Note 19. 



8«« r.txer 38. 



262 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



enough, and looks like fatality almost. But the fiercest 
animals have the fewest numbers in their litters, as lions, 
tigers, and even elephants, which are mild in compari- 
son."* 

***** 
** I have a notion (he says) that gamblers are as happy 
as many people, being always excited. Women, wine, 
fame, the table, — even ambition, sate now and then ; but 
every turn of the card and cast of the dice keeps the 
gamester alive ; besides, one can game ten times longer 
than one can do any thing else. I was very fond of it 
when young, that is to say, of hazard, for I hate all card 
games, — even faro. When macco (or whatever they 
spell it) was introduced, I gave up the whole thing, for I 
loved and missed the rattle and dash of the box and dice, 
and the glorious uncertainty, not only of good luck or bad 
luck, but of any luck at all, as one had sometimes to throw 
often to decide at all. I have tlirown as many as fourteen 
mains running, and carried off all the cash upon the table 
occasionally ; but I had no coolness, or judgment, or cal- 
culation. It was the delight of the thing that pleased me. 
Upon the whole, I left off in time, without being much a 
wimier or loser. Since one-and-twenty years of age I 
have played but little, and then never above a hundred, or 
two, or three." * * + + 

"list of historical writers whose works X 

HAVE PERUSED IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES. 

*^ History of England. — ^Hume, Rapin, Henry, SmoUet, 
Tindal, Belsham, Bisset, Adolphus, Holingshed, Frois- 
sart''s Chronicles, (belonging properly to France.) 

•* Scotland. — Buchanan, Hector Boethius, both in the 
Latin. 

" Ireland. — Gordon. 

" Rome. — Hooke, Decline and Fall by Gibbon, Ancient 
History by Rollin, (including an account of the Carthagi- 
nians, &c.) besides Livy, Tacitus, Eutropius, Comehus 
Nepos, Julius Caesar, Arrian, Sallust. 

" Greece. — Mitford's Greece, Leland's Philip, Plutarch, 
Potter's Antiquities, Xenophon, Thucydides, Herodotus. 
" France. — Mezeray, Voltaire. 

" Spain. — I chiefly derived my knowledge of old Spanish 
History from a book called the Atlas, now obsolete. The 
modern history, from the intrigues of Alberoni down to 
the Prince of Peace, I learned from its connexion with 
European politics. 

"Portugal. — FromVertot; as also his account of the 
Siege of Rhodes, — though the last is his own invention, 
the real facts being totally different. — So much for his 
Knights of Malta. 

" Turkey. — I have read Knolles, Sir Paul Rycaut, and 
Prince Cantemir, besides a more modem history, ano- 
nymous. Of the Ottoman History I know every event, 
from Tangralopi, and afterward Othman I. to the peace 
of Passarowitz, in 1718, — the battle of Cutzka, in 1739, 
and the treaty between Russia and Turkey, in 1790. 

^^ Russia. — Tooke's Life of Catherine II. Voltaire's 
Czar Peter. 

"Sweden. — Voltaire's Charles XII. also Norberg's 
Charles XII. — in my opinion the best of the two. — A 
translation of Schiller's Thirty Years' War, which con- 
tains the exploits of Gustavus Adolphus, besides Harte's 
Life of the same Prince. I have somewhere, too, read 
an account of Gustavus Vasa, the deliverer of Sweden, 
but do not remember the author's name. 

" Prussia. — I have seen, at leeist, twenty Lives of Fre- 
derick II. the only prince worth recording in Prussian 
annals. Gillies, His own Works, and Thiebault, — none 
very amusing. The last is paltry, but circumstantial. 

" Denmark I know litde of Of Norway I understand 
the natural history, but not the chronological. 
" Germany. — I have read long histories of the house 

* See LetUr 636. 



of Suabia, Wenceslaus, and, at length, Rodolph of Haps* 
burgh and his thick-lipped Austrian descendants. 

" Switzerland.— Ah\ William Tell, and the battle of 
Morgarten, where Burgundy was slain. 

"Italy. — Davila, Guicciardini, the Guelphs and Ghibel- 
lines, the battle of Pavia, Massaniello, the revolutions of 
Naples, &c. &c. 

" Hindostan. — Orme and Cambridge. 

"America. — Robertson, Andrews' American War. 

"Africa. — ^Merely from travels, as Mungo Park, Bruce. 

" BIOGRAPHV. 

"Robertson's Charles V. — Caesar, Sallust, (Catiline 
and Jugurtha,) Lives of Marlborough and Eugene, 
Tekeli, Bonnard, Buonaparte, all the British Poets, both 
by Johnson and Anderson, Rousseau's Confessions, Life 
of Cromwell, British Plutarch, British Nepos, Campbell's 
Lives of the Admirals, Charles XII. Czar Peter, Cathe- 
rine II. Henry Lord Kaimes, Marmontel, Teignmouth's 
Sir William Jones, Life of Newton, Belisaire, with thou- 
sands not to be detailed. 



" Blackstone, Montesquieu. 

"philosophy. 

"Paley, Locke, Bacon, Hume, Berkeley, Druromondi 
Beattie, and Bolingbroke. Hobbes I detest. 

" GEOGRAPHY. 

"Strabo, Cellarius, Adams, Pinkerton, and Ghithrie. 

" POETRY. 

" All the British Classics, as before detailed, with most 
of the living poets, Scott, Southey, &c. — Some French, 
in the original, of which the Cid is my favourite. — ^Little 
Italian. — Greek and Latin without number ; — these last I 
shall give up in future. — I have translated a good deal 
from both languages, verse as well as prose. 

" ELOQUENCE. 

"Demosthenes, Cicero, Cluintilian, Sheridan, Austin's 
Chironomia, and Parliamentary Debates, from the Re- 
volution to the year 1742. 

" divinity. 

" Blair, Porteus, Tillotson, Hooker, — all very tiresome. 
I abhor books of religion, though I reverence and love my 
God, without the blasphemous notions of sectaries, or 
belief in their absurd and damnable heresies, mysteries, 
and Thirty-nine Articles. 

"miscellanies. 

"Spectator, Rambler, World, &c. &c.— Novels by the 
thousand. 

" All the books here enumerated I have taken down 
from memory. I recollect reading them, and can quote 
passages from any mentioned. I have, of course, omitted 
several in my catalogue ; but the greater part of the above 
I perused before the age of fifteen. Since I left Harrow 
I have become idle and conceited, from scribbling rhjone 
and making love to women. " B. — Nov. 30, 1807. 

" I have also read (to my regret at present) above four 
thousands novels, including the works of Cervantes, Field- 
ing, Smollet, Richardson, Mackenzie, Sterne, Rabelais^ 
and Rousseau, &c. &c. The book, in my opinion, most 
useful to a man who wishes to acquire the reputation of 
being well read, with the least trouble, is, 'Burton's Ana- 
tomy of Melancholy,' the most amusing and instructive 
medley of quotations and classical anecdotes I ever 
perused. But a superficial reader must take care, or his 
intricacies will bewilder him. Ifj however, he has patiencs 
to go through his volumes, he will be more improved for 
literary conversation than by the perusal of any twenty 



t 



DETACHED THOLGHTS. 



263 



other works with which I am acquainted, — at least, in the 
English language." 

In the same book that contains the above record of his 
studies, he has written out, also from memory, a " List 
of the different poets, dramatic or otherwise, who have 
distinguished their respective languages by their pro'luc- 
tions." After enumerating the various poets, both ancient 
and modem, of Europe, he thus proceeds with his cata- 
logue through other quarters of the world : — 

"Arabia. — Mahomet, whose Koran contains most 
sublime poetical passages, far surpassbg European 
poetry. 

"Persia. — Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, the 
Persian Iliad, — Sadi, and Hafiz, the immortal Hafiz, the 
oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced beyond any 
bard of ancient or modem times by the Persians, who 
resort to his tomb near Shiraz, to celebrate his memory. 
A splendid copy of his works is chained to his monument. 

"America. — An epic poet has already appeared in that 
hemisphere. Barlow, author of the Columbiad, — not to be 
compared with the works of more polished nations. 

"Iceland, Denmark, Norway, were famous for their 
Skalds. Among these Lodburg was one of the most dis- 
tinguished. His Death-Song breathes ferocious senti- 
ments, but a glorious and impassioned strain of poetry. 

*^Hindostan is undistinguished by any great bard, — at 
least, the Sanscrit is so imperfectly known to Europeans, 
we know not what poetical relics may exist. 

* Tkc Birman Empire. — Here the natives are passion- 
ately fond of poetry, but their bards are unknown. 

" China. — I never heard of any Chinese poet but the 
Emperor Kien Long, and his ode to Tea. What a pity 
their philosopher Confucius did not write poetry, with his 
precepts of morality ! 

** Africa. — In Africa some of the native melodies are 
plaintive, and the words simple and affecting ; but whether 
their rude strains of nature can be classed with poetry, as 
the songs of the bards, the Skalds of Europe, &c. &c. I 
know not. 

"This brief list of poets I have written down from 
memory, without any book of reference ; consequently 
some errors may occur, but I think, if any, very trivial . 
The works of the European, and some of the Asiatic, I 
have perused, either in the original or translations. In my 
list of English, I have merely mentioned the greatest ; — 
to enumerate the minor poets would be useless, as well as 
tedious. Perhaps Gray, Goldsmith, and Collins, might have 
have added, as worthy of mention, in a cosmopolite account. 
But as for the others, from Chaucer down to Churchill, 
they are 'voces et pneterea nihil ;' — sometimes spoken ofj 
rarely read, and never with advantage. Chaucer, not- 
withstanding the praises bestowed on him, I think obscene 
and contemptible : — he owes his celebrity merely to his 
antiquity, which he does not deserve so well as Pierce, 
Plowman, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living 
poets I have avoided mentioning; — we have none who 
will not survive their productions. Taste is over with 
us; and another century will sweep our empire, our 
literature, and our name, from all but a place in the 
annals of mankind. "Byron." 

"November 30, 1807. 

+ ♦♦♦♦♦ 

"KnoUes, Cantemir, De Tott, Lady M. W. Montague, 
Hawkins's Translation from Mignot's History of the 
Turks, the Arabian Nights, all travels, or histories, or 
books upon the East I could meet with, I had read, as 
well as Rycaut, before I was ten years old. I think the 
Arabian Nights first. After these, I preferred tlie history 
of naval actions, Don Q,uixote, and Smollet's novelst, par- 
ticularly Roderick Random, and I was passionate for the 
Roman History. When a boy, I could never bear to 
read any poetry whatever without disgust and reluct- 
ance." 



« When I belonged to the Dniry-lane Committee, and 
was one of the Sub-committee of Management, the num- 
ber of plays upon the shelves were about Jive hundred. 
Conceiving that among these there must be some of merit, 
in person and by proxy I caused an investigation. I do 
rot tfcnk that of those which I saw, there was one which 
coul J be conscientiously tolerated. There never were 
such Lyings as most of them ! Maturin was very kindly 
recommended to me by Walter Scott, to whom I had 
recourse, firstly, in the hope that he would do something 
for us himself] and secondly, in my despair, that he would 
point out to us any young (or old) writer of promise. 
Maturin sent his Bertram and a letter without his ad- 
dress, so that at first I could give him no answer. When 
1 at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable 
answer and something more substantial. His play suc- 
ceeded ; but I was at that time absent from England. 

" I tried Coleridge too ; but he had nothing feasible b. 
hand at the time. Mr. Sotheby obligingly offered all his 
tragedies, and I pledged myself, and notwithstanding 
many squabbles with my Committed Brethren, did get 
' Ivan' accepted, read, and the parts distributed. But, lo! 
in the very heart of the matter, upon some tepidness on 
the part of Kean, or warmth on that of the author, 
Sotheby withdrew his play. Sir J. B. Burgess did also 
present four tragedies and a farce, and I moved green- 
room and Sub-committee, but they would not. 

" Then the scenes I had to go through ! — the authors, 
and the authoresses, and the milliners, and the wld Irish- 
men, — the people from Brighton, from Blackwall, from 
Chatham, from Cheltenham, from Dublin, from Dundee, 
— who came in upon me ! to all of whom it was proper 
to give a civil answer, and a hearing, and a reading. 
Mrs. Glover's father, an Irish dancing-master of sixty 
years, called upon me to request to play Archer, dressed 
in silk stockings, on a frosty morning, to show his legs 
(which were certainly good and Irish for his age, and had 
been still better,) — Miss Emma Somebody with a play 
entitled ' The Bandit of Bohemia,' or ^ome such title or 
production, — Mr. O'Higgins, then resident at Richmond, 
with an Irish tragedy, in which the unities could not fail 
to be observed, for the protagonist was chamed by the 
leg to a pillar during the chief part of the performance. 
He was a wild man of a salvage appearance, and the 
difficulty of not laughing at him weis only to be got over 
by reflecting upon the probable consequences of such 
cachinnation. 

"As I am really a civil and polite person, and ao hate 
giving pain when it can be avoided, I sent them up to 
Douglas Kinnaird, — who is a man of business, and sufii- 
ciently ready with a negative, — and left them to settle 
with him ; and as the beginning of next year I went 
abroad, I have since been little awaro of tlie progress of 
the theatres. 

*** + ♦♦ 

" Players are said to be an impracticable people. They 
are so: but I managed to steer clear of any disputes with 
them, and excepting one debate with the elder Byrne 
about Miss Smith's pas de — (something — I forget the 
technicals,) — I do not remember luiy litigation of my 
own. I used to protect Miss Smith, because she was 
like Lady Jane Harley in the face, and likenesses go "a 
great way with me. Indeed, in general, I left such thingi 
to my more bustling colleagues, who used to reprove mc 
seriously for not being able to take such tilings in hand 
without bufl'ooing willi llio histrions, or throwing things 
into confusion by treating Ught matters wilJi levity. 

♦ *♦♦♦♦ 

" Then the Committee ! — then the Snb-committoe I — 
wo were but few, but never agreed. There was Peter 
Moore who contradicted Kinnaird, and Kinnainl who 
contradicted every body: then our two managers, Rae 
and Dibdin ; and our Secretary, Ward I and yet \v© were 
all very t«aloua and in «am«flt tn do good and so forth. 



264 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



^S!H! 



* * + ♦ furnished us with prologues to our revived old 
English plays ; but was not pleased with me for compli- 
menting him as 'the Upton' of our theatre, (Mr. Upton is 
or was the poet who writes the songs for Astley's,) cUid 
almost gave up prologuing in consequence. 

****** 

"In the pantomime of 1815-16, there was a repre- 
sentation of the masquerade of 1814 given by ' us youth' 
of Watier's Club to Wellington and Co. Douglas Kin- 
naird and one or two others, with myself, put on masques, 
and went on the stage with the bi rroXXot, to see the 
effect of a theatre from the stage ; — it is very grand. 
Douglas danced among the figuranti too, and they were 
puzzled to find out who we were, as being more than 
their number. It was odd enough that Douglas Kinnaird 
and I should have been both at the reed masquerade, and 
afterward in the mimic one of the same, on the stage of 
the Drury-lane theatre." 

****** 

"In 1812," he says, "at Middleton, (Lord Jersey's,) 
among a goodly company of lords, ladies, and wits, &c. 
there was + * * 

" Erskine, too ! Erskine was there ; good, but intoler- 
able. He jested, he talked, he did every thing admirably, 
but then he would be applauded for the same thing twice 
over. He would read his own verses, his own paragraph, 
and tell his own story, again and again ; and then ' the 
Trial by jury ! ! 1' I almost wished it abolished, for I sat 
next him at dinner. As I had read his published speeches, 
there was no occasion to repeat them to me, 

«Q + * (the fox-hunter,) nicknamed ^ Cheek C * *,' 
and I, sweated the claret, being the only two who did so. 
C + *, who loves his bottle, and had no notion of meet- 
ing with a ' bon-vivant' in a scribbler, in making my eulogy 
to somebody one evening, summed it up in — ' By G — d, 
he drinks like a man 1' 

" Nobody drank, however, but C * * and I. To be 
sure, there was little occasion, for we swept off what was 
on the table (a most splendid board, as may be supposed 
at Jersey's) very sufficiently. However, we carried our 
liquor discreetly, like the Baron of Bradwardine." 

*** + **' 

"At the opposition meeting of the Peers, in 1812, at 
Lord Grenville's, when Lord Grey and he read to us the 
correspondence upon Moira's negotiation, I sat next to 
the present Duke of Grafton, and said, ' What is to be 
done next?' — 'Wake the Duke of Norfolk,' (who was 
snoring away near us,) replied he: 'I don't think the 
negotiators have left anything else for us to do this turn.' 
" In the debate, or rather discussion, afterward in the 
House of Lords upon that very question, I sat immedi- 
ately behind Lord Moi, a, who was extremely annoyed at 
Grey's speech upon the subject; and, while Grey was 
speaking, turned round to me repeatedly, and asked me 
whether I agreed with him. It was an awkward question 
to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeat- 
ing to me, ' It was not so, it was so and so,' &c. I did 
not know very well what to think, but I sympathized with 
the acuteness of his feelings upon the subject." 

"The subject of the Catholic claims was, it is well 
known, brought forward a second time this session by 
Lord Wellesley, whose motion for a future consideration 
erf" the question was carried by a majority of one. In 
reference to this division, another rather amusing anec- 
dote is thus related. 

" Lord * * affects an imitation of two very different 
Chancellors, Thurlow and Loughborough, and can indulge 
in an oath now and then. On one of the debates on the 
Catholic question, when we were either equal or within 
one, (I forget which,) I had been sent for in great haste 
to a ball, which I quitted, I confess, somewhat reluctantly, 
to emancipate five millions of people. I came in late, 
and did not go immediately into t!ic body of the House, 



but stood just behind the woolsack. * * turned round, 
and, catching my eye, immediately said to a peer, (who 
had come to him for a few minutes on the woolsack, as is 
the custom of his friends,) ' Deutui them ! they '11 have it 
now, — by G — d 1 the vote that is just come in will give 
it them.' " 

****** 

" When I came of age, some delays, on account of 
some birth and marriage certificates from Cornwall, 
occasioned me not to take my seat for several weeks. 
When these were over and I had taken the oaths, the 
Chancellor apologized to me for the delay, observing, 
' that these forms were a part of his duty.'' I begged 
him to make no apology, and added, (as he certainly had 
shown no violent hurry,) 'Your Lordship was exactly 
like Tom Thumb' (which was then being acted) — 'You 
did your duty, and you did no more.' " 

****** 

" I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of 
an orator. G rattan would have been near it, but for his 
harlequin delivery. Pitt I never heard. Fox but once, 
and then he struck me as a debater, which to me seems 
as different from an orator as an improvisatore, or a ver- 
sifier from a poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. 
Canning is sometimes very like one. Windham I did 
not admire, though all the world did; it seemed sad 
sophistry. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of bad 
taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. 
Holland is impressive from sense and sincerity. Lord 
Lansdowne good, but still a debater only. Grenville I 
like vastly, if he would prune his speeches down to an 
hour's delivery. Burdett is sweet and silvery as Belial 
himself, and I think the greatest favourite in Pandemo- 
nium, at least I always heard the country gentlemen and 
the ministerial devilry praise his speeches up stairs, and 
run down from Bellamy's when he was upon his legs. I 
heard Bob Mibies make his second speech ; it made no 
impression. I lilce Ward — studied, but keen, and some- 
times eloquent. Peel, my school and form-fellow, (we 
sate within two of each other,) strange to say, I have 
never heard, though I often wished to do so ; but from 
what I remember of him at Harrow, he is, or should be, 
among the best of them. Now, I do not admire Mr. 
Wilberforce's speaking ; it is nothing but a flow of words 
words, words alone.' 

I doubt greatly if the English Tiave any eloquence, 
properly so called ; and am inclined to think that the Irish 
had a great deal, and that the French tuili have, and have 
had in Mirabeau. Lord Chatham and Burke are the 
nearest approaches to orators in England. I do n't know 
what Erskine may have been at the bar; but in the 
House, I wish him at the bar once more. Lauderdale is 
shrill, and Scotch, and acute. 

****** 

"But among all these, good, bad, and indifferent, I 
never heard the speech which was not too long for the 
auditors, and not very intelligible, except here and there. 
The whole thing is a grand deception, and as tedious and 
tiresome as may be to those who must be often present. 
I heard Sheridan only once, and that briefly, but I liked 
his voice, his manner, and his wit ; and he is the only one 
of them I ever wished to hear at greater length. 

" The impression of Parliament upon me was, that its 
members are not formidable as speakers, but very much 
so as an audience ; because in so numerous a body there 
may be little eloquence, (after all, there were but two 
thorough orators in all antiquity, and I suspect still feiver 
in modern times,) but there must be a leaven of thought 
and good sense sufficient to make them know what is 
right, though they can't express it nobly. 

"Home Tooke and Roscoe both are said to have 
declared that they left Parliament with a higher opinion 
of its aggregate integrity and abilities than that with 
which they entered it. The general amount of both in 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



265 



most Parliaments is probably about the same, as also the 
number of speakers and their talent. I except orators of 
course, because they are things of ages, and not of sep- 
tennial or triennial reunions. Neither House ever struck 
me with more awe or respect than the same number of 
Turks in a divan, or of Methodists in a barn, would have 
done. Whatever diffidence or nervousness I felt (and I 
felt both in a great degree) arose from the number rather 
than the quality of the assemblage, and the thought rather 
of the public without than the persons within, — ■knowing 
(as all know) that Cicero himself, and probably the Mes- 
siah, could never have altered the vote of a single lord 
of the bedchamber or bishop. I thought our House dull, 
but the other animatmg enough upon great days. 
***** 

" In society I have met Sheridan frequently : he was 
superb ! He had a sort of liking for me, and never at- 
tacked me, at least to my face, and he did every body 
else — high names, and wits, and orators, some of them 
poets also. I have seen him cut up Whitbread, quiz 
Madame de Stael, annihilate Colman, and do Uttle less 
by some others (whose names, as friends, 1 set not down) 
of good fame and ability. 

" The last time I met him was, I think, at Sir Gilbert 
Elliot's, where he was as quick as ever — no, it was not 
the last time ; the last time was at Douglas Kinnaird's. 

"I have met him in all places and parties — at White- 
hall with the Melbourne's, at the Marquis of Tavistock's, 
at Robins's the auctioneer's, at Sir Humphrey Davy's, at 
Sam Rogers's, — in short, in most kinds of company, and 
always found him very convivial and delightful. 

" I have seen Sheridan weep two or three times. It 
may be that he was maudlin; but this only renders it 
more impressive, for who would see 

' From Marlborough's eyes the tears of dotage flow, 
And Swift expire a driveller and a show ?' 

Once I saw him cry at Robins's the auctioneer's, after a 
splendid dinner, full of great names and high spirits. I 
had the honour of sitting next to Sheridan. The occa- 
sion of his tears was some observation or other upon the 
subject of the sturdiness of the Whigs in resisting office 
and keeping to their principles : Sheridan turned round : 
• Sir, it is easy for my Lord G. or Earl G. or Marquis B. 
or Lord H. with thousands upon thousands a year, some 
of it either presently derived, or inherited in sinecure or 
acquisitions from the public money, to boast of their 
patriotism and keep aloof from temptation ; but they do 
not know from what temptation those have kept aloof 
who had equal pride, at least equal talents, and not un- 
equal passions, and nevertheless knew not in tho course 
of their fives what it was to have a shilling of their own.' 
And in saying this he wept. 

" I have more than once heard him say, ' that he never 
had a shilling of his own.' To be sure, he contrived to 
extract a good many of other people's. 

" In 1815, 1 had occasion to visit my lawyer in Chan- 
cery-lane: he was with Sheridan. Afler mutual grcot- 
ingH, &c. Sheridan retired first. Before recurring to my 
own business, I could not help inquiring that of Sheridan. 
•Oh,' replied the attorney, 'the usual thing! to stave otf 
an action from his wine-merchant, my client,' — ' Well,' 
said I, 'and what do you mean to do?' — 'Nothing at all 
for tho present,' said he : ' would you havo us proceed 
against old Sherry ? what would be tho uso of it 7' anil 
here he began laughing, and going over Sheridan's good 
gifts of conversation. 

" Now, from personal experience, I ran vouch that my 
attorney is by no means the tcnderest of men, or par- 
ticularly accessiblo to any kind of impression out of the 
statute or record ; and yet Sheridan, in half an liour, hud 
fotmd tho way to soflen and seduce iiim in such a manner, 
that I almost think he would have thrown his client (an 
honest man, with all the laws, and some justice, on hia 
tide) out of tho window, had he como in at tho moment. 
34 



" Such was Sheridan ! he could soften an attorney ! 
There has been nothing like it since the days of Orpheus. 

" One day I saw him take up his 0%^ ' Monody on 
Garrick.' He hghted upon tlie Dedication to the Dow- 
ager Lady + *. On seeing it, he flew into a rage, and 
exclaimed, 'that it must be a forgery, that he had never 
dedicated any thing of his to such a d — d canting,' &c. 
&c. &c. — and so went on for half an hour abusing his 
own dedication, or at least the object of it. If all writers 
were equally sincere, it would be ludicrous. 

"He told me that, on the night of the grand success 
of his School for Scandal, he was knocked down and put 
into the watchhouse for making a row in the street, and 
being found intoxicated by the watchmen, 

" When dying, he was requested to undergo ' an opera- 
tion.' He replied, that he had already submitted to two, 
which were enough for one man's lifetime. Being asked 
what they were, he answered, ' having his hair cut, and 
sitting for his picture.' 

"I have met George Colman occasionally, and thought 
him extremely pleasant and convivial. Sheridan's hu- 
mour, or ratlier wit, was always saturnine, and sometimes 
savage ; he never laughed, (at least that / saw, and I 
watched him.) but Colman did. If I had to choose, and 
could not have both at a time, I should say, ' Let me begin 
the evening with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' 
Sheridan for dinner, Colman for supper ; Sheridan for 
claret or port, but Colman for every thing, from the 
madeira and champaigne at dinner, the claret with a 
lai/er of port between the glasses, up to the punch of the 
night, and down to the grog, or gin and water, of day- 
break ; — all these I have threaded with both the same. 
Sheridan was a grenadier company of fife-guards, but 
Colman a whole regiment — of light infantry ^ to be sure, 
but still a regiment." 

***** 

"Sheridan's liking for mc (whether he was not mystify- 
ing me, I do not know, but Lady Caroline Lamb and others 
told me that he said the same both before and after he 
knew me) was founded upon 'English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers.' He told me that he did not care about 
poetry, (or about mine — at least, any but that poem of 
mine,) but he was sure from that and other symptoms, I 
should make an orator, if I would but talce to speaking 
ar.d grow a parliament man. He never ceased harping 
upon this to me to tho last ; and I remember my old 
tutor. Dr. Drury, had the same notion when I was a Iwti ; 
but it never was my turn of inclination to try. I spoko 
once or twice, as all young peers do, as a kind of intro- 
duction into public life ; but dissipation, shyness, haughty 
and reserved opinions, together with tho short time I lived 
in England after my majority, (only about five years in 
all,) prevented me from resunung tho experiment. As 
far OS it went, it was not discouraging, particularly my 
^/irst speech, (I spoke three or four limes in all,) but just 
after it, my poem of Childe Harold was published, and 
nobody ever thought about my prose afterward, nor indeed 
did I ; it became to me a seconilary and neglected object, 
thoUjHi I sometimes wonder to myself if I should havo 
succeeded." 



"When the bailiff (for I have seen mo.Nt kinds of life) 
came upon mc in I8I5 to seize my chatti-ls, (being a peer 
of parliament, my person was beyond him,) being curiou.-», 
(as is my habit,) I first psked him,' What extents elsowhoro 
111) hail for i,'o\erniuont .'' upon whicli he showed me ono 
upon one house only for snrnty thousand pounds ! N«'Xt I 
asked him, if lu- had nothing for Sheridan .' 'Oh— Sheri- 
dan!' snid he ; 'ay, I have this,' (pulling out a piHket-bix»k, 
&e.;) ' but, my lord, I have born in JSlirriilan's houso a 
twelvemonth at a time — a civil gentleman — knows how to 
deal with ua,' &c, &c. &c. Our own business was llicn 
discuMiod, which was none of tho easiest for mo at timl 
time. But tJio man was civil, and (wiiat I valued moro> 



266 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



communicative. I had met many of his brethren, years 
before, in affairs of my friends, (commoners, that is,) but 
this was the first (or second) on my own account. A 
civil man ; feed accordingly : probably he anticipated as 
much." 



«I have heard that when Grattan made his first speech 
in the English Commons, it was for some minutes doubt- 
ful whether to laugh at or cheer him. The debut of his 
predecessor Flood had been a complete failure under 
nearly similar circumstances. But when the ministerial 
part of our senators had watched Pitt (their thermome- 
ter) for the cue, and saw him nod repeatedly his stately 
nod of approbation, they took the hint from their hunts- 
man, and broke out into the most rapturous cheers. 
Grattan's speech, indeed, deserved them ; it was a chef- 
cCoeuvre. I did not hear that speech of his, (being then 
at Harrow,) but heard most of his others on the same 
question — also that on the war of 1815. I differed from 
his opinions on the latter question, but coincided in the 
general admiration of his eloquence. 

" When I met old Courtenay, the orator, at Rogers the 
poet's, in 1811-12, I was much taken with the portly 
remains of his fine figure, and the still acute quickness 
of his conversation. It was he who silenced Flood in the 
English House by a crushing reply to a hasty debut of 
the rival of Grattan in Ireland. 1 asked Courtenay (for 
I like to trace motives) if he had not some personal pro- 
vocation ; for the acrimony of his answer seemed to me, 
as I had read it, to involve it. Courtenay said ' he had ; 
that, when in Ireland, (being an Irishman,) at the bar of 
the Irish House of Commons, Flood had made a personal 
and unfair attack upon himself^ who, not being a ntieinber 
of that House, could not defend himself, and that some 
years afterward, the opportunity of retort offering- in the 
English Parliament, he could not resist it. He certainly 
repaid Flood with interest, for Flood never made any 
figure, and only a speech or two afterward, in the English 
House of Commons. I must except, however, his speech 
on Reform in 1790, which Fox called 'the best he ever 
heard upon that subject.' " 

**♦**♦ 

"I was much struck with the simplicity of Grattan's 
manners in private life : they were odd, but they were 
natural. Curran used to take him off, bowing to the 
very ground, and 'thanking God that he had no pecu- 
liarities of gesture or appearance,' in a way irresistibly 
ludicrous and * * used to call him a ' sentimental harle- 
quin.' 

' "Curran! Curran 's the man who struck me most. 
Such imagination ! there never was any thing like it that 
ever I saw or heard of. His published life — ^his published 
speeches, give you no idea of the man — ^none at all. He 
was a machine of imagination, as some one said that 
Piron was an epigrammatic machine. 

"I did not see a great deal of Curran — only in 1813 ; 
but I met him at home, (for he used to call on me,) and 
in society, at Mackintosh's, Holland House, &c. &c. and 
he was wonderful even to me, who had seen many re- 
markable men of the time. 

*♦***♦ 

"The powers of Curran's Irish imagination were ex- 
haustless. I have heard that man speak more poetry than 
I have ever seen written, — though I met him seldom and 
but occasionally. I saw him presented to Madame de 
Stael at Mackintosh's ; — ^it was the grand confluence be- 
tween the Rhone and the Saone, and they were both so 
d — d ugly, that I could not help wondering how the best 
intellects of France and Ireland could have taken up 
respectively such residences." ♦ * ♦ * 

■One of tho cleverest men I ever knew, in conversar 



tion, v>as Scrope Berdmore Davies. Hobhouse is also 
very good in diat line, though it is of less consequence to a 
man who has other ways of showing his talents than in 
company. Scrope was always ready and often witty— 
Hobhouse as witty, but not always so ready, being more 
diffident." 



" Lewis is a good man, rhymes well, (if not wisely,) 
but is a bore. He seizes you by the button. One night 
of a rout, at Mrs. Hope's, he had fastened upon me, not- 
withstanding my symptoms of manifest distress (for I 
was in love, and had just nicked a minute when neither 
mothers, nor husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips, were near 
my then idol, who was beautiful as the statues of the 
gallery where we stood at the time) — Lewis, I say, had 
seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, and 
spared neither. W. Spencer, who likes fun, and do n't 
dlshke mischief, saw my case, and coming up to us both, 
took me by the hand, and pathetically bade me farewell ; 
foi-,' said he, ' I see it is all over with you.' Lewis then 
went away. Sic me servavit Apollo. 

"I remember seeing Blucher in the Lcmdon assemblies, 
and never saw any thing of his age less venerable. With 
the voice and manners of a recruiting sergeant, he pre- 
tended to the honours of a hero, — just as if a stone could 
be worshipped because a man had stumbled over it." 



" When I met Hudson Lowe, the jailer, at Lord Hol- 
land's before he sailed for St. Helena, the discourse 
turned on the battle of Waterloo. I asked him whether 
the dispositions of Napoleon were those of a great gene- 
ral ? He answered, disparagingly, ' that they were very 
simple.^ I had always thought that a degree of simplicity 
was an ingredient of greatness. 

****** 

"L * * was a good man, a clever man, but a bore. 
My only revenge or consolation used to be, setting him 
by tlie ears wi'.h some vivacious person who hated bores 
especially, — Madame de S — or H — , for example. But 
I liked L * * ; he was a jewel of a man, had he been 
better set ; — I do n't mean personally^ but less tiresome^ 
for he was tedious, as well as contradictory to every thing 
and every body. Being shortsighted, when we used to 
ride out together near the Brenta in the twilight in sum- 
mer, he made me go before, to pilot him : I am absent at 
times, especially towards evening ; and the consequence 
of this pilotage was some narrow escapes to the M * * 
on horseback. Once I led him into a ditch over which I 
had passed as usual, forgetting to warn my convoy ; once 
I led him nearly into the river, instead of on the moveable 
bridge which incommodes passengers ; and twice did we 
both run against the Diligence, which, being heavy and 
slow, did communicate less damage than it received in its 
leaders, who were terrahed by the charge ; thrice did I 
lose him in die gray of the gloaming, and was obUged to 
bring-to to his distant signals of distance and distress ; — all 
the time he went on talking without intermission, for he 
was a man of many words. Poor fellow! he died a 
martyr to his new riches — of a second visit to Jamaica. 



that is— 



I 'd give the lands of Deloraine 
Dark Musgrave were alive again I 



" I would give many a sugar cane 
Monk Lewis were alive again 1" 



leart andf 



***** 
" Madame de Stael was a good woman at heart 
the cleverest at bottom, but spoiled by a wish to be — she 
knew not what. In her own house she was amiable ; in 
any other person's, you wished her gone, and in her own 
again." 

****** 
« I liked the Dandies ; they were always very civil 






DETACHED THOUGHTS 



267 



me, though in general they disliked literaiy people, and 
persecuted and mystified Madame de Stacl, Lewis, * * 
* *, and the like, damnably. They persuaded Madame 
de Stael that A * * had a hundred thousand a year, &;c. 
&c. till she praised him to his face for his beauty ! and 
made a set at him for * *, and a hundred fooleries be- 
sides. The truth is, that, though I gave up the business 
early, I had a tinge of dandyism in my minority, and pro- 
bably retained enough of it to conciliate the great ones at 
five-and-twenty. I had gamed, and drank, and taken my 
degrees in most dissipations, and having no pedantry, and 
not being overbearing, we ran quietly together. I knew 
them all more or less, and they made me a member of 
Watier's, (a superb club at that time,) being, I take it, the 
only literary man (except two others, both men of the 
world, Moore and Spenser) in it. Our masquerade was 
a grand one ; so was the dandy ball too, at the Argyle, 
but that (the latter) was given by the four chiefs, B., M., 
A., and P., if I err not. 

" I was a member of the Alfred, too, being elected 
while in Greece. It was pleasant ; a little too sober and 
literary, and bored with * * and Sir Francis Dlvernois ; 
but one met Peel, and Ward, and Valentia, and many 
other pleasant or known people ; and it was, upon the 
whole, a decent resource in a rainy day, in a dearth of 
parties, or parliament, or in an empty season. 

"I belonged, or belong, to the following clubs or socie- 
ties: — to the Alfred; to the Cocoa Tree; to Watier's; 
to the Union ; to Racket's, (at Brighton ;) to the Pugi- 
listic ; to the Owls, or ' Fly-by-night ;' to the Cambridge 
Whig Club; to the Harrow Club, Cambridge; and to 
one or two private Clubs ; to the Hampden (political) 
Club; and to the Italian Carbonari, &c. &.c. &c. * though 
last, not least J 1 got into all these, and never stood for 
any other — at least to my own knowledge. I declined 
being proposed to several others, though pressed to stand 
candidate." 



* * * * (commonly called long ♦ * +, a very clever 
man, but odd) complained to our friend Scrope B, Davies, 
in riding, that he had a stitch in his side. 'I don't won- 
der at it,' said Scrope, ' for you ride like a tailor.^ Whoever 
had seen * * ♦ on horseback, with his very tall figure on 
a small nag, would not deny the justness of the rejjartee. 



" When Brummell was obliged (by that affair of poor 
M * *, who thence acquired the name of 'Dick the 
Dandy-killer' — it was about money, and debt, and all 
that) to retire to France, he knew no French, and having 
obtained a grammar for the purpose of study, our friend 
Scrope Davies was asked what progress Brummell had 
made in French, he responded, ' that Brummell had been 
stopped, like Buonaparte in Russia, by the Elements.^ 

« I have put this pun into Beppo, which is 'a fair ex- 
change and no robbery,' for Scrope made liis fortune 
at several dinners (as he owned himself) by repeating 
occasionally, as his own, some of the butfooneries with 
which I had encountered lum in the morning." 



" I have been called in as mediator, or second, at least 
twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have always con- 
trived to settle the business without compromising (lit' 
honour of the parties, or leading them to mortal conse- 
quences, and tbis too sometimes in very difficult and 
delicate circumstances, and having to deal with very liot 
and hauglity spirits, — Irishmen, gamestiirs, guardsmen, 
captains, and cornets of horse, and tlie like. This was, 
of course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-houdcd com- 
pany. I have had to carry challenges from genllomon to 
noblemen, from captains to captains, from lawyers to 
counsellors, and once from a clergyman (o an ollicor in 



the life-guards ; but I found the latter by far the most 

difficult, 

' to compose 
The bloody duel witboul blows, * 

the business being about a woman : I must add too, that 
I never saw a woman behave so ill, like a cold-blooded, 
heardess b — as she was, — but very handsome, for all 
that. A certain Susan C + * was she called. I never 
saw her but once ; and that was to induce her but to say 
two words, (which in no degree compromised herself^) 
and which would have had the effect of saving a priest or 
a lieutenant of cavalry. She would not say them, and 
neither N * * nor myself (the son of Sir E. N * ♦, 
and a friend to one of the parties) could prevail upon her 
to say them, though both of us used to deal in some sort 
with woman-kind. At last I managed to quiet the com- 
batants \vithout her talisman, and, I believe, to her great 
disappointment : she was the damnedest b — that I ever 
saw, and I have seen a great many. Though my clergy- 
man was sure to lose either his Ufe or his living, he was 
as warlike as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly 
be pacified ; but then he was in love, and that is a martial 
passion." 

+ ♦**♦* 

"Like Sylla, I have always believed that all things 
depend upon fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. I am 
not aware of any one thought or action worthy of being 
called good to myself or others, which is not to be attri- 
buted to the good goddess Fortune." 

****** 

" If I were to live over again, I do not know what I 
would change in my life, unless it were for — not to have 
lived at all. All history, and experience, and the rest, 
teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally 
balanced in this existence, and that what is most to be 
desired is an easy passage out of it. What can it givo 
us but years ? and those have Uttle of good but their 
ending. 

*♦*♦*♦ 

"The world visits change of politics or change of 
religion witli a more severe censure than a mere diffe- 
rence of opinion would appear to me to deserve. But 
there must be some reason for this feeling ; — and I think 
it is that these deparlures from the earliest instilled ideas 
of our childhood, and from tlie line of conduct chosen by 
us when we first enter into public life, have bepn seen to 
have more mischievous results for society, and to prove 
more weakness of mind than otlier actions, in themselves 
more immoral." 



Of the bust of himself by Bartollini : — " The bust does 
not turn out a good one, — though it may bo like for aught 
I know, as it exactly resembles a superannuated Jesuit." 
Again, " I assure you Bartollini's is dreadful, though my 
mind misgives me that it is hideously like. If it is, I 
cannot be long for tliis world, for it overlooks seventy." 



"As far as fame goes (Uiat is to say, living fame,) I 
have had my share, perhaps — indeed, certainly — more 
than my deserts. 

" Some odd instances have occurred, to my o\vn experi- 
ence, of tlie wild and strange places to which a name 
may penetrate, and wlu>re it may impress. Two years 
ago, (almost tliree, being in August or July, 1819,) I ro- 
ceivod at Ravenna a letter, in Englitli verso, from Dnm- 
llmm in Nor>vay, written by a Norwegian, and full of lh« 
usu;d compliments, &c. &c. It is still somewhere anion^ 
my papers. In tlie same numth I received an invitatiitn 
into Hulstiin from a Mr. Jaci)bson (I think) of Ham- 
burgh : also, by the same mcilium, a triinsUilion of Mo- 
iloru's song in the Corsair by a >N'eslplialuui baronesa, 
{nut ' Thunderton-Tronek,') witli some origujal vorsoa of 
hers, (very pretty and KlopBfock-ish,) and a prose transla- 
tion annexed to lliem, on llic subject of my wife. — as 



268 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



they concerned her more than me, I sent them to her, 
together with Mr. Jacobsen's letter. It was odd enough 
to receive an invitation to pass the summer in Holstetn 
while in Italy, from people I never knew. The letter 
was addressed to Venice. Mr. Jacobsen talked to me 
of the 'wild roses growing in the Holstein summer.' 
Why then did the Cimbri and Teutones emigrate? 

" What a strange thing is life and man ! Were I to 
present myself at the door of the house where my daugh- 
ter now is, the door would be shut in my face — ^unless (as 
is not impossible) I knocked down the porter ; and if I 
had gone in that year (and perhaps now) to Drontheim, 
(the furthest town in Norway,) or into Holstein, I should 
have been received with open arms into the mansion of 
strangers and foreigners, attached to me by no tie but by 
that of mind and rumour. 

" As far as fame goes, I have had my share : it has 
indeed been leavened by other human contingencies, and 
this in a greater degree than has occurred to most 
literary men of a decent rank in life ; but, on the whole, I 
take it that such equipoise is the condition of humanity." 



"Among the various Journals, Memoranda, Diaries, 
&c. which I have kept in the course of my living, 1 began 
one about three months ago, and carried it on till I had 
filled one paper-book, (thinnish,) and tv.o sheets or so of 
another. I then left off, partly because I thought we 
should have some business here, and I had furbished up 
my arms and got my apparatus ready for taking a turn 
wdth the patriots, having my drawers full of their procla- 
mations, oaths, and resolutions, and my lower rooms of 
their hidden weapons, of most cahbers, — and partly 
because I had filled my paper-book. 

'"But the Neapolitans have betrayed themselves and 
all the world; and those who would have given tlieir 
blood for Italy can now only give her theii tears. 

" Some day or other, if dust holds together, I have been 
enough in the secret (at least in this part of the country) 
to cast perhaps some Utile light upon the atrocious 
treachery which has replunged Italy into barbarism : at 
present I have neither the time nor the temper. How- 
ever, the real Italians are not to blame ; merely the scoun- 
drels at the Jieel of the boot, which the Hun now wears, and 
will trample them to ashes with for their servility. I have 
risked myself with the others here, and how far I may or 
may not be compromised is a problem at this moment. 
Some of them, Uke Craigengelt, would 'tell all, and more 
than all, to save themselves.' But, come what may, the 
cause was a glorious one, though it reads at present as if 
the Greeks had run away from Xerxes. Happy the few 
who have only to reproach themselves with beUeving that 
these rascals were less 'rascaille' tlian they proved! — 
Here m Rornagua, the efforts were necessarily limited to 
preparations and good intentions, until the Gcimans were 
fairly engaged in equal warfare — as we are upon their 
very frontiers, without a single fort or hill nearer than San 
Marino. Ifhether 'hell will be paved with' those 'good 
intentions,' I know not ; but there will probably be a good 
store of Neapohtans to walk upon the pavement, whatever 
may be its composition. Slabs of lava from their moun- 
tain, with the bodies of their own damned souls for cement, 
would be the fittest causeway for Satan's 'Corso.'" 
* * ♦ ♦ * * 

"Pisa, November 5, 1821. 

"There is a strange coincidence sometimes in the Uttle 
things of this world, Sancho,' says Sterne in a letter, (if I 
mistake not,) and so I have often found it. 

«* Page article , of this collection, I had alluded to 
my friend Lord Clare in terms such as my feelings sug- 
gested. About a week or two afterward, I met him on the 
road between Imola and Bologna, after not having met for 
peven or eight years. He was abroad in 1814, and came 
home just as I set out in 1816. 

** This meeting annihilated for a moment all the years 



between the present time and the days o{ Harrow. It was 
a new and inexplicable feehng, lilie rising from the grave 
to me. Clare too was much agitated — more in appear- 
ance than was myself; for I could feel his heart beat to his 
fingers' ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own 
which made me think so. He told me that I should find 
a note from him left at Bologna. I did. We were obliged 
to part for our different journeys, he for Rome, I for Pisa, 
but with the promise to meet again in spring. We were 
but five minutes together, and on the public road ; but I 
hardly recollect an hour of my existence which could be 
weighed against them. He had heard that I was coming 
on, and had left his letter for me at Bologna, because the 
people with whom lie was travelling could not wait longer. 

" Of all I have ever known, he has always been the least 
altered iii every thing from the excellent qualities and kind 
affections which attached me to him so strongly at school, 
I should hardly have thought it possible for society (or 
the world, as it is called) to leave a being with so httle of 
the leaven of bad passions. 

"I do not speak from personal experience only, but 
from all I have ever heard of him from others, during ab- 
sence and distance." 

****** 

" I revisited the Florence Gallery, &c. My former im- 
pressions were confirmed ; but there were too many 
visiters there to allow one to feel any thing properly. 
When we were (about thirty or forty) all stuffed into the 
cabinet of gems and knick-knackeries, in a corner of one 
of tlie galleries, I told Rogers that it 'felt like being in the 
\vatchhouse.' I left him to make his obeisances to some 
of his acquaintances, and strolled on alone — the only four 
minutes I could snatch of any feeling for the works around 
me. I do not mean to apply this to a tete-a-tete scrutiny 
with Rogers, who has an excellent taste, and deep feeling 
for the arts, (indeed much more of both than I can pos- 
sess, for of the former I have not much,) but to the 
crowd of jostling starers and travelling talkers around me. 

"I heard one bold Briton declare to the woman on his 
arm, looking at the Venus of Titian, ' Well, now, this is 
really very fine indeed,' — an observation which, hke that 
of the landlord in Joseph Andrews on ' the certainty of 
death,' was (as the landlord's wife observed) ' extremely 
true.' 

" In the Pitti Palace, I did not omit Goldsmith's prc» 
scription for a connoisseur, ^'iz. ' that the pictures would 
have been better if the painter had taken more pains, and 
to praise the works of Pietro Perugino,'" 

****** 

" People have wondered at the melancholy which runa 
through my writings. Others have wondered at my per« 
sonal gayety. But I recollect once, after an hour in which 
I had been sincerely and particularly gay and rather bril» 
liant, in company, my wife replying to me, when I said, 
(upon her remarking my high spirits,) ' And yet. Bell, I 
have been called and miscalled melancholy — you must 
have seen how falsely, frequently?' 'No, Byron,' she 
answered, ' it is not so : at heart, you are the most melanr 
choly of mankind ; and often when apparently gayest,' " 
* * * * * * 

"A young American,* named Coolidge, called on me 
not many months ago. He was inteUigent, very hand- 
some, and not more than twenty years old, according to 
appearances ; a little romantic, but that sits well upon 
youth, and mighty fond of poesy, as may be suspected from 
his approaching me in my cavern. He brought me a 
message from an old servant of my family, (Joe Murray,) 
and told me that he (Mr. Coolidge) had obtained a copy 
of my bust from Thorwaldsen at Rome, to send to Ame- 
rica. I confess I was more flattered by tliis young enthu- 
siasm of a solitary transatlantic traveller, than if they had 
decreed me a statue in the Paris Pantheon, (I have seen 



Sje Letter SOJ, 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



26^ 



emperors and demagogues cast down from their pedestals 
even in my own time, and Grattan's name razed from the 
street, called after him in Dublin ;) I say that I was more 
flattered by it, because it was single, unpoliticai, and was 
without motive or ostentation, — the pure and warm feeling 
of a boy for the poet he admired. It must have been ex- 
pensive, though ; — / would not pay the price of a Thor- 
waldsen bust for any human head and shoulders, except 
Napoleon's, or my children s, or some ^absurd woman- 
kind's,' as Monkbarns calls them — or my sister's. If asked 
why, then, I sat for my own ? — Answer, that it was at the 
particular request of J. C. Hobhouse, Esq. and for no one 
else. A picture is a different matter ; — every body sits for 
their picture ; but a bust looks lil<e putting up pretensions 
to permanency, and smacks something of a hankering for 
public fame rather than private remembrance. 

" Whenever an American requests to see me, (which is 
not unfrequently,) I comply, firstly, because I respect a 
people who acquired their freedom by their firmness with- 
out excess; and, secondly, because these transatlantic 
visits, ' few and far between,' make me feel as if talking 
with posterity from the other side of the Styx. In a cen- 
tury or two the new English and Spanish Atlantides will 
be masters of the old countries, in all probability, as Greece 
and Europe overcam.e their mother Asia in the older or 
earlier ages, as they are called." 

* * * + * + 
After saying, in reference to his own choice of Venice 

as a place of residence, " I remembered General Ludlow's 
domal inscription, ' Omne solum forti patria,' and sat down 
free in a country which had been one of slavery for centu- 
ries," he adds, " But there is no freedom, even for masters, 
in the midst of slaves. It makes my blood boil to see the 
thmg. I sometimes wish that I was the owner of Africa, 
to do at once what Wilberforce will do in time, viz. sweep 
slavery from her deserts, and look on upon the first dance 
of their freedom. 

" As to political slavery, so general, it is men's own fault : 
if they unll be slaves, let them! Yet it is but 'a word and 
a blow.' See how England formerly, France, Spain, Por- 
tugal, America, Ssvitzerland, freed tliemselvesi There is 
no one instance of a long contest in which men did not tri- 
umph over systems. If Tyranny misses her Jirst spring, 
Bhe is cowardly as the tiger, and retires to be hunted." 
+ * ♦ * ♦ + 

"Going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri) in 1809, I 
saw a flight of twelve eagles (H. says they were vultures 
—at least, in conversation,) and I seized the omen. On 
the day before, I composed the lines to Parnassus, (in 
Childe Haroldj) and, on beholding the birds, had a hope 
that Apollo had accepted my homage. I have at least had 
the name and fame of a poet during the poetical part of 
life, (from twenty to thirty ;) — whetlier it will last is 
another matter." 

* * * ♦ * ♦ 
"In the year 1814, as Moore and I were going to dine 

with Lord Grey in Portman-square, 1 pulled out a ' Java 
Gazette,' (which Murray had sent to me,) in which there 
w^as a controversy on our respective merits as poets. It 
was amusing enough that we should be proceeding peace- 
ably to the same table, while they were squabbling about ns 
in the Indian seas, (to be sure, the paper was dated six 
months before,) and filling columns with Batavian criti- 
cism. But this is fame, I presume."''' 

"One of my notions different from those of my contem- 
poraries is, that the present is not a high age of English 
poetry. There are more poets (soi-disant) than ever there 
were, and proportionably less poetry. This tliesis I have 
inaintained for some years, but, strange to say, it meetotii 
fiot with favour from my brethren of the shelf. Even 
JVIoore shakes his head and firmly believes that this is the 
£rand ago of British poesy." 



' See JournaUn Italy. 



"Of the immortality of the soul, it appears to me that 
there can be little doubt, if we attend for a moment to the 
action of mind : it is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt 
of it, but reflection has taught me better. It acts also so 
very independent of body — in dreams, for instance ; — in- 
coherently and madly, 1 grant you, but still it is mind, and 
much more mind than when we are awake. Now tliat 
this should not act separately, as well as jointly, who can 
pronounce? The stoics, Epictetusand Marcus Aurelius, 
call the present state ' a soul which drags a carcass,'— 
a heavy chain to be sure, but all chains being material 
may be shaken off. How far our future life will be indi- 
viduai, or, rather, how far it will at all resemble our present 
existence, is another question ; but that the mind is eternal 
seems as probable as that the body is not so. Of course, I 
here venture upon the question without recurring to reve- 
lation, which, however, is at least as rational a solution of 
it as any other. A material resurrection seems strange 
and even absurd, except for purposes of punishment ; and 
all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must 
be morally wrong ; and w/icn the world is at an end, what 
moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer? 
Human passions have probably disfigured the divine doc- 
trines here : — but the whole thing is inscrutable." 



" It is useless to tell me not to reason, but to believe. You 
might as well tell a man not to wake, but sleep. And then 
to bully with torments, and all that I I cannot help think- 
ing that the menace of hell makes as many devils as the 
severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains." 



" Man is bom passionate of body, but with an innate 
though secret tendency to the love of good in his main- 
spring of mind. But, God help us all! it is at present a 
sad jar of atoms." 



"Matter is eternal, always changing, but reproduced, 
and, as far as we can comprehend eternity, eternal ; and 
why not mind? Why should not the mind act with and 
upon the universe, as portions of it act upon and with the 
congregated dust called mankind ? See how one man acta 
upon himself and others, or upon multitudes! The same 
agency, in a higher and purer degree, may act upon the 
stars, &c. ad infinitum," 



"I have often been inclined to materialism in philosophy, 
but could never bear its introduction into Christianity, 
which appears to me essentially founded upon the soul. 
For this reason, Priestley's Christian Materialism always 
struck me as deadly. Believe the resurrection of the Imdy, 
if you will, but not without a soul. The douce is in it, if^ 
after having had a soul (as surely the 7nind, or whatever 
yoti call it is) in this world, we must part with it in the 
next, even for an immortal materiality ! I own my par- 
tiality for sjnril.'' 



" I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day, as if 
there was some association between an internal approach 
to greater light and purity, and the kindlcr of this dark 
lantern of our external existence." 



" The night is also a religious concern, and even more 
so when I viewed the moon and stars through Hcrschell's 
telescope, and saw tlmt they wore worlds." 



"IIJ according to some speculations, you could prove th*» 
world many thousand years older than tln> Alivsnic chro- 
iiology, or ii'you could get rid of Adam and Eve, and the 
apple, and serpent, still, what is to bo put up in thnr strad f 
or how is the dilficulty removed .' Things miist have hod 
a beginning, and what matters it ulicn or /imf/" 



270 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



"1 sometimes think that man may be the relic of same 
higher material being wrecked in a former world, and de- 
generated in the hardship and struggle through chaos into 
conformity, or something like it, — as we see Laplanders, 
Esquimaux, &c. inferior in the present state, as the ele- 
ments become more inexorable. But even then this 
higher pre- Adamite supposititious creation must have had 
«.n origin and a Creator, — for a creation is a more natural 
imagination than a fortuitous concourse of atoms: all 
things remount to a fountain, though they may flow to an 
•ocean. 



* Plutarch says, in his Life of Lysander, that Aristotle 
observes ' that in general great geniuses are of a melan- 
choly turn, and instances Socrates, Plato, and Hercules, 
(or Heraclitus,) as examples ; and Lysander, though not 
while young, yet as inclined to it when approaching 
towards age.' Whether I am a genius or not, I have been 
called such by my friends as well as enemies, and in more 
■countries and languages than one, and also within a no 
very long period of existence. Of my genius I can say 
nothing, but of my melancholy, that it is 'increasing and 
ought to be diminished.' But how ? 

" I take it that most men are so at bottom, but that it is 
only remarked in the remarkable. The Duchesse de 
Broglio, in reply to a remark of mine on the errors of 
clever people, said that ' they were not worse than others, 
only, being more in view, more noted, especially in all that 
could reduce them to the rest, or raise the rest to them.' 
In 1816 this was. 

" In fact, (I suppose that) if the follies of fools were all 
set down lilce those of the wise, the wise (who seem at 
present only a better sort of fools) would appear almost 
intelligent." 



"It is singular how soon we lose the impression of 
what ceases to be constantly before us : a year impairs ; 
A lustre obliterates. There is httle distinct left without 
an effort of memory. Then, indeed, the lights are re- 
jcindled for a moment ; but who can be sure that imagi- 
^lation is not the torchbearer ? Let any man try at the 
^nd of ten years to bring before him the features, or the 
mind, or the sayings, or the habits of his best friend, or 
his greatest man, (I mean his favourite, his Bounaparte, 
his this, that, or t' other,) and he will be surprised at the 
extreme confusion of his ideas. I speak confidently on 
this point, having always passed for one who had a good, 
ay, an excellent memory. I except, indeed, our recollec- 
tion of womankind ; there is no forgetting them (and be 
d — d to them) any more than any other remarkable era, 
Buch as 'the revolution,' or 'the plague,' or ' tlie invasion,' 
or ' the comet,' or ' the war' of such and such an epoch, — 



being the favourite dates of mankind, who have so many 
blessings in their lot, that they never make their calendars 
from them, being too common. For instance, you see, 
'the great drought,' ' the Thames frozen over,' 'the seven 
years' war broke out,' ' the English, or French, or Spanish 
revolution commenced,' 'the Lisbon earthquake,' 'the 
Lima eartliquake,' 'the earthquake of Calabria,' 'the 
plague of London,' ditto ' of Constantinople,' ' the sweat- 
ing sickness,' ' the yellow fever of Philadelphia,' &c. &c. 
&c. ; but you do n't see 'the abundant harvest,' 'the fine 
summer,' ' tlie long peace,' ' the wealthy speculation,' ' the 
wreckless voyage,' recorded so emphatically! By-the- 
way, there has been a thirty years' war and a seventy 
yeari war ; was there ever a seventy or a thirty years' 
peace 7 or was there even a day's universal peace ? ex- 
cept perhaps in China, where they have found out the 
miserable happiness of a stationary and unwarlike medi- 
ocrity. And is all this because nature is niggard or 
savage, or mankind ungrateful? Let philosophers decide. 
I am none." 



" In general I do not draw well with literary men ; not 
that I dislike them — but I never know what to say to 
them after I have praised their last publication. There 
are several exceptions, to be sure ; but then they have 
either been men of the world, such as Scott and Moore, 
&c. ; or visionaries out of it, such as Shelley, &c. : but 
your literary every-day man and I never went well in 
company, especially your foreigner, whom I never could 
abide ; except Giordani, and — and — and — (I reaHy can't 
name any other) — I do n't remember a man among them 
whom I ever wished to see twice, except perhaps Mez- 
zophanti, who is a monster of languages, the Briareus of 
parts of speech, a walking Polyglott, and more, who ought 
to have existed at the time of the Tower of Babel as 
universal interpreter. He is indeed a marvel — unassum- 
ing, also. I tried him in all the tongues of which I knew 
a single oath, (or adjuration to the gods against postboys, 
savages, Tartars, boatmen, sailors, pilots, gondoliers, 
muleteers, camel-drivers, Vetturini, postmasters, post- 
horses, posthouses, post every thing,) and, egad! he 
astounded me — even to my EngUsh." 



" ' No man would live his life over again,' is an old and 
true saying which all can resolve for themselves. At the 
same time, there are probably moments in most men's 
lives which they would live over the rest of life to regain ? 
Else why do we live at all? because Hope recurs to 
Memory, both false but — but — but — but and this but drags 
on till — what? I do not know: and who does? He 
that died o' Wednesday ?" 



THE FIRST CHAPTER OF A NOVEL, 



CONTEMPLATED BV LORD BYRON IN THE SPRINO OF 1812 ; (AFTERWARDS PUBLISHED IN ONE OF 

MR. Dallas' novels.) 



DARRELL TO G. Y. 

* + * + So much for your present pursuits. I will 
now resume the subject of my last. How I wish you 
were upon the spot ; your taste for the ridiculous would 
be fully gratified; and if you felt inclined for more serious 
amusement, there is no "lack of argument." Within 
this last week our guests have been doubled in number, 
some of them my old acquaintance. Our host you already 
know — absurd as ever, but rather duller, and I should 
conceive, troublesome to such of his very good friends as 
find his house more agreeable than its owner. I confine 
myself to observation, and do not find him at all in the 
way, though Veramore and Asply are of a different 
opinion. The former, in particular, imparts to me many 
pathetic complaints of the want of opportunities (nothing 
else being wanting to the success of the said Veramore) 
created by tlie fractious and but ill concealed jealousy of 
poor Bramblebear, whose Penelope seems to have as 
many suitors as her namesake, and for aught I can see to 
the contrary, with Wf much prospect of carrying their 
point. In Uie mean tune, I look on and laugh, or rather 
I should laugh were you present to share in it ; sackclotli 
and sorrow are excellent wear for soliloquy ; but for a 
laugh there should be two, but not many more, except at 
the first night of a modern tragedy. 

You are very much mistaken in the design you impute 
to myself; I have none here or elsewhere. I am sick of 
old intrigues, and too indolent to engage in new ones. 
Besides, I am, that is, I used to be, apt to find my heart 
gone at the very time when you fastidious gentlemen 
begin to recover yours. I agree with you that the world, 
as well as yourselfj are of a different opinion. I shall 
never be at the trouble to undeceive cither ; my follies 
have seldom been of my own seeking. " Rebellion came 
in my way, and I found it." This may ajjpear as cox- 
combical a speech as Veramore could make, yet you 
partly know its truth. You talk to me too of « my cha- 
racter," and yet it is one which you and fifty others have 
been struggling these seven years to obtain for yourselves. 
I wish you had it, you would make so much better, that is, 
worse use of it ; relieve me, and gratify an ambition which 
is unworthy of a man of sense. It has always appeared 
to me extraordinary that you should value women so 
highly, and yet love them so little. The height of your 
gratification ceases with its accomplishment; you bow, 
and you sigh, and you worship, — and abandon. For my 
part I regard them as a very beautiful, but inferior animal. 
I think them as much out of place at our tables as they 



, J. , 180—. 



would be in our senates. The whole present system, 
with regard to tliat sex, is a remnant of the chivalrous 
barbarism of our ancestors ; I look upon them as grown- 
up children, but, like a foolish mamma, am always the 
slave of some only one. With a contempt for the race, I 
am ever attached to the individual, in spite of myself. 
You know that, though not rude, I am inattentive ; any 
thing but a " beau garfon." I would not hand a woman 
out of her carriage, but I would leap into a river after her. 
However I grant you that, as they must walk oftener out 
of chariots than into the Thames, you gentlemen servitors, 
Cortcjos and Cicisbei, have a better chance of being 
agreeable and useful ; you might, very probably, do both ; 
but as you can't swim, and I can, I recommend you ta 
invite me to your first water-party. 

Bramblebear's Lady Penelope puzzles me. She is 
very beautiful, but not one of my beauties. You know I 
admire a different complexion, but the figure is perfect.. 
She is accomplished, if her mother and music-master 
may be believed ; amiable, if a soft voice and a sweet 
smile could make her so; young, even by the register of 
her baptism ; pious and chaste, and doting on her hus- 
band according to Bramblebear's observation ; equally 
loving, not of her husband, tliough rather less pious, and 
<' oUier tiling, according to Veramore 's ; and if mine hath, 
any discernment, she detests the one, despises the other 
and loves — herself. That she dislikes Bramblebear is 
evident; poor soul, I can't blame her; she has found him 
out to be mighty weak and little-tempered; she has also 
discovered that she married too early to know what sho 
liked, and that there are many likeable people who woulct 
have been less discordant and more creditable partners. 
Still, she conducts herself well, and in point of good 
humour, to admiration. A gootl deal of religion, (not 
enthusiasm, for that leads the contrary way,) a prj'ing 
husband who never leaves her, and, as I think, a very 
temperate pulse, will keep her out of scrapes. I am glad 
of it, first, because, though Bramblebear is bad, I don't 
thinlt Veramore much better ; and next, because Bnun« 
blebcar is ridiculous enough ahcady, and it would bo 
thrown away upon him to make him more so ; thirdly, it 
would bo a pity, because nobotly loould pity him ; and, 
fourthly, (as Scrub says,) he would then become a melan- 
choly and sentimental harlequin, instead of a merry, fret- 
ful pantaloon, and I like the pantomime better as it is now 
cast. More in my next. Yours, truly, 

Darrell. 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



DEBATE ON THE FRAME-WORK BILL, IN THE HOUSE 
OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. 

The order of the day for the second reading of this 
bill being read, 

LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) ad- 
dressed their lordships, as follows : 

My Lords — The subject now submitted to your lord- 
ships for the first time, though new to the House, is by 
no means new to the country. I believe it had occupied 
the serious thoughts of all descriptions of persons, long 
before its introduction to the notice of that legislature, 
whose interference alone could be of real service. As a 
person in some degree connected with the suffering 
county, though a stranger not only to this House in gene- 
ral, but to almost every individual whose attention I pre- 
sume to solicit, I must claim some portion of your lord- 
ships' indulgence whilst I offer a few observations on a 
question in which I confess myself deeply interested. 

To enter into any detail of the riots would be super- 
fluous : the House is already aware that every outrage 
short of actual bloodshed has been perpetrated, and that 
the proprietors of the frames obnoxious to the rioters, and 
all persons supposed to be comiected with them, have 
been liable to insult and violence. Durino; the short time 



"hurried over with a view to exportation. It was called, in 
the cant of the trade, by the name of " Spider work." 
The rejected workmen, in the blindness of their Igno- 
rance, instead of rejoicing at these improvements in artsf 
so beneficial to mankind, conceived themselves to be 
sacrificed to improvements in mechanism. In the foolish- 
ness of their hearts they imagined, that the maintenance 
and well-doing of the industrious poor were objects of 
greater consequence than the enrichment of a few indi- 
viduals by any improvement, in the implements of trade, 
which threw the workmen out of employment, and ren- 
dered the labourer unworthy of his hire. And it must be 
confessed that although the adoption of the enlarged ma- 
chinery, in that state of our commerce which the country 
once boasted, might have been beneficial to the master 
without being detrimental to the servant; yet, in the pre- 
sent situation of our manufactures, rotting in warehouses, 
without a prospect of exportation, with the demand for 
work and workmen equally diminished ; frames of this 
description tend materially to aggravate the distress and 
discontent of the disappointed sdfcrers. But the real 
cause of these distresses and consequent disturbances 
lies deeper. When we are told that these men are 
leagued together not only for the destruction of their own 



I recently passed in Nottinghamshire, not twelve hours comfort, but of their very means of subsistence, can we 
elapsed without some fresh act of violence ; and on the forget that it is the bitter policy, the destructive warfare of 
day I left the county, I was informed that forty frames had j the last eighteen years, which has destroyed their corn- 
been broken the preceding evening, as usual, without j fort, your comfort, all men's comfort? That policy which, 
resistance and without detection. originating with " great statesmen now no more," has 

Such was then the state of that county, and such 1 1 survived the dead to become a curse on the living, unto 
have reason to believe it to be at this moment. But whilst the third and fourth generation ! These men never 



these outrages must be admitted to exist to an alarming 
extent, it caimot be denied that they have arisen from 
circumstances of the most unparalleled distress. The 
perseverance of these miserable men in their proceed- 
ings, tends to prove that nothing but absolute want could 
have driven a large, and once honest and industrious, 
body of the people, into the commission of excesses so 
hazardous to themselves, their families, and the coimnu- 
nity. At the time to which I allude, the town ajid county 
were burdened with large detachments of the military ; 
the police was in motion, the magistrates assembled ; yet 
all the movements, civil and military, had led to — nothing. 
Not a single instance had occurred of the apprehension 
of any real delinquent actually taken in the fact, against 
whom there existed legal evidence sufficient for convic- 
tion. But the police, however useless, were by no means 
idle: several notorious delinquents had been detected; 
men, liable to conviction, on the clearest evidence, of the 
capital crime of poverty ; men who had been nefariously 
guilty of lawfully begetting several children, whom, thanks 
to the times ! they were unable to maintain. Considera- 
ble injury has been done to the proprietors of the improved 
frames. These machines were to them an advantage, 
inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employing 
a number of workmen, who were left in consequence to 
starve. By the adoption of one species of frame in par- 
ticular, one man performed the work of many, and the 
superfluous labourers were thrown out of employment. 
Yet it is to be observed, that the work thus executed was 
inferior in quality ; not marketable at home, and merely 



destroyed their looms till they were become useless, 
worse than useless ; till they were become actual impedi- 
ments to their exertions in obtaining their daily bread. 
Can you, then, wonder that in times like these, when 
bankruptcy, convicted fraud, and imputed felony are found 
in a station not far beneath that of your lordships, the 
lowest, though once most useful portion of the people, 
should forget their duty in their distresses, and become 
only less guilty than one of their representatives ? But 
while the exalted offender can find means to baflle the 
law, new capital punishments must be devised, new 
snares of death must be spread for the wretched mecha- 
nic, who is famished into guilt. These men were willing 
to dig, but the spade was in other hands: they were not 
ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve them : their 
own means of subsistence were cut off, all other employ- 
ments preoccupied, and their excesses, however to be 
deplored and condemned, can hardly be subject of sur- 
prise. 

It has been stated that the persons in the temporary 
possession of frames connive at their destruction ; if this 
be proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such mate- 
rial accessaries to the crime should be principals in the 
punishment. But I did hope, that any measure proposed 
by his majesty's government, for your lordships' decision, 
would have had conciliation for its basis ; or, if that were 
hopeless, that some previous inquiry, some deliberation 
would have been deemed requisite ; not that we should 
have been called at once without examination, and with- 
out cause, to pass sentences by wholesale, and sign death* 



II 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



273 



warrants blindfold. But admitting that these men had no 
cause of complaint ; that the grievances of them and 
their employers were alike groundless ; that they deserved 
the worst; what inefficiency, what imbecility has been 
evinced in the method chosen to reduce them! Why 
were the military called out to be made a mockery of^ if 
they were to be called out at all ? As far as the differ- 
ence of seasons would permit, they have merely parodied 
the summer campaign of Major Sturgeon ; and, indeed, 
the whole proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the 
model of tliose of the Mayor and Corporation of Gar- 
ratt. — Such marchings and countermarchings ! from 
Nottingham to BulKvell, from BuUwell to Banford, from 
Banford to Mansfield ! and when at length the detach- 
ments arrived at their destinations, in all "the pride 
pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," they came just 
in time to witness the mischief which had been done, and 
ascertain the escape of the perpetrators, to collect the 
** spolia opimd'^ in the fragments of broken frames, and 
return to their quarters amidst the derision of old women, 
and the hootings of children. Now, though in a free 
country, it were to be wished that our military should 
never be too formidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see 
the policy of placing them in situations where they can 
only be made ridiculous. As the sword is the worst 
argument that can be used, so should it be the last. In 
this instance it has been the first ; but providentially as 
yet only in the scabbard. The present measure will, 
indeed, pluck it from the sheath ; yet had proper meet- 
ings been held in the earlier stages of these riots, — had 
the grievances of these men and their masters (for they 
also had their grievances) been fairly weighed and justly 
examined, I do think ihat means might have been devised 
to restore these workmen to their avocations, and tran- 
quillity to the county. At present the county suffers from 
the double infliction of an idle military, and a starving 
population. In what state of apathy have we been 
plunged so long, that now for the first time the House has 
been officially apprized of these disturbances ! All this 
has been transacting within 130 miles of London, and yet 
we, "good easy men, have deemed full surely our great- 
ness was a-ripening," and have sat down to enjoy our 
foreign triumphs in the midst of domestic calamity. But 
all the cities you have taken, all the armies which have 
retreated before your leaders, are but paltry subjects of 
self-congratulation, if your land divides against itself^ and 
your dragoons and your executioners must be let loose 
against your fellow-citizens. — You call these men a mob, 
desperate, dangerous, and ignorant ; and seem to think 
that the only way to quiet the "Bellua multorum capiturri'' 
is to lop off a few of its superfluous heads. But even a 
mob may be better reduced to reason by a mixture of 
conciliation and firmness, than by additional irritation and 
redoubled penalties. Are we aware of our obligations 
to a mob? It is the mob that labour in your fields, and 
serve in your houses, — that man your navy, and recruit 
your army, — that have enabled you to def\' all the world, 
and can also defy you when nf<^lect and calamity have 
driven them to despair. You may call the pco|)le a mob ; 
but do not forget, that a mob too oflcn speaks the, sinti- 
ments of the people. And hero I must remark, with 
what alacrity you are accustomed to fly to the succour of 
your distressed allies, leaving the distrcsstrd of your own 
country to the care of Providtmce, or — the parish. When 
the Portuguese suffered under the retreat of the French, 
every arm was stretched out, every hand was opened, 
from the rich man's largess to the widow's mile, all was 
bestowed to enable them to rebuilil tJK^ir villages and 
repleniBh their granaries. And at this moimnt, when 
thousandd of misguided but most unf()rtunate fcllnw- 
cotmtrymen are struggling with the exlrenus of hardsliips 
and hunger, as your charity began abroad, it should end 
at home. A much less sum, a lithe of the liounfy he- 
stowed on Portugal, even if tho'^o men (wliii h I cannot 
admit without inquiry) could not have been restored to 
35 



their employments, would have rendered unnecessary the 
tender mercies of the bayonet and the gibbet. But 
doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims to 
admit a prospect of domestic relief; though never did 
such objects demand it. I have traversed the seat of 
war in the Peninsula, I have been in some of the most 
oppressed provinces of Turkey, but never under the most 
despotic of infidel governments did I behold such squalid 
wretchedness as I have seen since my return in the very 
heart of a Christian country. And what are your reme- 
dies ? After months of inaction, and months of action 
worse than inactivity, at length comes forth the grand 
specific, the never-failing nostrum of aU state physicians, 
from the days of Draco to the present time. After feel- 
ing the pulse and shaJcing the head over the patient, pre- 
scribing the usual course of warm water and bleeding, the 
warm water of your maukish police, and the lancets of 
your military, these convulsions must terminate in deatli, 
the sure consummation of the prescriptions of all politi- 
cal Sangrados. Setting aside the palpable injustice, and 
the certain inefficiency of the bill, are there not capital 
punishments sufficient in your statutes? Is there not 
blood enough upon your penal code, that more must be 
poured forth to ascend to Heaven and testify against you? 
How will you can-y the bill into effect ? Can you com- 
mit a whole county to their own prison ? Will you erect 
a gibbet in every field, and hang up men like scarecrows ? 
or will you proceed (as you must, to bring this measure 
into effect) by decimation ? place the county under mar- 
tial law? depopulate and lay waste all around you? and 
restore Sherwood Forest as an acceptable gift to the 
crovvfn, ill its former condition of a royal chase and an 
asylum for outlaws ? Are these the remedies for a starv- 
ing and desperate populace? Will the famished wretch 
who has braved your bayonets, be appalled by your gib- 
bets ? When death is a relief, and the only relief it 
appears that you will afford him, will he be dragooned 
into tranquillity ? Will that which could not be effi^cted 
by your grenadiers be accomplished by your execution- 
ers ? If you proceed by the forms of law, where is your 
evidence? Those who have refused to impeach their 
accomplices, when transportation only was the punish- 
ment, will hardly be tempted to witness against them 
when death is the penalty. With all due deference to 
the noble lords opposite, I think a little investigation, some 
previous imjuiry, would induce even diem to change their 
purpose. That most favourite state measure, so marvel- 
lously efficacious in many and recent instances, temporiz- 
ing, would not be without its advantages in this. AVhen 
a [)roposal is made to emancipate or relieve, you hesitate, 
you deliberate for years, you temporize and tamper wjlJi 
ilio minds of men; but a death-bill must be pa.ssed off 
hand, without a thought of the conse(]uences. fcjure I am, 
from what I have heard, and from what I have seen, that 
to pass the Bill under all the existing circumstances, 
witliout inquiry, without di-libcrat ion, would only be to add 
injustice to irritation, and barbarity to neglect. The 
framers of such a Hill must be content to inherit the 
honours of that Athenian lawgiver whoso edicts were 
said lo bo written not in ink, but in bloo<i. But supposo 
it past ; sup|)osc one of these men, as I have seen them, 
— meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a 
life which your lordships are perhaps about to valce at 
something lers than the price of a sto<king-franu — sun?- 
pose this man surrounded by the childn'ii fur whom he li 
unable to prtHJuro bread at tlio hazard of his exislcnco, 
about to be torn for ever from a family which he liilcly 
supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not \\\i 
liiult that ho can no longer so supjtort — suppose this uuiii, 
and there are (en thousand such from whom you may 
select your victims, dragged into court, to be tried fi»r ihw 
new offence, by this new law ; still, tJiero are two things 
wanting to convict and condemn him ; and tliese are, ui 
my opinion, — twelve Butchors for a Jury, and a Jeffenoi 
for tt Judtip '• 



274 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



«li 



DEBATE ON THE EARL OF DONOUGHMORE S MOTION 

rOR A COMMITTEE ON THE ROMAN CATHOLIC 

CLAIMS, APRIL 2], 1812, 

My Lords — The question before the House has been 
so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and never perhaps 
more ably than on this night, that it would be difficult to 
adduce new arguments for or against it. But with each 
discussion difficulties have been removed, objections have 
been canvassed and refuted, and some of the former 
opponents of Catholic Emancipation have at length con- 
ceded to the expediency of relieving the petitioners. In 
conceding thus much, however, anew objection is started ; 
it is not the time, say they, or it is an improper time, or 
there is time enough yet. In some degree I concur with 
those who say it is not the time exactly; that time is 
passed ; better had it been for the country, that the Ca- 
tholics possessed at this moment their proportion of our 
privileges, that their nobles held their due weight in our 
councils, than that we should be assembled to discuss 
their claims. It had indeed been better 

" Non tempore tali 
Cogere concilium cum muros obsidet hostis." 

The enemy is without, and distress within. It is too late 
to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in defence 
of things more important than the mere ceremonies of 
religion. It is indeed singular, that we are called together 
to dehberate, not on the God we adore, for in that we are 
agreed ; not about the king we obey, for to him we are 
loyal ; but how far a difference in the ceremonials of wor- 
ship, how far believing not too little, but too much, (the 
worst that can be imputed to the Catholics,) how far 
too much devotion to their God, may incapacitate our 
fellow-subjects from effectually serving their king. 

Much has been «aid, within and without doors, of 
Church and State, and although those venerable words 
have been too often prostituted to the most despicable of 
party purposes, we cannot hear them too often ; all, I 
presume, are the advocates of Church and State, the 
Church of Christ, and the State of Great Britain ; but 
not a state of exclusion and despotism ; not an intolerant 
church ; not a church militant, which renders itself liable 
to the very objection urged against the Romish commu- 
jiion, and in a greater degree, for the Catholic merely with- 
holds its spiritual benediction, (and even that is doubtful,) 
but our church, or rather our churchmen, not only refuse 
to the Catholic their spiritual grace, but all temporal bless- 
ings whatsoever. It was an observation of the great 
Lord Peterborough, made within these walls, or within the 
walls where tlie Lords then assembled, that he was for a 
'' parliamentary king and a parliamentary constitution, but 
not a parliamentary God, and a parUamentary religion." 
The interval of a century has not weakened the force of 
the remark. It is indeed time that we should leave off 
these petty cavils on frivolous points, these Lilliputian 
sophistries, whether our "eggs are best broken at the 
broad or narrow end." 

The opponents of the Catholics may be divided into 
two classes ; those who assert that the Catholics have too 
much already, and those who allege that the lower orders, 
at least, have nothing more to require. We are told by 
the former, that the Catholics never will be contented: 
by the latter, that they are already too happy. The last 
paradox is sufficiently refuted by the present, as by all past 
petitions : it might as well be said, that the negroes did 
not desire to be emancipated — but this is an unfortunate 
comparison, for you have already delivered them out of 
the house of bondage without any petition on their part, 
but many from their taskmasters to a contrary effect ; 
and for myself, when I consider this, I pity the Catholic 
peasantry for not having the good fortune to be born black. 
But the Cathohcs are contented, or at least ought to be, 
as we are told : I shall therefore proceed to touch on a 
few of those circumstances which so marvellously contri- 
bute to their exceeding contentment. They are not 
S-llowed the free exerciso of their religion in Uie regular 



army; the Catholic soldier cannot absent himself from 
the service of the Protestant clergyman, and, unless he is 
quartered in Ireland, or in Spain, where can he find eligi- 
ble opportunities of attending his own? The permission 
of Catholic chaplains to the Irish militia regiments was 
conceded as a special favour, and not till after years of 
remonstrance, although an act, passed in 1793, established 
it as a right. But are the Catholics properly protected in 
Ireland ? Can the church purchase a rood of land where- 
on to erect a chapel? No ; all the places of worship are- 
built on leases of trust or sufferance from the laity, easily 
broken and often betrayed. The moment any irregular 
wish, any casual caprice of the benevolent landlord meets 
with opposition, the doors are barred against the congre- 
gation. This has happened contmually, but in no instance 
more glaringly, than at the town of Newtown Barry, 
in the county of Wexford. The Catholics, enjoying no 
regular chapel, as a temporary expedient, hired two barns, 
which, being thrown into one, served for pubhc worship. 
At this time there was quartered opposite to the spot an 
officer, whose mind appears to have been deeply imbued 
with those prejudices which the Protestant petitions, now 
on tlie table, prove to have been fortunately eradicated 
from the more rational portion of the people ; and when 
the Catholics were assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in 
peace and good- will towards men. for the worship of their 
God and yours, they found the chapel door closed, and 
were told that if they did not immediately retire, (and 
they were told this by a yeom.an officer and a magistrate,) 
the riot act should be read, and the assembly dispersed at 
the point of the bayonet! This was complciined of to 
the middle-man of government, the secretary at the Cas- 
tle in 1806, and the answer was, (in lieu of redress,) that 
he would cause a letter to be written to the colonel, to 
prevent, if possible, the recurrence of similar disturb- 
ances. Upon this fact, no very great stress need be laid ; 
but it tends to prove that while the Catholic church has 
not power to purchase land for its chapels to stand upon, 
the laws for its protection are of no avail. In' the mean 
time, the Catholics are at the mercy of every "pelting 
petty officer," who may choose to play his "fantastic 
tricks before high heaven," to insult his God, and injure 
his fellow-creatures. 

Every schoolboy, any footboy (such have held com- 
missions in our service,) any footboy who can exchange 
his shoulderknot for an epaulet, may perform all this and 
more against the Catholic, by virtue of that very authority 
delegated to him by his sovereign, for the express purpose 
of defending his fellow-subjects to the last drop of his 
blood, without discrimination or distinction between 
Catholic and Protestant. 

Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial by 
jury? They have not; they never can have until they 
are permitted to share the privilege of serving as sheriffs 
and undersheriffs. Of this a striking example occurred 
at the last Enniskillen assizes. A yeoman was arraigned 
for the murder of a Catholic named Macvoumagh : three 
respectable uncontradicted witnesses deposed that they 
saw the prisoner load, take aim, fire at, and kill the said 
Macvoumagh. This was properly commented on by 
the judge ; but, to the astonishment of the bar, and 
indignation of the court, the Protestant jury acquitted 
the accused. So glaring was the partiality, that Mr. 
Justice Osborne felt it his duty to bind over the acquitted, 
but not absolved assassin, in large recognizances, thus 
for a time taking away his license to kill Catholics. 

Are the very laws passed in their favour observed? 
They are rendered nugatory in trivial as in serious cases. 
By a late act. Catholic chaplains are permitted in jail^ 
but in Fermanagh county the grand jury lately persisted 
in presenting a suspended clergyman for the office, there- 
by evading the statute, notwithstanding the most pressing 
I remonstrances of a most respectable magistrate, named 
Fletcher, to the contrary. Such is law, such is justice 
for the happy, free, contented Catholic I 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



275 



It has been asked in another place, why do not the 
rich Catholics endow foundations for the education of the 
priesthood ? Why do you not permit them to do so ? 
Why are all such bequests subject to the interference, 
the vexatious, arbitrary, peculating interference of the 
Orange commissioners for charitable donations? 

As to Maynooth college, in no instance, except at the 
time of its foundation, when a noble Lord (Camden,) at 
the head of the Irish administration, did appear to inte- 
rest himself in its advancement ; and during the govern- 
ment of a noble Dulie (Bedford,) who, like his ancestors, 
has ever been the friend of freedom and mankind, and 
who has not so far adopted the selfish policy of tlie day 
as to exclude the Catholics from the number of his fellow- 
creatures ; with these exceptions, in no instance has that 
institution been properly encouraged. There was indeed 
a time when the Catholic clergy were conciliated, while 
the Union was pending, that Union wliich could not be 
carried without them, while their assistance was requisite 
in procuring addresses from the Catholic counties ; then 
they were cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and 
given to understand that '■' the Union would do every 
thing ;" but, the moment it was passed, they were driven 
back with contempt into their former obscurity. 

In the contempt pursued towards Maynooth college, 
every thing is done to irritate and perplex — every thing 
is done to efface the slightest impression of gratitude 
from the Catholic mind ; the very hay made upon the 
lawn, the fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allowed, 
must be paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true, 
this economy in miniature caimot be sufficiently com- 
mended, particularly at a time when only the insect 
defaulters of the Treasury, your Hunts and your Chin- 
nerys, when only these "gilded bugs" can escape the 
microscopic eye of ministers. But when you come for- 
ward session after session, as your paltry pittance is 
wrung from you with wrangling and reluctance, to boast 
of your liberality, well might the Catholic exclaim, in the 
words of Prior, — 

" To John I owe some obligaiion, 
But John unluckily thinks fit 
To publish it to all the nation, 
So John and I are more tiian quit." 

Some persons have compared the Catholics to the 
beggar in Gil Bias. Who made them beggars ? Who 
are enriched with the spoils of their ancestors? And 
cannot you relieve the beggar when your fathers have 
made him such ? If you are disposed to relieve him at 
all, cannot you do it without flinging your farthings in his 
face? As a contrast, however, to this beggarly bene- 
volence, let us look at the Protestant Charter Schools; 
to them you have lately granted 41,000/.: thus are they 
supported, and how are they recruited? Montesquieu 
observes, on the English constitution, that the model may 
be found in Tacitus, where the historian describes tlie 
policy of the Germans, and adds, " this beautiful system 
was taken from the woods ;" so in speaking of the charter 
schools, it may be observed, that this beautiful system 
was taken from the gipsies. These schools arc recruit- 
ed in the same manner as the Janizaries at the time of 
their enrolment under Amurath, and the gipsies of the 
present day, with stolen children, with children decoytui 
and kidnapped from their Catholic connexions by their 
rich and powerful Protestant neighbours: this is noto- 
rious, and one instance may suflice to show in what 
marmer. The sister of a Mr. Cartliy (a Catholic gen- 
tleman of very considerable property) died, leaving two 
girls, who were immediately marked out as proselytes, 
and conveyed to the charter school of Coolgreny. Tluur 
uncle, on being apprized of the fact, which took place 
during his absence, applied for the restitution of his 
nieces, offering to settle an independence on these rela- 
tions ; his request was refused, and not till after live 
years' struggle, and the interference of very high autho- 
rity, could this Catholic gentleman obtain back his 



nearest of kindred from a charity charter school. In 
this manner are proselytes obtained, and mingled with 
the offspring of such Protestants as may avail themselves 
of the institution. And how are they taught? A cate- 
chism Is put into their hands consisting of^ I believe, 
forty-five pages, in which are three questions relative to 
the Protestant religion ; one of these queries is, ""V^Tiere 
was the Protestant reUgion before Luther?" Answer, 
"In the Gospel." The remaining forty- four pages and a 
half regard the damnable idolatry of Papists ! 

Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, is 
this training up a child in the way which he should go ? 
Is this the reUgion of the gospel before the time of Lu- 
ther? that religion which preaches "Peace on earth, 
and glory to God ?" Is it bringing up infants to be men 
or devils? Better would it be to send them anywhere 
than teach them such doctrines ; better send them to 
those islands in the South Seas, where they might more 
humanely learn to become cannibals ; it would be less 
disgusting that they were brought up to devour the dead, 
than persecute the living. Schools do you call them? 
call them rather dunghills, where the viper of intolerance 
deposits her young, that, when their teeth are cut and 
their poison is mature, they may issue forth, filthy and 
venomous, to sting the Catholic, But are these the doc- 
trines of the Church of England, or of churchmen? 
No ; the most enlightened churchmen are of a different 
opinion. What says Paley? "I perceive no reason 
why men of different religious persuasions, should not 
sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the same council, 
or fight in the same ranks, as well as men of various 
religious opinions, upon any controverted topic of natural 
history, philosophy, or ethics." It may be answered that 
Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I know nothing of his 
orthodoxy, but who will deny that he was an ornament 
to the church, to human nature, to Christianity ? 

I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so 
severely felt by the peasantry, but it may be proper to 
observe that there is an addition to the burden, a per- 
centage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becomes 
to rate them as highly as possible, and we know that in 
many large livings in Ireland, the only resident Protests 
ants are the tithe-proctor and his family. 

Among many causes of irritation, too numerous for 
recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to be passed 
over, I mean the existence of Orange lodges amongst the 
privates ; can the officers deny this? And if such lodges 
do exist, do they, can they tend to promote hai-mony 
amongst tlie men, who are thus individually separated 
in society, although mingled in the ranks ? And is tliis 
general system of persecution to be permitted, or is it to 
be believed that with such a system the Catliolics can or 
ought to be contented ? If tlicy arc, they belie human 
nature ; they are then, indeed, unworthy to be any thing 
but the slaves you have made tliem. The facts stated 
are from most respectable authority, or I should not have 
dared in this place, or any place, to hazard this avowal. 
If exaggerated, there are plenty, as willing as I bolievo 
them to be unable, to disprove them. Should it bo 
objected that I never was in Ireland, I beg leave to 
observe, that it is as easy to know something of Ireland 
without having been there, a.s it appears witli some to 
have been born, bred, and cherished tJierc, and yet remain 
ignorant of its best interests. 

But tliere are, who assert that the Catliolics havo 
already been too much indulged : see (cry they) what 
has been done: we have given tlieni one entire college, 
wo allow them food and raiment, tlie full enjoyment of 
the elements, and leave to tight for us as long a."» Uioy 
have limbs and lives to offer ; and yet tht'y are never to 
bo satisfied! Generous and just deelainiers ! To Uiis, 
and to this only, amount the whole of your arguments 
wIh-ii slript oftiieir sophistry. These personages remind 
me of llu^ story of a certain drummer, who being called 
upon ill the course of duly to udminister piuiishmcnt to 



276 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to flog high; 
he did — to flog low, he did — to flog in die middle, he did 
— high, low, down the middle, and up again, but all in 
vain, the patient continued his complaints with the most 
provoking pertinacity, until the drummer, exhausted and 
angry, flung down his scourge, exclaiming, " the devil burn 
you, there 's no pleasing you, flog where one will !" Thus 
it is, you liave flogged the Catholic, high, low, here, there, 
and every where, and then you wonder he is not pleased. 
It is true, that time, experience, and that weariness which 
attends even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you 
to flog a little more gently, but still you continue to lay 
on the lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may 
be wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs of 
'ourselves and your posterity. 

It was said by somebody in a former debate, (I forget 
by whom, and am not very anxious to remember,) if the 
Cathohcs are emancipated, why not the Jews ? If this 
sentiment was dictated by compassion for the Jews, it 
might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Catho- 
lic, what is it but the language of Shylock transferred 
from his daughter's marriage to Catholic emancipation — 

" Would any of the tribe of Barrabbas 
Should have it rather than a Christian." 

I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the opi- 
nion of him whose taste only can be called in question 
for his preference of the Jews. 

It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson, (whom I 
take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle 
of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan,) that he who could enter- 
tain serious apprehensions of danger to the Church in 
these times, would have "cried fire in the deluge." This 
is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of these ante- 
diluvians appear actually to have come do\vn to us, with 
fire in their mouths and water in their brains, to disturb 
and perplex mankind with their whimsical outcries 
And as it is an infallible symptom of that distressing 
malady with which I conceive them to be afflicted, (sc 
any doctor will inform your lordships,) for the unhappy 
invalids to perceive a flame perpetually flashing before 
their eyes, particularly when their eyes are shut, (as 
those of the persons to whom I allude have long been,) 
it is impossible to convince these poor creatures, that the 
fire against which they are perpetually warning us and 
themselves, is nothing but an ignis faiuus of their own 
drivelling imaginations. What rhubarb, senna, or " what 
purgative drug can scour that fancy thence ?" — It is im- 
possiblcj tliey are given over, theirs is tlie true 

" Caput insanabile tribus Anticyris." 
These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who pro- 
tested against all sects whatsoever, so do they protest 
against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all re- 
dress, all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and com- 
mon sense, can urge against the delusions of their absurd 
delirium. These are the persons who reverse the fable 
of the mountain that brought forth a mouse ; they are the 
mice who conceive themselves in labour with mountains. 
To return to the Catliolics, suppose tlie Irish were 
actually contented under their disabilities, suppose them 
capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance, ought 
we not to wish it for ourselves ? Have we nothing to 
gain by their emancipation ? Wliat resources have been 
wasted! What talents have been lost by the selfish 
system of exclusion ! You already know the value of 
Irish aid ; at this moment the defence of England is 
intrusted to the Irish militia: at this moment, while the 
:Starving people are rising in the fierceness of despair, 
fthe Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal energy 
is imparted throughout by the extension of freedom, you 
-cannot enjoy the full benefit of the strength which you 
are glad to interpose between you and destruction. Ire- 
Uand has done much, but will do more. At this moment 
the only triumph obtained through long years of con- 
linental disaster has been achieved by an Irish general ; 



it is true he is not a Catholic ; had he been so, we should 
have been deprived of his exertions ; but I presume no 
one will assert that his religion would have impaired his 
talents or diminished his patriotism, though in that case 
he must have conquered in the ranks, for he never could 
have commanded an army. 

But while he is fighting the battles of the Catholics 
abroad, his noble brother has this night advocated their 
cause, with an eloquence which I shaU not depreciate by 
the humble tribute of my panegyric, whilst a third of his 
kindred, as unlike as unequal, has been combating against 
his Catholic brethren in Dublin, with circular letters, 
edicts, proclamations, arrests, and dispersions — all the 
vexatious implements of petty wsufare that could be 
wielded by the mercenary guerillas of government, clad 
in the rusty armour of their obsolete statutes. Your 
lordships will, doubtless, divide new honours between the 
saviour of Portugal, and the dispenser of delegates. It 
is singular, indeed, to observe the difference between our 
foreign and domestic poUcy ; if CathoUc Spain, faithful 
Portugal, or the no less Catholic and faithftd king of the 
one Sicily, (of wliich, by the by, you have lately deprived 
him,) stand in need of succour, away goes a fleet and an 
army, an ambassador and a subsidy, sometimes to fight 
pretty hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, and 
always to pay very dearly for our Popish aUies. But 
let four milhons of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who 
fight and pay and labour in your behalf^ they must be 
treated as aliens, and although their "father's house has 
many mansions," there is no resting-place for them. 
Allow me to ask, are you not fighting for the emancipa- 
tion of Ferdinand the Seventh, who certainly is a fool, 
and consequently, in all probability, a bigot ;>4nd have 
you more regard for a foreign sovereign than your own 
fellow-subjects, who are not fools, for they know your 
interest better than you know your own; who are not 
bigots, for they return you good for evil ; but who are in 
worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inasmuch 
as the fetters of the mind are more galling than those of 
the body. 

Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the 
claims of tlie petitioners, I shall not expatiate ; you know 
them, you will feel them, and your children's children 
when you are passed away. Adieu to that Union so 
called, as ^ Lucus a non litcendo" a Union from never 
uniting, which, in its first operation, gave a death-blow 
to the independence of Ireland, and in its last may be 
the cause of her eternal separation from this country. If 
it must be called a Union, it is the union of the shark 
with his prey ; the spoiler swallows up his victim, and 
thus they become one and indivisible. Thus has Great 
Britain swallowed up the parhament, the constitution, 
the independence of Ireland, and refuses to disgorge even 
a single privilege, although for the relief of her swollen 
and distempered body poUtic. 

And now, my lords, before I sit down, will his majesty's 
ministers permit me to say a few words, not on their 
merits, for that would be superfluous, but on the degree 
of estimation in which they are held by the people of 
these realms. The esteem in which they are held has 
been boasted of in a triumphant tone on a late occasion 
.vithin these walls, and a comparison instituted between 
their conduct, and that of noble lords on this side of the 
house. 

What portion of popularity may have fallen to the 
share of my noble friends, (if such I may presume to call 
them,) I shall not pretend to ascertain ; but that of his 
majesty's ministers it were vain to deny. It is, to be sure, 
little like the wind, " no one knows whence it cometh 
or whither it goeth," but they feel it, they enjoy it, they 
boast of it. Indeed, modest emd unostentatious as they 
are, to what part of the kingdom, even the most remote, 
can they flee to avoid the triumph which pursues them ? 
If they plunge into the midland counties, there they will 
be greeted by tlie manufacturers, with spurned petitions 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



277 



in their hands, and those halters round their necks recent- 
ly voted in their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads 
of those who so simply, yet ingeniously contrived to re- 
move them from their miseries in this to a better world. 
If they journey on to Scotland, from Glasgow to Johnny 
Groat's, every where will they receive similar marks of 
approbation. If they take a trip from Portpatrick to 
Donaghadee, there will they rush at once into the em- 
braces of four Catholic millions, to whom their vote of 
this night is about to endear them for ever. When they 
return to the metropolis, if they can pass under Temple 
Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sight of the 
greedy niches over that ominous gateway, they cannot 
escape the acclamations of the livery, and the more tre- 
mulous, but not less sincere, applause, the blessings " not 
loud but deep" of bankrupt merchants and doubting stock- 
holders. If they look to the army, what wreaths, not of 
laurel, but of nightshade, are preparing for the heroes of 
Walcheren ! It is true there are few living deponents 
left to testify to their merits on that occasion ; but a 
"cloud of witnesses" are gone above from that gallant 
army which they so generously and piously despatched, 
to recruit the "noble army of martyrs." 

What ifj in the course of this triumphal career, (in 
which they will gather as many pebbles as Caligula's 
army did on a similar triumph, the prototype of their 
own,) they do not perceive any of those memorials which 
a grateful people erect in honour of their benefactors ; 
what although not even a signpost will condescend to 
depose the Saracen's head in favour of the likeness of tJie 
conquerors of Walcheren, they will not want a picture 
who can always have a caricature ; or regret the omission 
of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted in 
effigy. But their popularity is not limited to the narrow 
bounds of an island ; there are other countries whore 
their measures, and, above all, their conduct to the Ca- 
gtholics, must render them pre-eminently popular. If they 
■are beloved here, in France they must be adored. There 
lis no measure more repugnant to the designs and feelings 
lof Buonaparte than Cathohc emancipation; no line of 
conduct more propitious to his projects, than that which 
has been pursued, is pursuing, and, I fear, will be pursued, 
towards Ireland. What is England without Ireland, and 
what is Ireland without the Catholics ? It is on the basis 
of your tyranny Napoleon hopes to build his own. So 
grateful must oppression of the Catholics be to his mind, 
that doubtless (as he has lately pernutted some renewal 
of intercourse) the next cartel will convey to this country 
cargoes of S6vres china and blue ribands, (things in great 
request, and of equal value at this moment,) blue ribands 
of the legion of honour for Dr. Duigenan and his minis- 
terial disciples. Such is that well-earned popularity, the 
result of those extraordinary expeditions, so expensive to 
ourselves, and so useless to our allies ; of those singular 
inquiries, so exculpatory to the accused and so dissatis- 
factory to the people ; of those paradoxical victories, so 
honourable, as we are told, to the British name, and so 
destructive to the best interests of the British nation ; 
above all, such is the reward of a conduct pursued by 
ministers towards the Catholics. 

I have to apologize to the House, who will, I trust, 
pardon one, not often in the habit of intruding upon their 
indulgence, for so long attempting to engage their atten- 
tion. My most decided opinion is, as my vote will be, in 
favour of the motion. 



DEBATE ON MAJOR CAUTWRIGIITS PETITION, JUNE 
1,1813. 

My Lords — The Petition which I now hold for the 
purpose of presenting to the House, is one which I 
humbly conceive requires the particular attention of your 
lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but ])y a Hinglc 
individual, it contains statements which (if not disproved) 
demand most serious investigation. The gritnance of 
which the petitioner complains ia neither selfish nor 



imaginary. It is not his own only, for it has been, and 
is still felt by numbers. No one without these walls, nor 
indeed within, but may to-morrow be made hable to the 
same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of an im- 
perious duty for the restoration of the true constitution 
of these realms by petitioning for reform in parliament. 
The petitioner, my Lords, is a man whose long life has 
been spent in one unceasing struggle for the liberty of 
the subject, against that undue influence which " has in- 
creased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished ;" and, 
whatever diflference of opinion may exist as to his politi- 
cal tenets, few will be found to question the integrity of 
his intentions. Even now, oppressed with years, and 
not exempt from the infirmities attendant on his age, 
but still unimpaired in talent, and unshalten in spirit — 
'■^frangas nonjlectes" — he has received many a wound in 
the combat against corruption ; and the new grievance, 
the fresh insult of which he complains, may inflict another 
scar, but no dishonour. The petition is signed by John 
Cartwright, and it was in behalf of the people and par- 
liament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the 
representation which is the best service to be rendered 
both to parliament and people, that he encountered the 
wanton outrage which forms the subject matter of his 
petition to your lordships. It is couched in firm, yet 
respectful language — in the language of a man, not re- 
gardless of what is due to himself, but at the same time, 
I trust, equally mindful of the deference to be paid to 
this House. The petitioner states, among other mat- 
ter of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are 
British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, that 
on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield, himself and 
six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival, had 
waited on him nierely as a testimony of respect, were 
seized by a military and civil force, and kept in close 
custody for several hours, subjected to gross and abusive 
insinuations from the commanding officer relative to the 
character of the petitioner ; that he (the petitioner) was 
finally carried before a magistrate ; and not released till 
an examination of his papers proved that there was not 
only no just, but not even statutable charge against him ; 
and that, notwithstanding the promise and order from the 
presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant against 
your petitioner, it was afterwards withheld on divers pre- 
texts, and has never until this hour been granted. The 
names and condition of the parties will be found in the 
petition. To the other topics touched upon in the peti- 
tion, I shall not now advert, from a wish not to encroach 
upon the time of the House ; but I do most sincerely 
call the attention of your lordships to its general con- 
tents — it is in tlie cause of the parliament and people 
that the rights of this venerable freeman have been vio- 
lated, and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect 
that could be paid to the House, that to your justice, 
rather than by appeal to any inferior court, he now com- 
mits himself. Whatever may be the fate of his remon- 
strance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mixed with 
regret for the occasion, that I have this opportunity of 
|)ublicly stating the obstruction to which tlio subject ia 
liable, in the prosecution of the most lawful and imperious 
of his duties, the obtaining by petition rel"orm in parlia- 
ment. I have shortly stated his complaint ; the petitioner 
has more fully expressed it. Your lordships will, I ho()e^ i 
adojit some measure fully to i)rotect and rotlress him, 
and not liitn alone, but the whole body of the ptx>plo 
insulted antl aj'grieved in his person by the interposi- 
tion of an abused civil, and unlawful military force, be- 
tween thorn and their right of petition to their own 
reprt'senlatives. 

His lordship then presented the petition from Major 
Cartwright, wlii«h was n'ad, complaining of the cireuni- 
stanci'S at lludvl<«rslield, aiul of interruptions j;iven li> the 
right of petitit)Ming, in s.vcrtil plueos in tlio northern 
parts of the kingdom, ami which liis lortlship moved 
should bo laid on the iul>li-. 



278 



A FRAGMENT. 



Several Lords having spoken on the question, 
LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from motives of 
duty, presented this petition to their lordships' considera- 
tion. The noble Earl had contended that it was not a 
petition but a speech ; and that, as it contained no prayer, 
it should not be received. What was the necessity of a 
prayer? If that word were to be used in its proper sense, 



their lordships could not expect • that any man should 
pray to others. He had only to say that the petition, 
though in some parts expressed strongly perhaps, did not 
contain any improper mode of address, but was couched 
in respectful language towards their lordships ; he should 
therefore trust their lordships would allow the petition to 
be received. 



A FRAGMENT. 



June 17, 1816. 

In the year 17 — , having for some time determined on 
a journey through countries not hitherto much frequented 
by travellers, I set out, accompanied by a friend whom I 
shall designate by the name of Augustus Darvell. He 
was a few years my elder, and a man of considerable for- 
tune and ancient family — advantages which an extensive 
capacity prevented him alike from undervaluing or over- 
rating. Some peculiar circumstances in his private his- 
tory had rendered him to me an object of attention, of 
interest, and even of regard, which neither the reserve of 
his manners, nor occasional indications of an inquietude at 
times nearly approaching to alienation of mind, could 
extbguish. 

I was yet young in life, which I had begun early ; but 
my intimacy vpith him was of a recent date : we had been 
educated at the same schools and university ; but his pro- 
gress through these had preceded mine, and he had been 
deeply initiated into what is called the world, while I was 
yet in my noviciate. While thus engaged, I had heard 
much both of his past and present life ; and, although in 
these accounts there were many and irreconcilable con- 
tradictions, I could still gather from the whole that he was 
a being of no common order, and one who, whatever pains 
he might take to avoid remark, would still be remarkable. 
I had cultivated his acquaintance subsequently, and en- 
deavoured to obtain his friendship, but this last appeared 
to be unattainable ; whatever affections he might have 
possessed seemed now, some to have been extinguished, 
and others to be concentred: that his feelings were acute, 
I had sufficient opportunities of observing; for, although 
he could control, he could not altogether disguise them: 
still he had a power of giving to one passion the appear- 
ance of another in such a manner that it was difficult to 
define the nature of what was working within him ; and 
the expressions of his features would vary so rapidly, though 
sUghtly, that it was useless to trace them to their sources. 
It was evident that he was a prey to some cureless dis- 
quiet ; but whether it arose from ambition, love, remorse, 
grief, from one or all of these, or merely from a morbid tem- 
perament akin to disease, I could not discover : there were 
circumstances alleged which might have justified the ap- 
plication to each of these causes ; but, as 1 have before 
said, these were so contradictory and contradicted, that 
none could be fixed upon with accuracy. Where there 
is mystery, it is generally supposed that there must also 
be evil : I know not how this may be, but in him there 
certainly was tlie one, though I could not ascertain the 
extent of the other — and felt loth, as far as regarded him- 
self, to beheve in its existence. My advances were re- 
ceived with sufficient coldness ; but I was young, and not 
easily discouraged, and at length succeeded in obtainmg, 
to a certain degree, that commonplace intercourse and 



moderate confidence of common and every-day concerns, 
created and cemented by similarity of pursuit and fre- 
quency of meeting, which is called intimacy, or friendship, 
according to the ideas of him who uses those words to 
express them. 

Darvell had already travelled extensively, and to him I 
had applied for information with regard to the conduct of 
my intended journey. It was my secret wish that he 
might be prevailed on to accompany me : it was also a 
probable hope, founded upon the shadowy restlessness 
which I had observed in him, and to which the animation 
which he appeared to feel on such subjects, and his appa- 
rent indifference to all by which he was more immediately 
surrounded, gave fresh strength. This wish I tirst hinted, 
and then expressed : his answer, though 1 had partly ex- 
pected it, gave me aU the pleasure of surprise — ^he coi 
sented ; and, after the requisite arrangements, we com- 
menced our voyages. After journeying through varioui 
countries of the south of Europe, our attention was turned 
towards the east, according to our original destination ; 
and it was in my progress through those regions that the 
incident occurred upon which will turn what I may have to 
relate. 

The constitution of Darvell, which must, from his ap- 
pearance, have been in early life more than usually robust, 
had been for some time gradually giving way, without the 
intervention of any apparent disease: he had neither 
cough nor hectic, yet he became daily more enfeebled: 
his habits were temperate, and he neither declined nor 
complained of fatigue, yet he was evidently wasting away: 
he became more and more silent and sleepless, and at 
length so seriously altered, that my alarm grew proportion- 
ate to what I conceived to be his danger. 

We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on an 
excursion to the ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, from which 
1 endeavoured to dissuade him, in his present state of in- 
disposition — but in vain : there appeared to be an oppres- 
sion on his mind, and a solemnity in his manner, which ill 
corresponded with his eagerness to proceed on what I 
regarded as a mere party of pleasure, litde suited to a 
valetudinarian ; but I opposed him no longer — and in a few 
days we set off together, accompanied only by a serrugee 
and a single janizary. 

We had passed half-way towards the remains of Ephe- 
sus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs of Smyrna, 
and were entering upon that wild and tenantless track 
through the marshes and defiles which lead to the few huts 
yet lingering over the broken columns of Diana — the roof- 
less walls of expelled Christianity, and the still more recent 
but complete desolation of abandoned mosques — when the 
sudden and rapid illness of my companion obliged us to 
halt at a Turkish cemetery, the turbaned tombstones of 
which were the sole indication that human life had ever 



A FRAGMENT. 



279 



been a sojourner in this wilderness. The only caravan- 
sera we had seen was left some hours behind us ; not a 
vestige of a town or even cottage, was within sight or 
hope, and this " city of the dead" appeared to be the sole 
refuge for my unfortunate friend, who seemed on the verge 
of becoming the last of its inhabitants. 

In this situation, I looked round for a place where he 
might most conveniently repose: — contrary to the usual 
aspect of Mahometan burial-grounds, the cypresses were 
in this few in number, and these thinly scattered over its 
extent : the tombstones were mostly fallen, and worn with 
age : upon one of the most considerable of these, and be- 
neath one of the most spreading trees, Darvell supported 
himself] in a half-recHning posture, with great difficulty. 
He asked for water. I had some doubts of our being able 
to find any, and prepared to go in search of it with hesita- 
ting despondency — but he desired me to remain; and, 
turnuig to Suleiman, our janizary, who stood by us smoking 
with great tranquillity, he said, " Suleiman, verbana su, 
(t. e. bring some water,) and went on describing the spot 
where it was to be found with great minuteness, at a small 
well for camels, a few hundred yards to the right: the 
janizary obeyed. I said to Darvell, " How did you know 
this ?" — He replied, " From our situation ; you must per- 
ceive that this place was once inhabited, and could not 
have been so without springs : I have also been here before." 
" You have been here before ! — How came you never 
to mention this to me ? and what could you be doing in a 
place where no one would remain a moment longer than 
they could help it?" 

To this question I received no answer. In the mean 
time, Suleiman returned with the water, leaving the ser- 
rugee and the horses at the fountain. The quenching of 
his thirst had the appearance of reviving him for a mo- 
ment ; and I conceived hopes of his being able to proceed, 
or at least to return, and I urged the attempt. He was 
■♦silent — and appeared to be collecting his spirits for an 
effort to speak. He began. 

" This is the end of my journey, and of my life — I came 
here to die : but I have a request to make, a command — 
for such my last words must be. — ^You will observe it?" 
"Most certainly ; but have better hopes." 
"I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this — conceal my 
death from every human being." 

" I hope there will be no occasion ; that you will re- 
cover, and " 

"Peace! it must be so: promise this." 
«Ido." 

" Swear it by all that" He here dictated an oath of 

great solemnity. 

" There is no occasion for this — I will observe your re- 
quest; and to doubt me is " 

" It cannot be helped, you must swear." 
I took the oath : it appeared to relieve him. He re- 
moved a seal-ring from his finger, on which were some 
Arabic characters, and presented it to me. He proceeded — 



" On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely, (what 
month you please, but this must be the day,) you must 
fling this ring into the salt springs which run into the Bay 
of Eleusis : the day after, at the same hour, you must 
repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, and wait one 
hour." 
"Why?" 
" You will see." 

" The ninth day of the month, you say?" 
« The ninth." 

As I observed that the present was the ninth day of the 
month, his countenance changed, and he paused. As he 
sate, evidently becoming more feeble, a stork, with a snake 
in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us ; and, with- 
out devouring her prey, appeared to be steadfastly regard- 
ing us. I know not what impelled me to drive it away, 
but the attempt was useless ; she made a few circles in 
the air, and returned exacdy to the same spot. Darvell 
pointed to it, and smiled: he spoke — I know not whether 
to himself or to me — but the words were only, " Tis well !" 
" What is well ? what do you mean ?" 
" No matter : you must bury me here this evening, and 
exactly where that bird is now perched. You know the 
rest of my injunctions." 

He then proceeded to give me several directions as 
to the manner in which his death might be best concealed. 
After these were finished, he exclaimed, " You perceive 
that bird ?" 
"Certainly." 

"And the serpent writhing in her beak ?" 
"Doubtless: there is nothing uncommon in it; it is 
her natural prey. But it is odd that she does not 
devour it." 

He smiled in a ghastly manner and said, faintly, "It is 
not yet time !" As he spoke, the stork flew away. My 
eyes followed it for a moment ; it could hardly be longer 
than ten might be counted. I felt Darvell's weight, as it 
were, increase upon my shoulder, and, turning to look upon 
his face, perceived that he was dead ! 

I was shocked with the sudden certainty which could 
not be mistaken — his countenance in a few minutes be- 
came nearly black. I should have attributed so rapid a 
change to poison, had I not been aware that he had no 
opportunity of receiving it unperceived. The day was 
declining, the body was rapidly altering, and nothing re- 
mained but to fulfil his request. With tl.e aid of Sulei- 
man's ataghan and my own sabre, we .« ooped a shallow 
grave upon the spot which Darvell had indicated : the 
cartli easily gave way, having already received some Ma- 
hometan tenant. We dug as deeply as the lime per- 
mitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon all that 
remained of the singular being so lately departed, we cut 
a few sods of greener turf from the less witliered soil 
around us, and laid them uj)on his sepulchre. 
Between astonishment and grief, 1 was tearless. 
****** 



LETTER 

TO JOHN MURRAY ON 
THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES 

ON 

THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE. 



I '11 play at Bowles with the sub and moon. 

OLD SONG. 



My mither 's auld, sir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in 
speaking to my Leddy, thai canna weel bide to be contradickit, 
(as 1 ken naebody likes it if they could help themsells.) 

TALES OF MY LANDLORD, Old Mortality, rol.u. 



Ravenna, February Ith, 1821. 
Dear Sir, 

In the different pamphlets which you have had the 
goodness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles' contro- 
versy, I perceive that my name is occasionally introduced 
by both parties. Mr. Bowles refers more than once to 
what he is pleased to consider "a remarkable circum- 
stance," not only in his letter to Mr. Campbell, but in his 
reply to the Q,uarterly. The Quarterly also and Mr, 
Gilchrist have conferred on me the dangerous honour of 
a quotation ; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind of 
appeal to me personally, by saying, "Lord Byron, if /le 
remembers the circumstance, will loitness — (witness in 
ITALIC, an ominous chajacter for a testimony at 
sent.)* 

I shall not avail myself of a " non mi ricordo" even 
after so long a residence in Italy ; — I do " remember the 
circumstance" — and have no reluctance to relate it (since 
called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance of time 
and the impression of intervening events will permit me. 
In the year 1812, more than three years after the publica- 
tion of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," I had the 
honour of meeting Mr. Bowles in the house of our vene- 
rable host of " Human Life, etc." the last Argonaut of 
Classic English poetry, and the Nestor of our inferior 
race of living poets. Mr. Bowles calls this " soon after" 
the publication ; but to me three years appear a consi- 
derable segment of the immortality of a modern poem. 
[ recollect nothing of "the rest of the compajiy going into 
another room" — nor, though I well remember the topogra- 
phy of our host's elegant and classically-furnished man- 
sion, could I swear to the very room where the conversa- 
tion occurred, though the " taking do-um the poem" seems 
to fLx it in the library. Had it been " taken up" it would 
probably have been in the drawing-room. I presume 
also that the " remarkable circumstance" took place after 
dinner, as I conceive that neither Mr. Bowles's politeness 
nor appetite would have allowed him to detain " the rest 
of the company" standing round their chairs in the " other 
room" while we were discussing " the Woods of Madei- 
ra" instead of circulating its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's 
" good-humour" I have a full and not ungrateful recollec- 
tion ; as also of his gentlemanly manners and agreeable 
conversation. I speak of the whole, and not of particu- 
lars ; for whether he did or did not use the precise words 
printed in the pamphlet, I cannot say, nor could he with 
accuracy. Of " the tone of seriousness" I certainly 
recollect nothing : on the contrary, I thought Mr. Bowles 
rather disposed to treat the subject lightly ; for he said (I 
have no objection to be contradicted if incorrect) that 



* He alludea to Majocchi, and the other Italian witnesses on the trial 
of the dueeo. 



some of his good-natured friends had come to him and 
exclaimed, " Eh ! Bowles ! how came you to make the 
Woods of Madeira," etc. etc. and that he had been at 
some pains and pulling down of the poem to convince 
them that he had never made " the Woods" do any thing 
of the kind. He was right, and / was wrong, and have 
been wrong still up to this acknowledgment ; fori ought to 
have looked twice before I wrote that which involved an 
inaccuracy capable of giving pain. The fact was, that 
although I had certainly before read " the Spirit of Dis- 
covery," I took the quotation from the review. But the 
mistake was mine, and not the review's, which quoted the 
passage correctly enough, I beUeve. I blundered — God 
knows how — into attributing the tremors of the lovers to 
the "Woods of Madeira," by which they were sur- 
rounded. And I hereby do fuUy and freely declare and 
asseverate, that the Woods did not tremble to a kiss, and 
that the lovers did. I quote from memory — 

A kiss 
Stole on the list'ning silence, etc. etc. 
They (the lovers) trembled, even as if the power, etc. 

And if I had been aware that this declaration would have 
been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr. Bowles, I 
should not have waited nine years to make it, notwith- 
standing that "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" 
had been suppressed some time previously to my meeting 
him at Mr. Rogers's. Our worthy host might indeed 
have told him as much, as it was at his representation 
that I suppressed it. A new edition of that lampoon was 
preparing for the press, when Mr. Rogers represented to 
me, that " I was now acquainted with many of the per- 
mentioned in it, and with some on terms of inti- 
macy ;" and that he knew " one family in particular to 
whom its suppression would give pleasure." I did not 
hesitate one moment ; it was cancelled instantly ; and it 
is no fault of mine that it has ever been republished. 
When I left England, in April, 1816, with no very violent 
intentions of troubling that coimtry again, and amidst 
scenes of various kinds to distract my attention — almost 
my last act, I believe, was to sign a power of attorney, to 
yourself, to prevent or suppress any attempts (of which 
several had been made in Ireland) at a republication. It 
is proper that I should state, that the persons with whom 
I was subsequently acquainted, whose names had occur- 
red in that publication, were made my acquaintances at 
their own desire, or through the unsought intervention of 
others. I never, to the best of my knowledge, sought a 
personal introduction to any. Some of them to this day 
I know only by correspondence ; and with one of those it' 
was begun by myself, in consequence, however, of a polite 
verbal communication from a third person. ' 

I have dwelt for an instant on these circumstances 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



281 



because it has sometimes been made a subject of bitter 
reproach to me to have endeavoured to suppress that 
satire. I never shrunk, as those who know me know, 
from any personal consequences which could be attached 
to its publication. Of its subsequent suppression, as I 
possessed the copyright, I was the best judge and the sole 
master. The circumstances which occasioned the sup- 
pression I have now stated ; of the motives, each must 
judge according to his candour or malignity. Mr. Bowles 
does me the honour to talk of " noble mind," and " gene- 
rous magnanimity ;" and all this because " the circumstance 
would have been explained had not the book been sup- 
pressed." I see no "nobihty of mind" in an act of sim- 
ple justice ; and I hate the word " magnanimity,^' because 
I have sometimes seen it applied to the grossest of impos- 
tors by the greatest of fools ; but I would have "explained 
the circumstance," notwithstanding " the suppression of 
the book," if Mr. Bowles had expressed any desire that I 
should. As the " gallant Galbraith" says to " Baillie Jar- 
vie," " Well, the devil take the mistake and all that occa- 
sioned it." I have, had as great and greater mistakes 
made about me personally and poetically, once a month 
for tliese last ten years, and never cared very much about 
correcting one or the other, at least after the first eight- 
and-forty hours had gone over them. 

I must now, however, say a word or two about Pope, of 
whom you have my opinion more at large in the unpub- 
lished letter on or to (for I forget which) the editor of 
" Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine ;" — and here I doubt 
that Mr. Bowles will not approve of my sentiments. 

Although I regret having pubhshed "English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers," the part which I regret the least 
is that which regards Mr. Bowles with reference to Pope. 
Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, 
Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our 
mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. Bowles's edition of 
his works. As I had completed my outline, and felt lazy, 
I requested that he would do so. He did it. His fourteen 
lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition of " Eng- 
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers ;" and are quite as 
severe and much more poetical than my own in the 
second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to it, 
I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's Unes, and replaced them with 
my own, by which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles. 
I have stated this in the preface to the second edition. It 
is many years since I have read that poem; but the 
(Quarterly Review, Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, and Mr. 
Bowles himself, have been so obliging as to refresh my 
memory, and that of the public. I am grieved to say, 
that in reading over those lines, I repent of their having so 
far fallen short of what I meant to express upon the sub- 
ject of Bowles's edition of Pope's Works. Mr. Bowles 
says that " Lord Byron knows he does not deserve this 
character." I know no such thing. I have met Mr. 
Bowles occasionally, in the best society in London ; he 
appeared to me an amiable, well-informed, and extremely 
able man. I desire nothing better than to dine in com- 
pany with such a mannered man every day in the week : 
but of " his character" I know nothing personally ; I can 
only speak of his manners, and these have my warmest 
approbation. But I never judge from manners, for I once 
had my pocket picked by the civilest gentleman I ever 
met with ; and one of the mildest persons I ever saw was 
Ali Pacha. Of Mr. Bowles's " character'^ I will not do 
him the injustice to judge from the edition of Pope, if ho 
prepared it heedlessly ; nor tho justice, should it be other- 
wise, because I would neither become a literary execu- 
tioner, nor a personal one. Mr. Bowles the individual, 
and Mr. Bowles the editor, appear the two most opposite 
things imaginable. 

" And he himself one Rntllheili." 

I won't say " vilo," because it is harsh ; nor " mistaken," 
because it has two syllables too many ; but every one 
must fill up the blank as he pleases. 
36 



What I saw of Mr. Bowles increased my surprise and 
regret that he should ever have lent his talents to such a 
task. If he had been a fool, there would have been some 
excuse for him ; if he had been a needy or a bad man, his 
conduct would have been intelligible ; but he is the oppo- 
site of all these ; and thinking and feeUng as I do of Pope, 
to me the whole thing is unaccountable. However, I must 
call things by their right names. I cannot call his edition 
of Pope a " candid" work ; and I still think that there is 
an affectation of that quality not only in those volumes, 
but in the pamphlets lately published. 

" Why yet he doth deny his prisoners." 

Mr. Bowles says, that "he has seen passages in his 
letters to Martha Blount, which were never pubhshed by 
me, and I hope never will be by others ; which are so gross 
as to imply the grossest Ucentiousness." Is this fair play ? 
It may, or it may not be, that such passages exist : and 
that Pope, who was not a monk, although a catholic, may 
have occasionally sinned in word and in deed with woman 
in his youth ; but is this a sufficient ground for such a 
sweeping denunciation ? WTiere is the unmarried Eng- 
lishman of a certain rank of hfe, who (provided he has not 
taken orders) has not to reproach himself between the 
ages of sixteen and thirty with far more licentiousness 
than has ever yet been traced to Pope ? Pope Uved in 
the public eye from his youth upwards ; he had all the 
dunces of his own time for his enemies, and, I am sorry 
to say, some, who have not the apology of duhiess for de- 
traction, since his death ; and yet to what do all their 
accumulated hints and charges amount; — to an equivocal 
liaison with Martha Blount, which might arise as much 
from his infirmities as from his passions ; to a hopeless 
flirtation with Lady Mary W. Montagu ; to a story of 
Gibber's ; and to two or three coarse passages in his 
works. Who could come forth clearer from an invidious 
inquest on a hfe of fifty-six years ? Why are we to be 
officiously reminded of such passages in his letters, pro- 
vided that they exist? Is Mr. Bowles aware to what 
such rummaging among "letters" and "stories" might 
lead? I have myself seen a collection of letters of 
another eminent, nay, pre-eminent, deceased poet, so 
abominably gross, and elaborately coarse, that I do not 
believe that they could be paralleled in our language. 
What is more strange, is, that some of these are couched 
as postscripts to his serious and sentimental letters, to 
which are tacked either a piece of prose, or some verses, 
of the most hyperbolical indecency. He himself says, 
that if " obscenity (using a much coarser word) be the 
sin against the Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot bo 
saved." These letters are in existence, and have been 
seen by many besides myself; but would his e<litor have 
been " candid'' in even alluding to ihem ? Nothing would 
have even provoked me, an indifferent spectator, to allude 
to them, but this further attempt at the depreciation of 
Pope. 

What should wo say to an editor of Addison, who 
cited the following passage from Walpole's letters to 
George Montagu? "Dr. Young has published a now 
book, etc. Mr. Addison sent for the young Earl of 
Warwick, as he was dying, to show him in what peace a 
Christian could die ; unluckily he died of bra>uly : no- 
thing makes a Christian die in peace like being maudlin ! 
but don't say this in Gath where you are." Suppo-^e the 
editor introduced it with this preface : " One circumstance 
is mentioned by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was 
indeed flagitimia. Walpole informs Montagu that Addi- 
son sent for the young Earl of Wanvick, when dyinp, to 
show him in what peace a Christian could die ; but un- 
luckily he died drunk, etc. etc." Now, alUiough there 
might occur on the subsequent, or on the same page, a 
faint show of disbelief, seasoned with the exprrssum of 
"the same candour," (the same exactly &s thmu^-hout the 
book,) I should say that Uus editor was cither foolishor 
false to his trust ; such a story oiighi not to hare bem 



282 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



admitted, except for one brief mark of crushing indigna- 
tion ; unless it were completely proved. Why the words 
Hf true ?" That « if" is not a peacemaker. Why talk 
of " Gibber's testimony" to his Ucentiousness ? To what 
does this amoimt? that Pope, when very young, was 
once decoyed by some noblemen and the player to a house 
of carnal recreation. Mr. Bowles was not always a 
clergyman ; and when he was a very young man, was he 
never seduced into as much ? If I v.-ere in the humour 
for story-telling, and relating Uttle anecdotes, I could tell 
a much better story of Mr. Bowles than Gibber's, upon 
much better authority, viz. that of Mr. Bowles himself. 
It was not related by him in my presence, but in that of 
a third person, whom Mr. Bowles names oftener than 
once in the course of his replies. This gentleman related 
it to me as a humorous and witty anecdote ; and so it 
was, whatever its other characteristics might be. But 
should I, from a youthful frolic, brand JNIr. Bowles with a 
" libertine sort of love," or with " licentiousness ?" is he 
the less now a pious or a good man for not having always 
been a priest ? No such thing ; I am willing to believe 
him a good man, almost as good a man as Pope, but no 
better. 

The truth is, that in these days the grand " primum 
mobile" of England is cant ; cant political, cant poetical, 
cant religious, cant moral ; but always cant, multiplied 
through all the varieties of life. It is the fashion, and 
while it lasts will be too powerful for those who can only 
exist by taking the tone of the time. I say cant, because 
it is a thing of words, without the smallest influence upon 
human actions ; the English being no v^iser, no better, 
and much poorer, and more divided among themselves, 
as well as far less moral, thajn they were before the preva- 
lence of this verbal decorum. This hysterical horror of 
poor Pope's not very well ascertained, and never fully 
proved amours, (for even Gibber owns that he prevented 
the somewhat perilous adventure in which Pope was 
embarking,) sounds very virtuous in a controversial 
pamphlet ; but all men of the world who know what life 
isj or at least what it was to them in their youth, must 
laugh at such a ludicrous foundation of the charge of a 
" hbertine sort of love ;" while the more serious will look 
upon those who bring forward such charges upon an 
insulated fact, jis fanatics or hypocrites, perhaps both. 
The two are sometimes compounded in a happy mix- 
ture. 

Mr. Octavius Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently of a 
" second tumbler of hot white-wine negus." What does 
he mean ? Is there any harm in negus ? or is it the 
worse for being hot 7 or does Mr. Bowles drink negus ? I 
had a better opinion of him. I hoped that whatever wine 
he drank was neat ; or at least that, like the ordinaiy in 
Jonathan Wild, " he preferred punch, the rather as there 
was nothing against it in scripture." I should be sorry to 
believe that Mr. Bowles was fond of negus ; it is such a 
"candid" liquor, so Uke a wishy-washy compromise 
between the passion for wine and the propriety of water. 
But different writers have divers tastes. Judge Black- 
stone composed his "Commentaries," (he was a poet too 
in his youth,) with a bottle of port before him. Addi- 
son's conversation was not good for much till he had 
taken a similar dose. Perhaps the prescription of these 
two great men was not inferior to the very different one of 
a soi-disant poet of this day, who, after wandering among 
the hills, returns, goes to bed, and dictates his verses, 
being fed by a by-stander with bread and butter, during 
the operation. 

I now come to Mr. Bowles's " invariable principles of 
poetry." These Mr. Bowles and some of his corre- 
spondents pronounce "unanswerable;" and they are 
"unanswered," at least by Campbell, who seems to have 
been astounded by the title. The sultan of the time 
being, offered to ally himself to the king of France, 
because " he hated the word league :" which proves that 
the Padishan understood French. Mr. Campbell has no 



need of my allicince, nor shall I presume to offer it ; but 
I do hate that word ''invariable." What is there of 
human, be it poetry, philosophy, wit, wisdom, science, 
power, glory, mind, matter, life or death, which is " inva- 
riable?" Of course I put things divine out of the ques- 
tion. Of all arrogant baptisms of a book, this title to a 
pamphlet appears the most complacently conceited. It 
is Mr. Campbell's part to answer the contents of this per- 
formance, and especially to vindicate his own "Ship," 
which IMr. Bowles most triumphantly proclaims to have 
struck to his very first fire. 

*' Q,uoth he, there was a Ship ; 

Now let me go, thou gray-hair'd loon, 

Or my staff shall make thee skip ;" 

It is no affair of mine, but having once begtm, (certainly 
not by my own wish, but called upon by the frequent 
recurrence to my name in the pamphlets,) I am like an 
Irishman in a "row," "any body's customer." I shall 
therefore say a word or two on the " Ship." 

Mr. Bowles asserts that Campbell's " Ship of the Line" 
derives all its poetiy not from "art" but from " na/wre." 
" Take away the waves, the winds, the sun, etc. etc. one 
will become a stripe of blue bunting ; and the other a 
piece of coarse cemvass on three tall poles." Very true ; 
take away " the waves," " the winds," and there will be no 
ship at all, not only for poetical, but for any other purpose ; 
and take away " the sun," and we must read Mr. Bowles's 
pamphlet by candlelight. But the "poetry" of the 
" Ship" does not depend on " the waves," etc. ; on the con- 
trary, the "Ship of the Line" confers its own poetry upon 
the waters, and heightens theirs. I do not deny, that the 
" waves and winds," and above all " the sun," are highly 
poetical; we know it to our cost, by the many descrip- 
tions of them in verse : but if the waves bore only the 
foam upon their bosoms, if the winds wafted only the 
sea-weed to the shore, if the sun shone neither upon 
pyramids, nor fleets, nor fortresses, would its beams be 
equally poetical? I thuik not: the poetry is at least 
reciprocal. Take away " the ship of the line" "swing- 
ing round" the " calm water," and the calm water becomes 
a somewhat monotonous thing to look at, particularly if 
not transparently clear ; witness the thousands who pass 
by without looking on it at all. What was it attracted 
the thousands to the launch ? they might have seen the 
poetical " calm water," at Wapping, or in the "London 
Dock," or in the Paddington Canal, or in a horsepond, or 
in a slop-basin, or in any other vase. They might have 
heard the poetical winds howling through the chinks of a 
pig-sty, or the garret-window ; they might have seen the 
sun shining on a footman's livery, or on a brass warming- 
pan ; but could the " calm water," or the " wind," or the 
"sun," make all, or any of these, " poetical ?" I think 
not. Mr. Bowles admits " the ship" to be poetical, but 
only from those accessories : now if they corner poetry so 
as to make one thing poetical, they would make other 
things poetical ; the more so, as Mr. Bowles calls a " ship 
of the line" without them, that is to say, its " masts and 
sails and streamers," " blue bunting," and " coarse canvass," 
and " tall poles." So they are ; and porcelain is clay, and 
man is dust, and flesh is grass, and yet the two latter at 
least are the subjects of much poesy. 

Did Mr. Bowles ever gaze upon the sea? I presume 
that he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did any painter 
ever paint the sea only, without the addition of a ship, 
boat, wreck, or some such adjunct ? Is the sea itself a 
more attractive, a more moral, a more poetical object 
with or without a vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing 
monotony ? Is a storm more poetical without a ship ? 
or, in the poem of the Shipwreck, is it the storm or the 
ship which most interests? both mu£h, undoubtedly; but 
without the vessel, what should we care for the tempest ? 
It would sink into mere descriptive poetry, which in itself 
was never esteemed a high order of that art. 

I look upon myself as entided to talk of naval matters, 
at least to poets : — with the exception of Walter Scott, 



I 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



283 



Moore, and Southey, perhaps, (who have been voyagers,) 
I have swum more rniles than all the rest of them together 
now living ever sailed^ and have lived for months and 
months on shipboard 5 and during the whole period of 
my life abroad, have scarcely ever passed a month out 
of sight of the ocean : besides being brought up from two 
years till ten on the brink of it. I recollect, when an- 
chored off Cape Sigaeum, in 1810, in an English frigate, 
a violent squall coming on at sunset, so violent as to 
make us imagine that the ship would part cable, or drive 
from her anchorage. Mr. Hobhouse and myself, and 
some officers, had been up the Dardanelles to Abydos, 
and were just returned in time. The aspect of a storm 
in the Archipelago is as poetical as need be, the sea 
being particularly short, dashing, and dangerous, and the 
navigation intricate and broken by the isles and currents. 
Cape Sigaeum, the tumuh of the Troad, Lemnos, Tene- 
dos, all added to the associations of the time. But what 
seemed the most ^'poetical" of all at the moment, were 
the numbers (about two hundred) of Greek and Turkish 
craft, which were obliged to "cut and run" before the 
wind, from their unsafe anchorage, some for Tenedos, 
some for other isles, some for the main, and some it might 
be for eternity. The sight of these little scudding ves- 
sels, darting over the foam in the twilight, now appearing 
and now disappearing between the waves in the cloud of 
night, with their peculiarly ivJiiie sails (the Levant sails 
not being of " coarse canvas,^' but of white cotton) skim- 
ming along as quickly, but less safely than the seamews 
which hovered over them ; their evident distress, their 
reduction to fluttering specks in the distance, their crowd- 
ed succession, their littleness, as contending with the giant 
element, which made our stout forty-four's teak timbers 
(she was built in India) creak again ; their aspect and 
their motion, all struck me as sometliing far more " poeti- 
cal" than the mere broad, brawling, shipless sea, and the 
sullen winds, could possibly have been without them. 

The Euxine is a noble sea to look upon, and the port 
of Constantinople the most beautiful of harbours, and 
yet I cannot but think that the twenty sail of the line, 
some of one hundred and forty guns, rendered it more 
"poetical" by day in the sun, and by night perhaps still 
more, for the Turks illuminate their vessels of war in a 
manner the most picturesque — and yet all tins is artifi- 
cial. As for the Euxine, I stood upon the Symplegades 
— I stood by the broken altar still exposed to the winds 
upon one of them — I felt all the "poetry'' of the situa- 
tion, as I repeated the first lines of Medea; but would 
not that " poetry" have been heightened by the Argo ? 
It was so even by the appearance of any merchant vessel 
arriving from Odessa. But Mr. Bowles says, "why 
bring your ship off" the stocks ?" for no reason that 1 
know, except tliat ships are built to be launched. The 
water, etc. undoubtedly heightens the poetical associa- 
tions, but it does not make them ; and the ship amply 
repays the obligation: they aid each other; the water is 
more poetical with the ship — the ship less so without the 
water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, is a grand and 
poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel upwards, wrecked 
upon the barren sand, is a " poetical" object, (and Words- 
worth, who made a poem about a washing-tub and a blind 
boy, may tell you so as well as I ;) whilst a U)ng extent of 
sand and unbroken wafer, without the boat, would be as 
like dull prose as any pamphlet lately published. 

What makes the poetry in the imago of the " marblr 
waste of Tadmor,''^ or Grainger's "Ode to Solitude," so 
much admired by Johnson? Is it the "?/}rtr6/«V' or the 
" waste" the artificial or the natural object'.' The "waste" 
is like all other wastes; but the ''marble" of Palmyra 
makes the poetry of tlio passage as of the place. 

The beautiful but barren Ilymettus, the whole coast of 
Attica, her hills and mountains, Pentelicus, Anchesmus, 
Philopappus, etc. etc. are in tliemselves poetical, and 
would be so if tho name of Athens, of Athenians, and 
her very ruins, were swept from the earth. But am I 



to be told that the " nature" of Attica would be more 
poetical without the " art" of the Acropolis ? of the Tem- 
ple of Theseus ? and of the still all Greek and glorious 
monuments of her exquisitely artificial genius ? Ask the 
traveller what strikes him as most poetical, the Partlie- 
non, or the rock on which it stands ? The columns of 
Cape Colonna, or the Cape itself? The rocks, at the 
foot of it, or the recollection that Falconer's ship was 
bulged upon them. There are a thousand rocks and 
capes, far more picturesque than those of the Acropolis 
and Cape Sunium in themselves ; what are they to a 
thousand scenes in the wilder parts of Greece, of Asia 
Minor, Switzerland, or even of Cintra in Portugal, or to 
many scenes of Italy, and the Sierras of Spain ? But it 
is the " art" the columns, the temples, the wrecked vessel, 
which give them their antique and their modern poetry, 
and not the spots themselves. Without them, the spots 
of earth would be unnoticed and unknown ; buried, like 
Babylon and Nineveh, in indistinct confusion, without 
poetry, as without existence: but to whatever spot of 
earth these ruins were transported, if they were capable 
of transportation, like tlie obelisk, and the sphinx, and the 
Memnon's head, there they would still exist in the perfec- 
tion of their beauty, and in the pride of their poetry. I 
opposed, and will ever oppose, the robbery of ruins from 
Athens, to instruct the English in sculpture ; but wliy did 
I so ? The ruins are as poetical in Piccaddly as they 
were in the Parthenon ; but the Parthenon and its rock 
are less so without them. Such is the poetry of art. 

Mr. Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of 
Egypt are poetical, because of " the association witli 
boundless deserts," and that a "pyramid of the same 
dimensions" would not be sublune in "Lincoln's Inn 
Fields ;" not so poetical, certainly ; but take away the 
" pyramids," and what is the " desert .<"' Take away 
Stone-henge from Salisbury plain, and it is nothing more 
than Hounslow Heath, or any other unenclosed down. It 
appears to me that St. Peter's, the Coliseum, the Pan- 
theon, the Palatine, the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Venus 
di Medicis, the Hercules, the dying Gladiator, the Moses 
of Michael Angelo, and all the higher works of Canova, 
(I have already spoken of those of ancient Greece, still 
extant in that country, or transportetl to England,) are as 
poetical as Mont Blanc or Mount .(Ejna, perhaps still 
more so, as they are direct manifestations of mind, and 
presuppose poetry in tiieir very conception ; and have, 
nioieover, as being such, a something of actual life, 
which cannot belong to any part of inanimate nature, 
unless we adopt the system of Spinosa, that the world 
is the deity. There can be nothing more poetical in ita 
aspect than the city of Venice : does this depend upon 
the sea, or the canals ? — 

" Tlicilirt ami scawceJ wliciice ptoiul Venice roiet" 

Is it the canal which runs between tho palace and tha 
prison, or the " Bridge of Sighs" whicli connects them, 
that render it poetical.' Is it the "Canal Grande," or 
the Rialfo which arches it, the churches which tower 
over it, tho palaces which line, and the gondolas which 
glide over the waters, tliat render this city more poetical 
than Rome iUsclf? Mr. Bowles will say, perhaps, that 
the Rialto is but marble, the palaces and churches only 
stone, and the goiulolas; a " coarse" bUuk cloth, thro\Vn 
over some planks of carved wood, with a shining bit of 
fantastically-formed iron at the prow, "m-U/jou/" tlio 
water. And I t»;ll him that without these tho water 
would bo nothing but a elay-eolouretl ditch, and who- 
ever says the contrary, deserves to bo at the bottom of 
that where Pope's heroes are embraced by the mud- 
nymphs. There would be nothing to nuike the canal of 
Venice more ponticul ihun that of Paildington, wore it 
not for tho artificial adjuncts above mentioncil, altJioufjh it 
is a perfectly natural canal, fornunl by the sea, and the 
innunu-rablo islands which con?)titut«' tlie sit* of this 
extraordinary city. 



284 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



The very Cloacae of Tarquin at Rome are as poetical 
as Richmond Hill ; many will think more so. Take away 
Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven hills, in the 
nature of Evander's time ; let Mr. Bowles, or Mr. 
Wordsworth, or Mr. Southey, or any of the other "na- 
turals," malte a poem upon them, and then see which is 
most poetical, their production or the commonest guide- 
book winch tells you the road from St. Peter's to the 
Coliseum, and informs you what you will see by the way. 
The ground interests in Virgil, because it tvUI be Rome, 
and not because it is Evander's rural domain. 

Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into his 
service, in answer to a remark of Mr. Campbell's, that 
"Homer was a great describer of works of art." Mr. 
Bowles contends, that all his great power, even in this, 
depends upon their connexion with nature. The " shield 
of Achilles derives its poetical interest from the subjects 
described on it," And from what does the spear of 
Achilles derive its interest ? and the helmet and the mail 
•worn by Patroclus, and the celestial armour, and the 
very brazen greaves of the well-booted Greeks ? Is it 
solely from the legs, and the back, and the breast, and the 
human body, which they enclose ? In that case, it would 
have been more poetical to have made them fight naked ; 
and Gully and Gregson, as bemg nearer to a state of 
nature, are more poetical, boxing in a pair of drawers, 
than Hector and Achilles in radiant armour, and with 
heroic weapons. 

Instead of the clash of helmets, and the rushing of 
chariots, and the whizzing of spears, and the glancing of 
swords, and the cleaving of shields, and the piercing of 
breastplates, why not represent the Greeks and Trojans 
like two savage tribes, tugging and tearing, and kicking, 
and biting, and gnashing, foaming, grinning, and gouging, 
in all the poetry of martial nature, unincumbered with 
gross, prosaic, artificial arms, an equal superfluity to the 
natural warrior, and his natural poet? Is there any 
thing unpoetical in Ulysses striking the horses of Rhesus 
with his bow, (having forgotten his thong,) or would Mr. 
Bowles have had him kick them with his foot, or smack 
them with his hand, as beng more ujisophisticated ? 

In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than 
his " shapeless sculpture ?" Of sculpture in general, it 
may be observed, that it is more poetical than nature 
itself, inasmuch as it represents and bodies forth that 
ideal beauty and sublimity which is never to be found in 
actual nature. This at least is the general opinion ; but, 
always excepting the Venus di Medicis, I differ from that 
opinion, at least as far as regards female beauty, for the 
head of Lady Charlemont (when I first saw her, nine 
years ago) seemed to possess all that sculpture could 
require for its ideal. I recollect seeing something of the 
same kind in the head of an Albanian girl, who was 
actually employed in mending a road in the mountains, 
and in some Greek, and one or two Italian faces. But 
of sublimity, I have never seen any thing in human nature 
at all to approach the expression of sculpture, either in 
the Apollo, the Moses, or other of the sterner works of 
ancient or modern art. 

Let us examine a Uttle further this " babble of green 
fields," and of bare nature in general, as superior to arti- 
ficial imagery, for the poetical purposes of the fine arts. 
In landscape painting, the great artist does not give you 
a literal copy of a country, but he invents and composes 
one. Nature, in her actual aspect, does not furnish him 
with such existing scenes as he requires. Even where 
he presents you with some famous city, or celebrated 
scene from mountain or other nature, it must be taken 
from some particular point of view, and with such light, 
and shade, and distance, etc. as serve not only to heighten 
its beauties, but to shadow its deformities. The poetry 
of nature alone, exactly as she appears, is not sufficient 
to bear him out. The very sky of his painting is not the 
portrait of the sky of nature ; it is a composition of diffe- 
r«nt akies, observed at different times, and not the whole 



copied from any particular day. And why ? Because 
Nature is not lavish of her beauties ; they are widely 
scattered, and occasionally displayed, to be selected with 
care, and gathered with difficulty. 

Of sculpture I have just spoken. It is the great scope 
of the sculptor to heighten nature into heroic beauty, i. e. 
in plain English, to surpass his model. When Canova 
forms a statue, he takes a limb from one, a hand from 
another, a feature from a third, and a shape, it may be, 
from a fourth, probably at the same time improving upon 
all, as the Greek of old did in embodying his Venus. 

Ask a portrait painter to describe his agonies in accom- 
modating the faces with which Nature and his sitters have 
crowded his painting-room to the principles of his art ; 
with the exception of perhaps ten faces in as many mil- 
lions, there is not one which he can venture to give with- 
out shading much and adding more. Nature, exactly, 
simply, barely nature, will make no great artist of any 
kind, and least of all a poet — the most artificial, perhaps, 
of all artists in his very essence. With regard to natural 
imagery, the poets are obliged to take some of their best 
illustrations from art. You say that " a fountain is as clear 
or clearer than glass,^^ to express its beauty — 

" fons Bandusiis, splendidior vitro !" 

In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Caesar is 
displayed, but so also is his mantle — 
" You all do know this mantle,^^ etc. 
" Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through." 

If the poet had said that Cassius had run his^sf through 
the rent of the mantle, it would have had more of Mr. 
Bowles's " nature" to help it ; but the artificial dagger is 
more poetical than any natural hand without it. In the 
subhme of sacred poetry, "Who is this that cometh from 
Edom ? with dyed garments from Bozrah ?" Would " the 
comer" be poetical without his " dyed garments ?" which 
strike and startle the spectator, and identify the approach- 
ing object. 

The mother of Sisera is represented listening for the 
"tw^eZs (>/■ his chariot." Solomon, in his Song, compares 
the nose of his beloved to a "tower," which to us appears 
an eastern exaggeration. If he had said, that her statue 
was like that of" a tower," it would have been as poetical 
as if he had compared her to a tree. 

" The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex," 

is an instance of an artificial image to express a moral 
superiority. But Solomon, it is probable, did not compare 
his beloved's nose to a " tower" on account of its length, 
but of its symmetry ; and, making allowance for eastern 
hypierbole and the difficulty of finding a discreet image for 
a female nose in nature, it is perhaps as good a figure as 
any other. 

Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes. What 
makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view 
than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, 
their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their 
position and movements. A Highlander's plaid, a Mus- 
sulman's turban, and a Roman toga, are more poetical 
than the tattooed or untattooed buttocks of a Nev.^ Sand- 
wich savage, although they were described by William 
Wordsworth himself like the "idiot in his glory." 

I have seen as many mountains as most men, and more 
fleets than the generality of landsmen : and, to my mind, 
a large convoy, with a few sail of the line to conduct them, 
is as noble and as poetical a prospect as all that inanimate 
nature can produce. I prefer the " mast of some great 
ammiral,' with all its tackle, to the Scotch fir or the Alpine 
tannen : and think that more poetry has been made out of 
it. In what does the infinite superiority of "Falconer's 
Shipwreck," over all other shipwrecks, consist ? In his 
admirable application of the terms of his art ; in a poet- 
sailor's description of the sailor's fate. These very terms, 
by his application, make the strength and reaUty of his 
poem. Why ? because he was a poet, and in the hands 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



285 



of a poet art will not be found less ornamental than nature. 
It is precisely in general nature, and in stepping out of 
his element, that Falconer fails ; where he digresses to 
speak of ancient Greece, and " such branches of learning." 
In Dyer's Grongar Hill, upon which his fame rests, the 
very appearance of Nature herself is moralized into an 
artificial image : 

" Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 
To instruct our wandering thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away." 

And here also we have the telescope, the misuse of 
which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so tri- 
umphant over Mr. Campbell: 

" So we mistake the future's face, 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass." 

And here a word, en passant, to Mr. Campbell : 

" As yon summits, soft and fair, 
Clad in colours of the air, 
Which, to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear, 
Still we tread the same coarse way-^ 
The present's still a cloudy day." 

Is not this the original of the far-famed, 

" 'T is distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue ?" 

To return once more to the sea. Let any one look on 
the long wall of Malamocco, which curbs the Adriatic, and 
pronounce between the sea and its master. Surely that 
Roman work, (1 mean Roman in conception and perform- 
ance,) which says to the ocean, " thus far shalt thou come, 
and no further," and is obeyed, is not less sublime and 
poetical than the angry waves which vainly break be- 
neath it. 

Mr. Bowles makes the chief part of a ship's poesy 
depend on the " wind :" then why is a ship under sail more 
poetical than a hog in a high wind ? The hog is all nature 
the ship is all art, " coarse canvas," " blue bunting," and 
" tall poles ;" both are violently acted upon by the wind 
tossed here and there, to and fro ; and yet nothing but 
excess of hunger could make me look upon the pig as the 
more poetical of the two, and then only in the shape of a 
griskin. 

Will Mr. Bowles tell us that the poetry of an aqueduct 
consists in the water which it conveys ? Let him look on 
that of Justinian, on those of Rome, Constantinople, Lisbon, 
and Elvas, or even at the remains of that in Attica. 

We are askod " what makes the venerable towers of 
Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, than the 
tower for the manufactory of patent shot, surrounded by 
the same scenery?" I will answer — the architecture. 
Turn Westminster Abbey, or Saint Paul's, into a powder 
magazine, their poetry, as objects, remains the same ; the 
Parthenon was actually converted into one by the Turks, 
during Morosini's Venetian siege, and part of it destroyed 
in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled their steeds 
in Worcester cathedral ; was it less poetical, as an ob- 
ject, than before ? Ask a foreigner on his approach to 
London, what strikes him as the most poetical of the 
towers before him; he will point out St. Paul's and West- 
minster Abbey, without, perhaps, knowing the names or 
associations of either, and pass over the " tower for patent 
shot," not that, for any thing he knows to the contrary, it 
might not be the mausoleum of a monarch, or a Waterloo 
column, or a Trafalgar monument, but because its archi- 
tecture is obviously inferior. 

To the question, " whether the description of a game of 
cards be as poetical, supposing the execution of the artists 
equal, as a description of a walk in a forest ?" it may bo 
answered, that the materials are certainly not oqtial ; but 
that " the artist,^ who has rendered the " game of cards 
poetical," is bi/ fur the greater of the two. But all this 
"ordering" of poets is purely arbitrary on the part of Mr. 
Bowles. There may or may not bo, in fact, dilFcrent 
"orders" of poetry, but the poet is always ranked according 



to his execution, and not according to his branch of 
the art. 

'I'ragedy is one of the highest presumed orders. Hughes 
has written a tragedy, and a very successful one ; Fenton 

another; and Pope none. Did any man, however, will 

even Mr. Bowles himself rank Hughes and Fenton as poets 
above Pope7 Was even Addison, (the author of Cato,) 
or Rowe (one of the higher order of dramatists, as far as 
success goes,) or Young, or even Otway and Southerne, 
ever raised for a moment to the same rank with Pope in 
the estimation of the reader or the critic, before his death 
or since ? If Mr. Bowles will contend for classifications 
of this kind, let him recollect that descriptive poetry has 
been ranked as among the lowest branches of the art, and 
description as a mere ornament, but which should never 
form " the subject" of a poem. The Itahans, with the 
most poetical knguage, and the most fastidious taste in 
Europe, possess now five great poets, they say, Dante, 
Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, and lastly Alfieri ; and whom do 
they esteem one of the highest of these, and some of them 
the very highest? Petrarch, the sonnetteer: it is true that 
some of his Canzoni are not less esteemed, but not more; 
who ever dreams of his Latin Africa ? 

Were Petrarch to be ranked according to the " order" 
of his compositions, where would the best of sonnets place 
him ? with Dante and the others ? No : but, as I have 
before said, the poet who executes best is the highest, what- 
ever his department, and will ever be so rated in the 
world's esteem. 

Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he 
stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher ; it 
is the corner-stone of his glory ; without it, his odes would 
be insufficient for his fame. The depreciation of Pope is 
partly founded upon a false idea of the dignity of his order 
of poetry, to which he has partly contributed by the in* 
genuous boast, 

" That not in fancy's mare he wander'd long, 
But stoop^dlo truth, and moralized his song." 

He should have written " rose to truth." In my mind, the 
highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as the highest of all 
earthly objects must be moral truth. Religion does not 
make a part of my subject ; it is something beyond human 
powers, and has failed in all human hands except Milton's 
and Dante's, and even Dante's powers are involved in the 
delineation of human passions, though in supernatural cir- 
cumstances. What made Socrates the greatest of men? 
His moral truth — his ctliics. What proved Jesus Christ 
the Son of God hardly less than his miracles ? His moral 
precepts. And if ethics have made a philosopher the first 
of men, and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his 
gospel by the Deity himself, are we to be told that ethical 
poetry, or didactic poetry, or by whatever name you term 
it, whose object is to make men better and wiser, is not 
the very Jirst order of poetry ? and are we to be told this 
too by one of the priesthood? It requires more mind, 
more wisdom, more power, than all the " forests" that ever 
were " walked" for their " description," and all the epics 
that ever were founded upon fields of battle. The 
Georgics are indisputably, and, I believe, undisputedly, 
even a finer poem Uian the .(Eneid. Virgil knew this ; he 
did not order them to be burnt. 

" The properiludy of mankind Itraan." 

It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress upon what 
they call "imagination" and "invention," the two com- 
monest of qualities: an Irish peasant, witli a little whisky 
in his head, will imagine and invent more than would fur- 
nish forth a modern i)o»>m. If Lucretius hail not been 
spoiled by the Epicurean system, we should have had a 
far superior poem to any now in existonro. As mere 
poetry, it is the first of Latin poems. What then hat 
ruined it ? His ethics. Pope has not this defect ; his moral 
is aa pure as his poetry is glorious. In .^peaking of arti- 
ficial objects, I have omitted to toucli upon one which I 
will now mention. Cannon may be preaunied to be u 



286 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



highly poetical as art can make her objects. Mr. Bowles 
will, perhaps, tell me that this is because they resemble 
that grand natural article of sound in heaven, and simile 
upon earth — thunder. I shall be told triumphantly, that 
Milton made sad work with his artillery, when he armed 
his devils therewithal. He did so ; and this artificial ob- 
ject must have had much of the sublime to attract his 
attention for such a conflict. He has made an absurd use 
of it ; but the absurdity consists not in using cannon against 
the angels of God, but any material weapon. The thun- 
der of the clouds would have been as ridiculous and vain 
in the hands of the devils, as the " villanous saltpetre :" 
the angels were as impervious to the one as to the other. 
The thunderbolts became sublime in the hands of the Al- 
mighty, not as such, but because he deigns to use them as 
a means of repelling the rebel spirits ; but no one can at- 
tribute their defeat to this grand piece of natural electri- 
city: the Almighty willed, and they fell; his word would 
have been enough ; and Milton is as absurd (and in fact, 
hlasphemons) in putting material hghtnings into the hands 
of the Godhead as in giving him hands at all. 

The artillery of the demons was but the first step of 
his mistake, the thunder the next, and it is a step lower. 
It would have been fit for Jove, but not for Jehovah. 
The subject altogether was essentially unpoetical ; he 
has made more of it than another could, but it is beyond 
him and all men. 

In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that 
Pope " envied Phillips" because he quizzed his pastorals 
in the Guardian, in that most admirable model of u"ony, 
his paper on the subject. If there was any thing envi- 
able about Phillips, it could hardly be his pastorals. 
They were despicable, and Pope expressed his contempt. 
If Mr. Fitzgerald pubhshed a volume of sonnets, or a 
"Spirit of Discovery," or a "Missionary," and Mr. 
Bowles %vi-ote in any periodical journal an ironical paper 
upon them, would this be " envy ?" The authors of the 
" Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the sixteen or twenty 
" first living poets" of the day ; but do they " envy" them ? 
"Envy" writhes, it don't laugh. The authors of the 
•* Rejected Addresses" may despise some, hut they can 
hardly "envy" any of the persons whom they have paro- 
died ; and Pope could have no more envied Phillips than 
he did Welsted, or Theobalds, or Smedly, or any other 
given hero of the Dunciad. He could not have envied 
him, even had he himself not been the greatest poet of 
his age. Did Mr. Ings "entT/"Mr. PhiUips, when he 
asked him, " how came your Pyrrhus to drive oxen, and 
say, I am goaded on by love ?" This question silenced 
poor Phillips ; but it no more proceeded from " envy" 
than did Pope's ridicule. Did he envy Swift ? Did he 
envy Bolingbroke ? Did he envy Gay the unparalleled 
success of his " Beggars' Opera?" We may be answered 
that these were his friends — true ; but does friendship 
prevent envy? Study the first woman you meet with, 
or the first scribbler, let Mr. Bowles himself (whom I 
acquit fully of such an odious quality) study some of 
his own poetical intimates: the most envious man I 
ever heard of is a poet, and a high one ; besides it is an 
universal passion. Goldsmith envied not only the pup- 
pets for their dancing, and broke his shins in the attempt 
at rivalry, but was seriously angry because two pretty 
women received more attention than he did. 7'/iis is 
envy ; but where does Pope show a sign of the passion ? 
In that case, Dryden envied the hero of his Mac Fleck- 
noe. Mr. Bowles compares, when and where he can. 
Pope with Cowper, (the same Covv'per whom, in his 
edition of Pope, he laughs at for his attachment to an 
old woman, Mrs. Unwin : search and you will find it ; I 
remember the passage, though not the page ;) in parti- 
cular he re-quotes Cowper's Dutch delineation of a wood, 
drawn up like a seedsman's catalogue,* with an affected 



* I will Bubmit to Mr. Bowles's own judgment a passage from another 
poem of Cowper's, to be compared with the same writer's Sylvan Sam- 
pler. In the lines to Mary, 



imitation of Milton's style, as burlesque as the " Splendid 
Shilling." These two writers (for Cowper is no poet) 
come into comparison in one great work — the translation 
of Homer. Now, with all the great, and manifest, and 
manifold, and reproved, and acknowledged, and uncon- 
troverted faults of Pope's translation, and all the scholar- 
ship, and pains, and time, and trouble, and blank verse 
of the other, who can ever read Cov^^er ? and who will 
ever lay down Pope, unless for the original ? Pope's was 
" not Homer, it was Spondanus ;" but Cowper's is not 
Homer, either, it is not even Cowper. As a child I first 
read Pope's Homer with a rapture which no subsequent 
work could ever afford ; and children are not the worst 
judges of their own language. As a boy I read Homer 
in the original, as we have all done, some of us by force, 
and a few by favour ; under which description I come is 
nothing to the purpose, it is enough that I read him. As 
a man I have tried to read Cowper's version, and I found 
it impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded? 

And now that we have heard the CathoUc reproached 
with envy, dupUcity, hcentiousness, avarice — what was 
the Calvnnist? He attempted the most atrocious of 
crimes in the Christian code, viz. suicide — and why? 
Because he was to be examined whether he was fit for 
an office which he seems to wish to have made a sine- 
cure. His cormexion with Mrs. Unwin was pure enough, 
for the old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
w^hy then is the infirm and then elderly Pope to be re- 
proved for his connexion with Martha Bloimt ? Cowper 
was the almoner of Mrs. Throgmorton ; but Pope's chari- 
ties were his own, and they were noble and extensive, far 
beyond his fortune's warrant. Pope was the tolerant yet 
steady adherent of the most bigoted of sects ; and Cow- 
per the most bigoted and despondent sectary that ever ■ 
anticipated damnation to himself or others. Is this harsh ? 
I know it is, and I do not assert it as my opinion of Cow- 
per personally, but to show what might be said, with just 
as great an appearance of truth and candour, as all the 
odium which has been accumulated upon Pope in similar 
speculations, Cowper was a good man, and Uved at a 
fortunate time for his works. 

Mr. Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon his 
own arguments, has, in person or by proxy, brought for- 
ward the names of Southey and Moore. Mr. Southey 
" agrees entirely with Mr. Bowles in his invariable prin- 
ciples of poetry." The least that Mr. Bowles can do in 
return is to approve the "invariable principles of Mr. 
Southey." I should have thought that the word "invari- 



" Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 

My Mary," 

contain a simple, household, "indoor," artificial, and ordinary image. 
I refer Mr. Bowles to the stanza, and ask if these three Hnes about " nee- 
dles" are not worth all the boasted twaddling about trees, so triumphantly 
re-quoted ? and yet in fact what do they convey ? A homely collection 
of images and ideas associated with the darning of stockings, and the 
hemming of shirts, and the mending of breeches ; but will any one deny 
that they are eminently poetical and pathetic as addressed by Cowper to 
his nurse? The trash of trees reminds me of a saying of' Sheridan's. 
Soon after the " Rejected Address" scene, in 1812, 1 met Sheridan. lu 
the course of dinner, he said, " Lord Byron, did you know that among 
the writere of addresses was Whilbread himself?" I answered by an 
inquiry of what sort of an address he had made. " Of that," replied 
Sheridan, "I remember little, except that there was a phanix'm it." 
" A i.hoinix ! I Well, how did he describe it ?" " Like a poulterer," 
answered Sheridan: " it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he 
did not let us off for a single feather." And just such as ihis poulterer's 
account of a phcsnix, is Cowper's stick-picker's detail of a wood, with 
all its petty minutiee of this, that, and the other. 

One more poetical instance of the pokier of art, and even its supe- 
riority over nature, in poetry, and I have done :— the bust of AntinousI 
fs there any thing in nature like this marble, excepting the Venus ? Can 
there be more poetry gathered into existence than in that wonderful 
creation of perfect beauty? But the poetry of this bust is in no respect 
derived from nature, nor from any association of moral exaltedness ; 
for what is there in common with moral nature and the male minion of 
Adrian ? The very execution is not natural, but supernatural, or 
rather super-artificial, for nature has never done so much. 

Awav, then, with this cant about nature and " invariable principles 
of poetry !" A great artist will make a block of stone as sublime as a 
mountain, and a good poet can imbue a pack of cards with more poetry 
than inhabits the forests of America. It is the business and the proof 
of a poet to give the lie to the proverb, and sometimes to " make a silken 
purse out of a sow's ear ;" and to conclude with another homely pro» 
verb, ■' a good workman will not find fault with hit tools." 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



287 



a6&" might have stuck in Southeys throat, like Macbeth's 
"Amen!" I am sure it did in mine, and I am not the 
least consistent of the two, at least as a voter. Moore 
(et tu Brute!) also approves, and a Mr. J. Scott. There 
is a letter also of two lines from a gentleman in asterisks, 
who, it seems, is a poet of " the highest rank" — who can 
this be ? not my friend, Sir Walter, surely. Campbell it 
can't be ; Rogers it won't be. 

" You have hit the nail in the head, and **** [Pope, I presume] on 
the head also." 

I remain, yours, aflectionately, 

(Four Asterisks.) 

And in asterisks let him remain. Whoever this person 
may be, he deserves, for such a judgment of Midas, that 
** the nail" which Mr. Bowles has hit in the head should 
be driven through his own ears ; I am sure that they are 
long enough. 

The attention of the poetical populace of the present 
day to obtain an ostracism against Pope is as easily ac- 
counted for as the Athenian's shell against Aristides ; 
they are tired of hearing him aiwcys called " the Just." 
They are also fighting for life ; for if he maintains his 
station, they will reach their own falling. They have 
raised a mosque by the side of a Grecian temple of the 
purest architecture ; and, more barbarous than the bar- 
barians from whose practice I have borrowed the figure, 
they are not contented with their own grotesque edifice, 
unless they destroy the prior and purely beautiful fabric 
which preceded, and which shames them and theirs for 
ever and ever. I shall be told that amongst those I have 
been (or it may be still am) conspicuous — true, and I 
am ashamed of it. I have been among the builders of 
this Babel, attended by a confusion of tongues, but never 
among the envious destroyers of the classic temple of 
our predecessor. I have loved and honoured the fame 
and name of that illustrious and unrivalled man, far 
more than my own paltry renown, and the trashy gin- 
gle of the crowd of "schools" and upstarts, who pretend 
to rival, or even surpass him. Sooner than a single leaf 
should be torn from his laurel, it were better that all 
which these men, and I, as one of their set, have ever 
written, should 

" Line trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
Befringe the rails of Bedlam or Soho 1" 

There arc those who will believe this, and those who 
will not. You, sir, know how far I am sincere, and 
whether my opinion, not only in the short work intended 
for publication, and in private letters which can never 
be published, has or has not been the same. I look 
upon this as the declining age of English poetry ; no 
regard for others, no selfish feeling, can prevent me from 
seeing this, and expressing the truth. There can be no 
worse sign for the taste of ihe times than the deprecia- 
tion of Pope. It would be better to receive for proof 
Mr. Cobbet's rough but strong attack upon Shakspcaro 
and Milton, than to allow this smooth and "candid" 
undermining of the reputation of the most perfect of our 
poets and the purest of our moralists. Of his power in 
the passions, in description, in the mock-heroic, I leave 
others to descant. I take him on his strong ground, as 
an ethical poet: in the former none excel, in the mock- 
heroic and the ethical none equal him ; and, in my mind, 
the latter is the highest of all poetry, because it docs 
that in verse, which the greatest of men have wished to 
accomplish in prose. If the essence of poetry must b(> 
a lie, throw it to the dogs, or banish it from your n-public, 
as Plato would have done. He who can reconcile poetry 
with truth and wisdom, is the only true "poet'^ in its real 
sense; " the ma/cer," " the creator'" — why must this moan 
the " liar," the "feigner," "the tale-tcllor?" A man may 
make and create better things than these, 
r I shall not presume to say that Pojje is as high a poet 
as Shakspcaro and Milton, tliough his enemy, Warton, 
places him immediately under tliem. I would no more 



say this than I would assert in the mosque, (once St. 
Sophia's,) that Socrates was a greater man than Maho- 
met. But if I say that he is very near them, it is n© 
more than has been asserted of Burns, who is supposed 

" To rival all but Shakspeare's name below." 

I say nothing against this opinion. But of what "order,^' 
according to the poetical aristocracy, are Burns's poems ? 
These are his opus magnum, " Tam 0"Shanter," a tale ; 
the "Cotter's Saturday Night," a descriptive sketch; 
some others in the same style ; the rest are songs. So 
much for the rank of his productions ; the rank of Bums 
is the very first of his art. Of Pope I have expressed 
my opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect which the 
present attempts at poetry have had upon our literature. 
If any great national or natural convulsion could or should 
overwhelm your country, in such sort as to sweep Great 
Britain from the kingdoms of the earth, and leave only 
that, after ail the most living of human things, a dead 
language, to be studied and read, and imitated, by the 
wise of future and far generations upon foreign shores ; 
if your literature should become the learning of mankind, 
divested of party cabals, temporary fashions, and national 
pride and prejudice ; an Englishman, anxious that the 
posterity of strangers should know that there had been 
such a thing as a British Epic and Tragedy, might wish 
for the preservation of Shakspeare and Milton ; but the 
surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, and 
let the rest sink with the people. He is the moral poet 
of all civilization, and, as such, let us hope that he will 
one day be the national poet of mankind. He is the only 
poet that never shocks ; the only poet whose faultlessness 
has been made his reproach. Cast your eye over his 
productions ; consider their extent, and contemplate their 
variety: — pastoral, passion, mock-heroic, translation, sa- 
tire, ethics, — all excellent, and often perfect. If his great 
charm be his melody, how comes it that foreigners adore 
him even in their diluted translation ? But I have made 
this letter too long. Give my compUments to Mr. Bowles. 
Yours ever, very truly, 

BYRON. 
To J. Murray, Esq. 



Post scriptum. — Long as this letter has grown, I find 
it necessary to append a postscript, — if possible, a short 
one. Mr. Bowles denies tliat he has accused Pope of 
" a sordid money-getting passion ;" but he adds " if I had 
ever done so, I should be glad to find any testimony that 
might show me he was not so." This testimony he may 
find to his heart's content in Spencc and elsewhere. 
First, there is Martha Blount, who, Mr. Bowles charit- 
ably says, " probably thought he did not save enough for 
her as legatee." \Vliatcver she tfioughl upon tliis jwint, 
her words arc in Pope's favour. Then there is Alder- 
man Barber — see Spence's Anecdotes. There is Pope's 
cold answer to Halifax, when he proposed a pension ; his 
beiiaviour to Craggs and to Addison upon like occasions ; 
and his own two lines — 

" And, thanks (o Homer, since 1 lire and ihriTe, 
Indebted to no prince or peer alive—" 

written when princes would have been proud to pension, 
and peers to promote him, and when the whole army of 
dunces were in array against him, and would have been 
but too happy to deprive him of this boast of indepen- 
dence. But tliero is something a little more serious in 
Mr. Bowles's declaration, that he " tixntld have s|H^on" 
of his "noble generosity to the outca.sl, Hiehard Savage," 
and other instances of a compassionato and pen«'roiis 
lu'art, " had they occurred to Iwi recollection when he urvte." 
What! is it come to this? Does Mr. Howle.i sit tiowTi 
to write a minute and hibouretl life and tnlilion of n great 
poet? Does ho analomizo liis rimrnoior, moral ami |h>- 
etical ? Does ho present us with Ins faults ami with his 
foibles? Dot>8 lie sneer at his foolings, and doubt of hia 
sincerity ? Does he unfold his vanity and duplicity ? and 



28S 



ON BOWLES'S SfmCTURES ON POPE. 



then omit the good qualities which might, in part, have 
" covered this multitude of sins ?" and then plead that 
" they did not occur to his recollection ?" Is this the frame 
of mind and of memory with which the illustrious dead 
are to be approached? If Mr. Bowles, who must have 
had access to all the means of refreshing his memory, 
did not recollect these facts, he is unfit for his task ; but 
if he did recollect, and omit them, I know not what he is 
fit for, but I know what would be fit for him. Is the plea 
of "not recollecting" such prominent facts to be admitted ? 
Mr. Bowles has been at a public school, and, as I have 
been publicly educated also, I can sympathize with his 
predilection. When we were in the third form even, had 
we pleaded on the Monday morning, that we had not 
brought up the Saturday's exercise because " we had for- 
gotten it," what would have been the reply ? And is an 
excuse, which would not be pardoned to a schoolboy, to 
pass current in a matter which so nearly concerns the 
fame of the first poet of his age, if not of his country ? 
If Mr. Bowles so readily forgets the virtues of others, 
why complain so grievously that others have a better 
memory for his own faults ? They are but the faults of 
an author ; while the virtues he omitted from his catalogue 
are essentia to the justice due to a man. 

Mr. Bowles appears, indeed, to be susceptible beyond 
the privilege of authorship. There is a plaintive dedica- 
tion to Mr. GifFord, in which he is made responsible for 
all the articles of the Quarterly. Mr. Southey, it seems, 
"the most able and eloquent writer in that Review," 
approves of Mr. Bowles's publication. Now, it seems 
to me the more impartial, that notviithstanding that the 
great writer of the (Quarterly entertains opinions opposite 
to the able article on Spence, nevertheless that essay 
was permitted to appear. Is a review to be devoted to 
the opinions of any one man ? Must it not vary accord- 
ing to circumstances, and according to the subjects to be 
criticised ? I fear that writers must take the sweets and 
bitters of the public journals as they occur, and an author 
of so long a standing as Mr. Bowles might have become 
accustomed to such incidents ; he might be angry, but 
not astonished. I have been reviewed in the duarterly 
almost as often as Mr. Bowles, and have had as pleasant 



things said, and some as unpleasant, as could well be pro- 
nounced. In the review of " The Fall of Jerusalem," it 
is stated that I have devoted " my powers, etc. to the 
worst parts of manicheism," which, being interpreted, 
means that I worship the devil. Now, I have neither 
written a reply, nor complained to Giffbrd. I believe thaf 
I observed in a letter to you, that I thought " that the 
critic might have praised IMilman without finding it ne- 
cessary to abuse me •," but did I not add at the same time, 
or soon after, (apropos, of the note in the book of travels,) 
that I would not, if it were even in my power, have a 
single line cancelled on my account m that nor in any 
other publication? — Of course, I reserve to myself the 
privilege of response when necessary. Mr. Bowles 
seems in a whimsical state about the article on Spence. 
You know very well that I am not in your confidence, 
nor in that of the conductor of the journal. The moment 
I saw that article, I was morally certain that I knew the 
author "by his style." You will tell me that I do m)t 
know him : that is all as it should be ; keep the secret, so 
shall I, though no one has ever intrusted it to me. He 
is not the person whom Mr. Bowles denounces. Mr. 
Bowles's extreme sensibility reminds me of a circum- 
stance which occurred on board of a fi-igate, in which t 
was a passenger and guest of the captain's for a con- 
siderable time. The surgeon on board, a very gentle- 
manly young man, and remarkably able in his profession, 
wore a wig. Upon this ornament he was extremely 
tenacious. As naval jests are sometimes a little rough, 
his brother-officers made occasional allusions to this 
delicate appendage to the doctor's person. One day a 
young lieutenant, in the course of a facetious discussion, 
said, " Suppose, now, doctor, I should take off your /ia<." 
" Sir" replied the doctor, " I shall talk no longer with you ; 
you grow scurrilous." He would not even admit so near 
an approach as to the hat which protected it. In like man- 
ner, if any body approaches Mr. Bowles's laurels, even in 
his outside capacity of an editor, " they grow scurrilous." 
You say that you are about to prepare an edition of 
Pope ; you cannot do better for your own credit as a pub- 
lisher, nor for the redemption of Pope from Mr. Bowles, 
and of the public taste from rapid degeneracy. 



EXTRACTS FROM 



A SECOND LETTER IN ANSWER TO MR. BOWLES. 

(written may, 1821, and printed, BtTT NOT PUBLISHED.) 



"Pope himself 'sleeps well — nothing can touch him 
farther ;' but those who love the honour of their country, 
the perfection of her literature, the glory of her language, 
are not to be expected to permit an atom of his dust to 
be stirred in his tomb, or a leaf to be stripped from the 
laurel which grows over it. 

******* 

* To me it appears of no very great consequence whe- 
ther Martha Blount was or was not Pope's mistress, 
though I could have wished him a better. She appears 
to have been a cold-hearted, interested, ignorant, disagree- 



able woman, upon whom the tenderness of Pope's heart 
in the desolation of his latter days was cast away, not 
knowing whither to turn, as he drew towards his prema- 
ture old age, childless and lonely, — like the needle which 
approaching within a certain distance of the pole, becomes 
helpless and useless, and, ceasing to tremble, rusts. She 
seems to have been so totally unworthy of tenderness, 
that it is an additional proof of the kindness of Pope's 
heart to have been able to love such a being. But we 
must love something. I agree with Mr. B. that she 
' could at no time have regarded P<^e personally with 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



289 



attachment,' because she was incapable of attachment; 
but I deny that Pope could not be regarded with per- 
sonal attachment by a worthier woman. It is not pro- 
bable, indeed, that a woman would have fallen in love 
with him as he walked along the Mall, or in a box 
at the opera, nor from a balcony, nor in a ball-room ; but 
in society he seems to have been as amiable, as unas- 
suming, and, with the greatest disadvan'ages of figure, 
his head and face were remarkably handsome, especially 
his eyes. He was adored by his friends — friends of the 
most opposite dispositions, ages, and talents — by the old 
and wayward Wycherley, by the cynical Swift, the rough 
Atterbury, the gentle Spence, the stern attorney-bishop 
Warburton, the virtuous Berkeley, and the 'cankered 
Bolingbroke.' Bolingbroke wept over him like a child ; 
and Spence's description of his last moments is at least 
as edifying as the more ostentatious account of the death- 
bed of Addision, The soldier Peterborough and the 
poet Gay, the witty Congreve and the laughing Rowe, 
the eccentric Cromwell and the steady Bathurst, were 
all his intimates. The man who could conciliate so 
many men of the most opposite description, not one of 
whom but was a remarkable or a celebrated character, 
might well have pretended to all the attachment which a 
reasonable man would desire of an amiable woman. 

"Pope, in fact, wherever he got it, appears to have 
understood the sex well. Bolingbroke, 'a judge of the 
subject,' says Warton, thought his 'Epistle on the Cha- 
racters of Women' his ' masterpiece.' And even with 
respect to the grosser passion, which takes occasionally 
the name of ' romantic,^ accordingly as the degree of sen- 
timent elevates it above the definition of love by BufFon, 
it may be remarked that it does not always depend upon 
personal appearance, even in a woman. Madame Cottin 
was a plain woman, and might have been virtuous, it may 
be presumed, without much interruption. Virtuous she 
was, and the consequences of this inveterate virtue 
were, that two different admirers (one an elderly gen- 
tleman) killed themselves in despair, (see Lady Morgan's 
' France.') I would not, however, recommend this rigour 
to plam women in general, in the hope of securing the 
glory of two suicides apiece. I believe that there are 
few men who, in the course of their observations on 
life , may not have perceived that it is not the greatest 
female beauty who forms the longest and the strongest 
passions. 

"But, apropos of Pope, — Voltaire tells us that the 
Mareschal Luxembourg (who had precisely Pope's figure) 
was not only somewhat too amatory for a great man, but 
fortunate in his attachments. La Vali6re, the passion of 
Louis XIV. had an unsightly defect. The Princess of 
Eboli, the mistress of Philip the Second of Spain, and 
Maugiron, the minion of Henry the Third of France, 
had each of them lost an eye ; and the famous Latin 
epigram was written upon them, which has, I believe, 
been either translated or imitated by Goldsmith : — 

' Lumine Acoa dextro, capla est Leoiiilla sinislro, 

Et potis e«t forma vincere utcrque Decs ; 
Blaiide pner, lumen quod habes concede sorori, 
Sic lu cxcus Amor, lic erit ilia Veuus.' 

" Wilkes, with his ugliness, used to say that * he was 
but a quarter of an hour behind the handsomest man in 
England ;' and this vaunt of his is said not to have been 
disproved by circumstances. Swift, when neither young, 
nor handsome, nor rich, nor even amiable, inspired tlio two 
most extraordinary passions upon record, Vanessa's and 
Stella's. 

' Vanetta, oged scarce a tcore, 
Sight for a gowu oi forty-four,' 

"He requited them bitterly ; for he seems to have 
broken the heart of the one, and worn out that of the 
other ; and he had his reward, for he died a solitary idiot 
in the hands of servants. 

• For my own part, I am of the opinion of Pausanius, 

37 



that success in love depends upon Fortune. ' They par- 
ticularly renounce Celestial Venus, into whose temple, 
&c. &c. &c. I remember, too, to have seen a building 
in yEgina in which there is a statue of Fortune, holding a 
horn of Amalthea ; and near her there is a winged Love. 
The meaning of this is, that the success of men in love- 
affairs depends more on the assistance of Fortune than 
the charms of beauty. I am persuaded, too, with Pindar, 
(to whose opinion I submit in other particulars,) that 
Fortune is one of the Fates, and that in a certain respect 
she is more powerful than her sisters.' — See Pausanias, 
Achaics, book vii. chap. 26, page 246, ' Taylor's Transla- 
tion.' 

"Grimm has a remark of the same kind on the different 
destinies of the younger Crebillon and Rousseau. The 
former writes a licentious novel, and a young English girl 
of some fortune and family (a Miss Strafford) ri:»3 away, 
and crosses the sea to marry him ; while Rousseau, 
the most tender and passionate of lovers, is obliged to 
espouse his chambermaid. If I recollect rightiy, this 
remark was also repeated in the Edinburgh Review of 
Grimm's Correspondence, seven or eight years ago. 

" In regard ' to the stiange mixture of indecent, and 
sometimes profane levity, w hich his conduct and language 
often exhibited,' and which so much shocks Mr. Bowles, 
I object to the indefinite word ^ often;'' and in extenuation 
of the occasional occurrence of such language it is to be 
recollected, that it was less the tone of Pope^ than the 
tone of the time. With the exception of the correspon- 
dence of Pope and his friends, not many private letters 
of the period have come down to us ; but those, such as 
they are — a few scattered scraps from Farquhar and 
others — are more indecent and coarse than any thing in 
Pope's letters. The Comedies of Congreve, Vanburgh, 
Farquhar, Cibbcr, &c. which naturally attempted to re- 
present the manners and conversation of private life, are 
decisive upon this point; as are also some of Steele's 
papers, and even Addison's. We all know what the 
conversation of Sir R. Walpole, for seventeen years the 
prime minister of the country, was at his own table, and 
his excuse for his Ucentious language, viz. ' that every 
body understood that, but few could talk rationally upon 
less common topics.' The refinement of latter days, — 
which is perhaps the consequence of vice, which wishes 
to mask and soften itself, as much as of virtuous civi- 
lization, — had not yet made sufficient progress. Even 
Johnson in his ' London,' has two or three passages which 
cannot be read aloud, and Addison's • Drummer' seme 
indelicate allusions," 

" Poor Scott is now no more. In the exercise of his 
vocation, he contrived at last to make himself the subject 
of a coroner's inquest. But he died like a brave man, 
and he lived an able one. I knew him personally, though 
slightly. Although several years my senior, we had been 
schoolfellows together at the ' grammar-schulc' (or, as the 
Aberdonians pronounce it, 'sfj-wff/') of New Aberdeen. 
He did not behave to me quite handsomely in his capa- 
city of editor a few years ago, but he was under no obli- 
gation to behave otherwise. The moment was too 
tempting for many friends and for all enemies. At a 
time when all my relalions (save one) fell from me like 
leaves from the tree in autumn winds, and my few friends 
became still fewer — when the whole periodical press (I 
mean the daily and weekly, not the literary press) was let 
loose against mo in every shape of reproach, with the 
two strange exceptions (from their usual opposition) of 
' the Courier' and 'the Examiner,' — the poper of wliich 
Scott had tlie «lirfClion was neither the last, nor the least 
vituperative. Two years ago I met him at Venice, when 
ho was bowed in griefs by the loss of his son, and had 
known, by experience, iJie bittrrnoss of domestic priva- 
tion. He was then earnest with n>c to return to Eng- 
land ; and on niv telling him, wiih n smile, that he was 
once of a different o|)ini<>n, l»o replied to mr, 'thut he and 
others had been (jroatly mi.sled ; and tliat some paina, and 



290 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



rather extraordinary means, had been taken to excite 
them.' Scott is no more, but there are more than one 
living who were present at this dialogue. He was a man 
of very considerable talents, and of great acquirements. 
He had made his way, as a literary character, with high 
success, and in a few years. Poor fellow ! I recollect 
his joy at some appointment which he had obtained, or 
was to obtain, through Sir James Mackintosh, and which 
prevented the farther extension (unless by a rapid rfm to 
Rome) of his travels in Italy. I httle thought to what it 
would conduct him. Peace be with him ! — and may all 
such other faults as are inevitable to humanity be as 
readily forgiven him, as the little injury wliicli he had 
done to one who respected his talents and regrets his 
loss." 

In reference to some complaints made by INIr. Bowles, 
in his Pamphlet, of a charge of " hj'pochondriacism," 
which he supposed to have been brought against him by 
his assailant, Mr. Gilchrist, he thus proceeds: — 

"I cannot conceive a man in perfect health being much 
affected by such a chfu-ge, because his complexion and 
conduct must amply refute it. But were it true, to what 
does it amcMint ? — to an impeachment of a hver com- 
plaint. ' I will tell it to the world,' exclaimed the learned 
Smelfungus : 'you had better (said I) tell it to your phy- 
sician.' There is nothing dishonourable in such a disor- 
der, which is more peculiarly the malady of students. It 
has been the complaint of the good, and the wise, and the 
witty, and even of the gay. Regnard, the author of the 
last French comedy after Moliere, was atrabilarious, and 
Moliere himself saturnine. Dr. Johnson, Gray, and 
Burns were all more or less affected by it occasionally. 
It was the prelude to the more awful malady of Collins, 
Cowper, Swift, and Smart \ but it by no means follows 
that a partial afBiction of this disorder is to terminate like 
theirs. But even were it so, 

' Nor best, nor wisest, are exempt from thee, 
Folly— FoJly 's only free.' 

Penrose. 

♦******. Mendehlson 
and Bayle were at times so overcome mth this depression 
as to be obliged to recur to seeing 'puppet-shows,' and 
'counting tiles upon the opposite houses,' to divert them- 
selves. Dr. Johnson, at times, 'would have given a limb 
to recover his spirits.' 

******* 
"In page 14 we have a large assertion that ' the Eloisa 
alone is sufficient to convict him (Pope) of gross licen- 
tiousness.^ Thus, out it comes at last — Mr. B. does accuse 
Pope of ' gross licentiousness,' and grounds the charge 
upon a Poem. The licentiousness is a 'grand peutet 
according to the turn of the times being: — the grossness I 
deny. On the contrary, I do believe that such a subject 
never was, nor ever could be, treated by any poet with 
much delicacy mingled with, at the same time, such true 
and intense passion. Is the ' Atys' of Catullus licentious ? 
No, nor even gross ; and yet Catullus is often a coarse 
writer. The subject is nearly the same, except that 
Atys was the suicide of his manhood, and Abelard the 
victim. 

* The ' licentiousness' of the story was not Pope's, — it 
was a fact. All that it had of gross he has softened ; all 
that it had of indelicate he has purified ; all that it had of 
passionate he has beautified ; all that it had of holy he 
has hallowed. Mr. Campbell has admirably marked this 
in a few words, (I quote from memory,) in drawing the 
distinction between Pope and Dryden, and pointing out 
where Dryden was wanting. 'I fear,' says he, ' that had 
the subject of " Eloisa" fallen into his (Dryden's) hands, 
that he would have given us but a codrse draft of her 
passion.' Never was the delicacy of Pope so much 
shown as in this poem. With the facts and the letters 
of ' Eloisa' he has done what no other mind but that of 
the best and purest of poets coidd have accomplished 



v/ith such materials. Ovid, Sappho (in the Ode called 
hers) — all that we have of ancient, all that we have of 
modern poetry, sinks into nothing compared with him in 
this production. 

" Let us hear no more of this trash about 'licentious- 
ness.' Is not ' Anacreon' taught in our schools ? — trans- 
lated, praised, and edited? * * * * * and are the 
English schools or the English women the more corrupt 
for all this ? When you have tlirown the ancients into 
die fire, it will be time to denounce the moderns. ' Li- 
centiousness !' — there is more real mischief and sapping 
licentiousness in a single French prose novel, in a Mora- 
vian hymn, or a German comedy, than in all the actual 
poetry that ever was penned or poured forth since the 
rhapsodies of Orpheus. The sentimental anatomy of 
Rousseau and Mad. de S. are far more formidable than 
any quantity of verse. They are so, because they sap 
the principles by reasoning upon the passions ; whereas 
poetry is in itself passion, and does not systematize. It 
assails, but does not argue ; it may be wrong, but it does 
not assume pretensions to optimism." 

Mr. Bowles having, in his pamphlet, complamed of 
some anonymous communication which he had received, 
Lord Byron thus comments on the circumstance. 

"I agree with Mr. B. that the intention was to annoy 
him ; but I fear that this was answered by his iwtice of 
the reception of the criticism. An anonymous writer 
has but one means of knowing the effect of his attack. 
In this he has the superiority over the viper ; he knows 
that his poison has taken effect when he hears the victim 
cry ; — the adder is deaf. The best reply to an anony- 
mous intimation is to take no notice directly nor indirectly. 
I wish Mr. B. could see only one or two of the thousand 
which I have received in the course of a literary life, 
which, though begun early, has not yet extended to a third 
part c^ his existence as an author. I speak of literary 
life only ; — were I to add personal, 1 might double the 
amount of anonyjnous letters. If he could but see the 
violence, the threats, the absurdity of the whole thing, he 
would laugh, and so should I, and thus be both gamers. 

" To keep up the farce, within the last month of this 
present writing, (1821,) I have had my life threatened in 
the same way which menaced Mr. B.'s fame, excepting 
that the anonymous denunciation was addressed to the 
Cardinal Legate of Romagna, instead of to * * * *, 
I append the menace in all its barbaric but literal Italian, 
that Mr. B. may be convinced ; and as this is the only 
'promise to pay' which the Italians ever keep, so my per- 
son has been at least as much exposed t& ' a shot in the 
gloaming' from' John Heatherblutter,' (see Waverley,) as 
ever Mr. B.'s glory was from an editor. I am, neverthe- 
less, on horseback and lonely for some hours {one of them 
twilight) in the forest daily ; and this, because it was my 
' custom in the afternoon,' and that I believe if the tyrant 
cannot escape amid his guards, (should it be so written,) 
so the humbler individual would find precautions useless." 

" Mr. Bowles hcis no reason to ' succumb' but to Mr. 
Bowles. As a poet, the author of ' the Missionary' may 
compete with the foremost of his contemporaries. Let it 
be recollected, that all my previous opinions of Mr. 
Bowles's poetry were loritten long before the publication 
of his last and best poem ; and that a poet's last poem 
should be his best, is his highest praise. But, however, 
he may duly and honouriibly rank with his living rivals, 
&c. &c. &c." 

"It is worthy of remark that, after all this outcry about 
'■ in-door nature' and ' artificial images,' Pope was the prin- 
cipal inventor of that boast of the English, Modem Gar- 
dening. He divides his honour widi Milton. Hear Wsu-- 
ton: — 'It hence appears that this enchanting art of 
modern gardening, in which this kingdom claims a prefer- 
ence over every nation in Europe, chiefly owes its origin 
and its improvements to two great poets, Milton and 
Pope.^ 
" Walpole (no friend to Pope) asserts that Pope formed 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



291 



Kent's taste, and that Kent was the artist to whom the 
English are chiefly indebted for diffusing ' a taste in layin 
out grounds.' The design of the Prince of Wales's 
garden was copied from Pope's at Twickenham. Warton 
applauds * his singular effort of art and taste, in impres- 
sing so much variety and scenery on a spot of five acres.' 
Pope was the Jirst who ridiculed the'* formal, French, 
Dutch, false, and unnatural taste in gardening,' both in 
prose and verse. (See, for the former, the ' Guardian.') 

*"Pope has given not only some of our ^rsf but best 
rules and observations on Architecture and Gardening.' 
{See Warton's Essay, vol, ii. p. 237, &c. &c.) 

" Now, is it not a shame, after this, to hear our Lakers 
in ' Kendal green,' and our Bucolical Cockneys, crying out 
{the latter in a wilderness of bricks and mortar) about 
*Nature,' and Pope's 'artificial in-door habits?' Pope 
had seen all of nature that JEngland alone can supply. 
He was bred in Windsor Forest, and amid the beautiful 
scenery of Eton ; he lived familiarly and frequently al 
the country seats of Bathurst, Cobham, Burlington, Pe- 
terborough, Digby, and Bolingbroke ; among whose seats 
was to be numbered Stovje. He made his own little ' five 
acres' a model to Princes, and to the first of our artists 
who imitated nature. Warton thinks, 'that the most 
engaging of Kent's works was also planned on the model 
of Pope's, — at least in the opening and retiring shades of 
Venus's Vale.' 

" It is true that Pope was infirm and deformed ; but he 
could walk, and he could ride, (he rode to Oxford from 
London at a stretch,) and he was famous for an exquisite 
eye. On a tree at Lord Bathurst's is carved, ' Here Pope 
sang,' — he composed beneath it. Bolingbroke, in one of 
his letters, represents them both writing in the hay-field. 
No poet ever admired Nature more, or used her better, 
than Pope has done, as I will undertake to prove from his 
works, prose and verse, if not anticipated in so easy and 
agreeable a labour. I remember a passage in Walpole, 
somewhere, of a gentleman who wished to give directions 
about some willows to a man who had long served Pope 
in his grounds : ' I understand, sir,' he replied : ' you would 
have them hang down, sir, somewhat poetical? Now if 
nothing existed but this little anecdote, it would suffice to 
prove Pope's taste for Nature, and the impression which 
he had made on a common-minded man. But I have 
already quoted Warton and Walpole, {both his enemies,) 
and, were it necessary, I could amply quote Pope himself 
for such tributes to Naiure as no poet of the present day 
has even approached. 

"His various excellence is really wonderful: architec- 
ture, painting, gardening, all are alike subject to his ge- 
nius. Be it remembered, that Englisii gardening is the 
purposed perfectioning of niggard iVa^ure, and that witJi- 
out it England is but a hedgc-and-ditch, double-post-and- 
rail, Hounslow-heath and Clai)ham-common sort of 
country, since the principal forests have been felled. It 
is, in general, far from a picturesque country. The case 
is different with Scotland, Wales, and Ireland ; and I 
except also the lake coimties and Derbyshire, together 
with Eton, Windsor, and my own dear Harrow on the 
Hill, and some spots near the coast. In the present rank 
fertility of ' great poets of the age' and 'schools of poetry' 
— a word which, like 'schools of elo(iuence' and of ' phi- 
losophy,' is never introduced till the decay of the art has 
increased with the number of its professors — in the present 
day, then, there have sjjrung up two sorts of Naturals ; — 
the Lakers, who whine about Nature because they live in 
Cumberland ; and tlusir undcr-scrt, (which some one has 
maliciously called the ' Cockney School',) who arc enthu- 
fiiastical for the country because ihey live in London. It 
is to be observed, that the rustical founders aio ralhor anx- 
ious to disclaim any connexion with tlu-ir nii'tropolilan 
followers, whom tliey ungraciously review, and call cock- 
neys, atheists, foolish fellows, bad wrilersi, and other iiurd 
names not less ungrateful than unjust. I can understand 
the pretensions of the aquatic gentlemen of Windermere to 



j what Mf. Braham terms ' eni^isumusy^ far lakes, and moun« 
tains, and daffodils, and buttercups; but 1 should be glad 
to be apprised of the foundation of the London propensi- 
ties of their imitative brethren to the same ' high argument,' 
Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge have rambled over 
half Europe, and seen Nature ia most of her varieties, 
(although I think that they have occasionally not used her 
very well;) but what on earth — of earth, and sea, and 
Nature — have the others seen ? Not a half, nor a tenth 
part so much as Pope. While they sneer at his Wind- 
sor Forest, have they ever seen any thing of Windsor 
except its brick .? * * * 

" When they have really seen life — when they have felt 
it — when they have travelled beyond the far distamt boun- 
daries of tlie wilds of Middlesex — when they have over- 
passed the Alps of Highgate, and traced to its sources the 
Nile of the New River — then, and not till tJien, can it 
properly be permitted to them to despise Pope ; who had, 
if not in Wales, been iiear it, when he describes so beauti- 
fully the ' artificiat works of the Benefactor of Nature and 
mankind, the 'Man of Ross,' whose picture, still suspended 
in the parlour of the inn, I have so often contemplated with 
reverence for his memory, and admiration of the poet, wth- 
out whom even his own still existing good works could 
hardly have preserved his honest renown. * * 

"If they had said nothing of Pope, they might have re- 
mained 'alone with tiieir glory' for aught I should have 
said or thought about them or their nonsense. But if they 
interfere with the httle 'Nightingale' of Twickenham, 
they may find others who will bear it — /wont. Neither 
time, nor distance, nor grief, nor age can ever diminish my 
veneration for him, who is the great moral poet of all times, 
of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of existence. 
The delight of my boyhood, the study of my manhood. 
perhaps (if allowed to me to atttain it) he may be the 
consolation of my age. His poetry is the book of Life 
Without canting, and yet without neglecting, religion, he 
has assembled all that a good and great man can gather 
together of moral wisdom clothed in consummate beauty. 
Sir William Temple observes, ' That of all the mem- 
bers of mankind that live within the compass of a thousand 
years, for one man that is born capable of making a great 
poet, there may be a thousand born capable of making as 
great generals and ministers of state as any in story.' 
Here is a statesman's opinion of poetry : it is honourable 
to him and to the art. Such a ' poet of a thousand years' 
was Pope. A thousand years will roll away before such 
another can be iioped for in our literature. But it can 
want them — he himself is a hterature. 

" One word upon his so brutally-abused translation of 
Homer. 'Dr. Clarke, whose critical exactness is well 
known, has not been able to point out above three or four 
mistakes in the sense through the whole Iliad. Tiie real 
faults of tlie translation are of a ditferent kind.' So says 
Warton, hi.nself a scholar. It appears by this, Uicn, that 
he avoided the chief fault of a tnuislator. As toils otlicr 
faults, dicy consist in his having made a beautiful English 
poem of a sublime Greek one. It will always hold. 
Cowper and all the rest of the blank pretenders may do 
tlicir best and tlieir worst : they will never uTcnch Pope 
from the hands of a single n?ad<?r of sense and feolmg. 

" The grand distinction of the under-forms of the new 
school of poets is their vulgarity. By this 1 do not moan 
that they are coarse, but 'Shabby-genteel,' as it is trrnUHl. 
A man may be coarse and yet not xntlgar, and the reverse. 
Hums is often coarse, but never tndgnr, I'liattorton is 
never vulgar, nor Wonlswtirth, nor the higher of the Lake 
s(;hool, though they treat of low lite in all its branches. It 
is in theiry//i<77/ that the now under-sohool are most vulpar, 
and they may bo known by tliis at once ; as what w« 
called at Harrow 'a Sunday bloixf nught be eaBily duslm- 
guisiied from a gentleman, although his clothes might be 
the better cut, and liis boots the best blackened, of iJie 
two : — probably because he made tlic one or cleaned tlic 
otlier with his own hands. 



292 



EXTRACTS FROM PAMPHLET, 1820. 



" In the present case, I speak of writing, not of persons 
Of the latter, I know nothing; of the former, I judge as it 
is found, * + + + rpj^g^ ^^y j^g 

honourable and gentlemanly men, for what I know, but the 
latter quality is studiously excluded from their publica- 
tions. They remind me of Mr. Smith and the Miss 
Broughtons at the Hampstead Assembly, in 'Evelina.' 
In these things, (in private life, at least) I pretend to some 
small experience ; because, in the course of my youth, I 
have seen a little of all sorts of society, from the Christian 
prince and the Mussulman sultan and pacha, and the 
higher ranks of their countries, down to the London boxer, 
the ^ flash and the swell,'' the Spanish muleteer, the wan- 
dering Turkish dervise, the Scottish Highlander, and the 
Albanian robber ; — to say notliing of the curious varieties 
of Italian social hfe. Far be it from me to presume that 
there are now, or can be, such a thing as an aristocracy of 
poets; but there is a nobility of thought and of style, open 
to all stations, and derived partly from talent, and partly 
from education, — which is to be found in Shakspeare, and 
Pope, and Burns, no less than in Dante and Alfieri, but 
which is nowhere to be perceived in the mock birds and 
bards of Mr. Hunt's Uttle chorus. If I were asked to 
define what this gentlemanliness is, I should say that it is 
only to be defined by examples — of those who have it, and 
those who have it not. In life, I should say that most 
miUtan/ men have it, and few naval : that several men of 
rank have it, and few lawyers ; that it is more frequent 
among authors than di\'ines, (when they are not pedants ;) 
thatyeTicin^-masters have more of it than dancing-masters, 
and singers than players ; and that (if it be not an Irishman 
to say so) it is far more generally diffused among women 
than among men. In poetry, as well as writing in general, 
it will never make entirely a poet or a poem : but neither 
poet nor poem will ever be good for any thing without it. 
It is the salt of society, and the seasoning of composition. 
Vulgarity is far worse than downright blackguardism ; for 
the latter comprehends wit, humour, and strong sense at 
times ; while the former is a sad abortive attempt at all 
things, ' signifying nothing.' It does not depend upon low 
themes or even low language, for Fielding revels in both ; — 
butisheeveriw^^or.^ No. You see Uie man of educa- 



tion, the gentleman, and the scholar, sporting with his 
subject, — its master, not its slave. Your vulgar writer is» 
always most vulgar, the higher his subject ; as the man 
who showed the menagerie at Pidcock's was wont to say, 
' This, gentlemen, is the Eagle of the Sun, from Arch- 
angel in Russia: the otterer it is the igherer he flies.'" 

In a note on a passage relative to Pope's lines upon 
Lady Mary W. Montague, he says — 

" I think that I could show, if necessary, that Lady Mary 
W. Montague was also greatly to blame in that quarrel, 
710^ for having rejected, but for having encouraged him ; 
but I would rather dechne the task — though she should 
have remem-bered her own hne, ' He comes too near, that 
comes to be denied.^ I admire her so much — ^her beauty, 
her talents — that I should do this reluctantly. I, besides, 
am so attached to the very name oi Mary, that as Johnson 
once said, ' If you called a dog Harvey, I should love him ;' 
so, if you were to call a female of the same species ' Mary,' 
I should love it better than others (biped or quadruped) 
of the same sex with a different appellation. She was an 
extraordinary woman : she could translate jEpictetus, and 
yet write a song worthy of Aristippus. The lines, 

' And when the long hours of the public are past, 
And we meet, with champagne and chicken, at lest, 
May every fond pleasure that moment endear I 
Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear ! 
Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd, 
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud. 
Till,' &c. &c 

There, Mr. Bowles ! — what say you to such a supper 
with such a womem ? and her own description too ? Is 
not her ' champagne and chicken' worth a forest or two ? 
Is it not poetry ? It appears to me that this stanza con- 
tains the ^ puree' of the whole philosophy of Epicurus ;— 
I mean the practical philosophy of his school, not the pre- 
cepts of the master; for I have been too long at the uni- 
versity not to know that the philosopher was himself a 
moderate man. But, after all, would not some of us have 
been as great fools as Pope? For my part, I wonder 
that, with his quick feelings, her coquetry, and his disap- 
pointment, he did no more, — instead of writmg some lines, 
which are to be condemned if false, and regretted if true." 



EXTRACTS FROM A PAMPHLET 

ADDRESSED TO THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, IN 1820, 

OCCASIONED BY AN ARTICLE IN THAT WORK, ENTITLED " REMARKS ON DON JUAN." (tHE PAMPHLET WAS 

PUT IN PRESS BY MR. MURRAY, BUT NEVER PUBLISHED. SEE LETTER 457.) 



"My learned brother proceeds to observe, that 'it is in 
vain for Lord B. to attempt in any way to justify his owti 
behaviour in that affair ;* and now that he has so openly 
and audaciously invited inquiry and reproach, we do not 
see any good reason why he should not be plainly told so 
by the voice of his countrymen.' How far the ' openness' 
of an anonymous poem, and the 'audacity' of an ima- 
ginary character, which the writer supposes to be meant 
for Lady B. may be deemed to merit this formidable 
denunciation from their 'most sweet voices,' I neither 
know nor care ; but when he tells me that I cannot ' in 
any w^y justify my own behaviour in that affair,' I acqui- 
esce, because no man can 'Ji«<i/y' himself until he knows 
of what he is accused ; and I have never had — and, God 



His matrimoniail cooduct. 



knows, my whole desire has ever been to obtain it— any 
specific charge, in a tEUigible shape, submitted to me by 
the adversary, nor by others, unless the atrocities of public 
rumour and the mysterious silence of the lady's legal 
advisers may be deemed such. But is not the writer 
content with what has been already said and done ? Has 
not ' the general voice of his countrymen' long ago pro- 
nounced upon the subject — sentence witliout trial, and 
condemnation without a charge? Have I not been 
exiled by ostracism, except that the shells which pro- 
scribed me were anonymous ? Is the writer ignorant of 
the public opinion and the public conduct upon that occa- 
sion ? If he is, I am not : the public will forget both long 
before I shall cease to remember either. 

" The man who is exiled by a faction has the consola- 
tion of thinking that he is a martyr ; he is upheld by hopa 



XTRACTS FROM PAMPHLET, 1820. 



293 



and the dignity of his cause, real or imaginary : he who 
withdraws from the pressure of debt may indulge in the 
thought that time and prudence will retrieve his circum- 
stances : he who is condemned by the law has a term to 
his banishment, or a dream of its abbreviation ; or, it may 
be, the knowledge or the belief of some injustice of the 
law, or of its administration in his own particular: but 
he who is outlawed by general opinion, without the inter- 
vention of hostile politics, illegal judgment, or embarrassed 
circumstances, whether he be innocent or guilty, must 
undergo all the bitterness of exile, without hope, without 
pride, without alleviation. This case was mine. Upon 
what grounds the public founded their opinion, I am not 
aware ; but it was general, and it was decisive. Of me 
or of mine they knew Uttle, except that I had written what 
is called poetry, was a nobleman, had married, became a 
father, and was involved in differences with my wife and 
her relatives, no one knew why, because the persons 
complaining refused to state their grievances. The 
fashionable world was divided into parties, mine consisting 
of a very small minority ; the reasonable world was natu- 
rally on the stronger side, which happened to be the lady's, 
as was most proper and polite. The press was active 
and scurrilous ; and such was the rage of the day, that 
the unfortunate publication of two copies of verses, rather 
complimentary than otherwise to the subjects of both, 
was tortured into a species of crime, or constructive petty 
treason. I was accused of every monstrous vice, by 
public rumour and private rancour : my name, which had 
been a knightly or a noble one since my fathers helped to 
conquer the kingdom for William the Norman, was 
tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, 
and murmured was true, I was unfit for England ; if false, 
England was unfit for me. I withdrew : but this was not 
enough. In other coilntries, in Switzerland, in the 
shadow of the Alps, and by the blue depth of the lakes, I 
was pursued and breathed upon by the same blight. I 
crossed the mountains, but it was the same; so I went a 
litde farther, and settled myself by the waves of the 
Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who betakes him to the 
waters. 

" If I may judge by the statements of the few friends 
who gathered round me, the outcry of the period to which 
I allude was beyond all precedent, all parallel, even in 
those cases where political motives have sharpened slan- 
der and doubled enmity. I was advised not to go to the 
theatres, lest I should be hissed, nor to my duty in parlia- 
ment, lest I should be insulted by the way ; even on the 
day of my departure, my most intimate friend told me 
afterward that he was under apprehensions of violence 
from the people who might be assembled at the door of 
the carriage. However, I was not deterred by these 
counsels from seeing Kean in his best characters, nor from 
voting according lo my principles ; and, with regard to the 
third and last apprehensions of my friends, I could not 
share in them, not being made acquainted with their 
extent till some time afler I had crossed the channel. 
Even if I had been so, I am not of a nature to be much 
affected by men's anger, though I may feel hurt by their 
aversion. Against all individual outrage, I could protect 
or redress myself; and against that of a crowd, I should 
probably have been enabled to defend myself, with the 
assistance of otliers, as has been done on similar occa- 
sions. 

"I retired from the country, perceiving that I was the 
object of general obloquy ; I did not indeed imagine, like 
Jean Jacques Rousseau, that all mankind was in a con- 
spiracy against me, though I h^d perhaps as gooil grounrls 
for such a chimera as ever he had: but I perceived ihat I 
had to a great extent become personally obnoxious in 
England, perhaps llirough my own fault, but the fart was 
indisputable ; the public in gciieral would hanlly have 
been so much excited against a more popular character, 
without at least an accusation or a charge of some kind 
actually expressed or substantiated, for I can hardly con- 



ceive that the common and every-day occurrence of a 
separation between man and wife could m itself produce 
so great a ferment. I shall say nothing of the usual 
complaints of ' being prejudged,' ' condemned unheard,' 
' unfairness,' ' partiahty,' and so forth, the usual changes 
rung by parties who have had, or are to have, a trial ; but 
I was a little surprised to find myself condemned without 
being favoured with the act of accusation, and to perceive 
in the absence of this portentous charge or charges, what- 
ever it or they were to be, that every possible or impossi* 
ble crime was rumoured to supply its place, and taken for 
granted. This could only occur in the case of a person 
very much disliked, and I knew no remedy, having 
already used to iljeir extent whatever little powers I 
might possess of pleasing in society. I had no party in 
fashion, though I was afterward told that there was on&^ 
but it was not of my formation, nor did I then know of ita 
existence — none in literature ; and in politics I had voted 
with the Whigs, with precisely that importance which a 
Whig vote possesses in these Tory days, and with such 
personal acquaintance with the leaders in both houses as 
the society in which I hved sanctioned, but without claim 
or expectation of any thing like friendship from any one, 
except a few young men of my own age and standing, and 
a few others more advanced in life, which last it had been 
my fortune to serve in circumstances of difficulty. This 
was, in fact, to stand alone : and I recollect, some time 
after, Madame de Stael said to me in Switzerland, ' You 
should not have warred with the world — it wll not do — it 
is too strong always for any individual : I myself once 
tried it in early life, but it will not do.' I perfectly acqui- 
esce in the trutli of this remark; but the world had done 
me the honour to begin the war ; and, assuredly, if peace 
is only to be obtained by courting and paying tribute to it, 
I am not qualified to obtain its countenance. I thought, 
in the words of Campbell, 

• Then wed thee to an exiled lot, 
And if the world haih loved thee not, 
Its absence maybe borne.' 

" I recollect, however, that having been much hurt by 
Romilly's conduct, (he, having a general retainer for me, 
had acted as adviser to the adversary, alleging, on being 
reminded of his retainer, that he had forgotten it, as his 
clerk had so many,) I observed that some of those who 
were now eagerly laying the axe to my roof-tree, might 
see their own shaken, and feel a portion of what they had 
inflicted. — His fell, and crushed him. 

" I have heard of, and believe, that tliere are himian 
beings so constituted as to be insensible to injuries ; but I 
believe that tlte best mode to avoid taking vengeance is to 
get out of the way of temptation. I hope that I may 
never have the opportunity, for I am not quite sure that I 
could resist if, having derived from my mother something 
of the '■ pcrfcri ilium ingenium Scolorum.'' I have not 
ght, and shall not seek if, and perhaps it may never 
come in my path. I do not in this allude to the party, 
who mi;^ht be riirht or vkTong; but to many who made her 
cause the pretext of their own bilt<Mness. She, indeed, 
must have long avonged me in her own feelings, for 
whatever her reasons may have been, (and she never 
ndiluced them to me at least,) she probably neither con- 
templated nor conceived to what she became tlie means 
(if conducting the father of her child, and the husband of 
her choice. 

So much for ' the general voice of his countrymen :' I 
will now sjieaU of some in particular. 

" In the beginning of the year 1817, nn article appeared 
n the Q,iiarterly Review, written, I believe, by ^Valte^ 
Scott, doing great honour to him, and no disgrace to me, 
thiMigh both poetically and personally mciro than sutfi- 
I'ienily favourable lo the work and llu- author of whom it 
treated. It was written at a time whrn a selfish man 
would not, and a timid one dared not, have said a %vord in 
favour of either ; it was written by one to whom tempo- 
rary public opinion had elevated mc lo the rank of a nviU 



294 



EXTRACTS FROM PAMPHLET, 1820. 



— a proud distinction, and unmerited ; but which has not 
prevented me from feeling as a friend, nor him from more 
tlian corresponding to that sentiment. The article in 
question was written upon the Third Canto of Childe 
Harold, and after many observations, which it would as ill 
become me to repeat as to forget, concluded with 'a hope 
that I might yet return to England.' How this expression 
was received in England itself I am not acquainted, but 
it gave great offence at Rome to the respectable ten or 
twenty thousand English travellers then and there assem- 
bled. 1 did not visit Rome till some time after, so that I 
had no opportunity of knomng the fact; but I was 
informed, long afterward, that the greatest indignation had 
been manifested in the enlightened Anglo-circle of that 
year, which happened to comprise within it — amid a con- 
siderable leaven of Welbeck-street and Devonshire-place, 
broken loose upon their travels — several really well-born 
and well-bred families, who did not the less participate in 
the feeling of the hour. ' fVhy should he retui-n to Eng- 
land?' was the general exclamation — I answer why? It 
is a question I have occasionally asked myself, and I never 
-yet could give it a satisfactory reply. I had then no 
thoughts of returning, and if I have any now, they are of 
business, and not of pleasure. Amid tlie ties that have 
been dashed to pieces, there are links yet entire, though 
the chain itself be broken. There are duties and con- 
nexions which may one day require my presence — and I 
am a father. I have still some friends whom I wish to 
meet again, and, it may be, an enemy. These things, and 
those minuter details of business, which time accumulates 
during absence, in every man's affairs and property, may, 
and probably will, recall me to England; laut I shall 
return with the same feehngs with which I left it, in respect 
to itself, though altered with regard to individuals, as I 
have been more or less informed of their conduct since 
my departure ; for it was only a considerable time after it 
that I was made acquainted with the real facts and full 
extent of some of their proceedings and language. My 
friends, like other friends, from conciliatory motives, with- 
held from me much that they could, and some things 
■which they should have unfolded ; howevef, that which is 
<ieferred is not lost — but it has been no fault of mine that 
it has been deferred at all. 

" I have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome 
merely to show that the sentiment which I have described 
was not confined to the English in England, and as form- 
ing part of my answer to the reproach cast upon vvhat has 
been called my ' selfish exile,' and my ' voluntary exile.' 
Voluntary' it has been ; for who would dwell among a 
people entertaining strong hostility against him? How 
fer it has been ' selfish' has been already explained." 
***** 

" And here I wdsh to say a few words on the present 
state of English poetry. That this is the age of the 
decline of English poetry will be doubted by few who 
have calmly considered the subject. That there are men 
of genius among the present poets maltes little against the 
fact, because it has been well said, that ' next to him who 
forms the taste of his country, the greatest genius is he 
who corrupts it.' No one has ever denied genius to 
Marino, who corrupted not merely the taste of Italy, but 
that of all Europe for nearly a century. The gi-eat cause 
of the present deplorable state of EngUsh poetry is to be 
attributed to that absurd and systematic depreciation of 
Pope, in which, for the last few years, there has been a 
kind of epidemical concurrence. Men of the most 
opposite opinions have united upon tliis topic. Warton 
and Churchill began it, having borrowed the hint probably 
from the heroes of the Dunciad, and tlieir own internal 
conviction tliat their proper reputation can be as nothing 
till the most perfect and harmonious of poets — he who, 
having no fauh, has had reason made his reproach — was 
reduced to what they conceived to be his level ; but even 
they dared not degrade him below Dry den. Goldsmith, 
and Rogers, and Campbell, his most successful discii>le3; 



and Hayley, who, however feeble, has left one poem ' that 
will not be willingly let die,' (the Triumphs of Temper,) 
kept up the reputation of that pure and perfect style : 
and Crabbe, the first of living poets, has almost equalled 
the master. Then came Darwin, who was put down by 
a single poem in the Antijacobin: and the Cruscans, from 
Merry to Jerningham, who were annihilated (if NotMng 
can be said to be armiliilated) by Gifford, the last of the 
wholesome EngUsh satirists. 

***** 

" These three personages, Southey, Wordsworth, and 
Coleridge, had all of them a very natural antipathy to 
Pope, and I respect them for it, as the only original feel- 
ing or principle which they have contrived to preserve. 
But they have been joined in it by those who have joined 
them in nothing else : by the Edinburgh Reviewers, by 
the v,'hole heterogeneous mass of living English poets, 
excepting Crabbe, Rogers, Gifford, and Campbell, who, 
both by precept and practice, have proved their adhe- 
rence ; and by me, who have shamefully deviated in 
practice, but have ever loved and honoured Pope's poetry 
with my whole soul, and hope to do so till my dying day. 
I would rather see all I have ever written lining the same 
trunk in which I actually read the eleventh book of a 
modern Epic poem at Malta in 1811, (I opened it to take 
out a change after tlie paroxysm of a tertian, in the 
absence of my servant, and foimd it lined with the name 
of the maker. Eyre, Cockspur-street, and with the Epic 
poetry alluded to,) than sacrifice what I firmly believe in 
as the Christianity of EngUsh poetry, the poetry of Pope. 
***** 

" Nevertheless, I wiU not go so far as * * in his post- 
script, who pretends that no great poet ever had immedi- 
ate fame ; which, being interpreted, means that * * is 
not quite so much read by his contemporaries, as might 
be desirable. This assertion is as false as it is foolish. 
Homer's glory depended upon his present popularity : he 
recited, — and without the strongest impression of the 
moment, who would have gotten the Iliad by heart, and 
given it to tradition ? Ennius, Terence, Plautus, Lucre- 
tius, Horace, Virgil, jEschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, 
Sappho, Anacreon, Theocritus, all the great poets of 
antiquity, were the delight of their contemporaries. The 
very existence of a poet, previous to the invention of 
printing, depended upon his present popularity ; and how 
often has it impaired his future fame? Hardly ever. 
History informs us, that the best have come down to us. 
The reason is evident; the most popular found the 
greatest number of transcribers for their MSS. and that 
the taste of their contemporaries was corrupt can hardly 

avouched by the moderns, the mightiest of whom have 
but rarely approached them. Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
and Tasso were all the darUngs of the contemporary 
reader. Dante's Poem was celebrated long before his 
death ; and, not long after it, states negotiated for his 
ashes, and disputed for the sites of the composition of the 
Divina Commedia. Petrarch was crowned in the Capi- 
tol. Ariosto was permitted to pass free by the pubUc 
robber who had read the Orlando Furioso. I would not 
recommend Mr. * * to try the same experiment with his 
Smugglers. Tasso, notwithstanding the criticisms of the 
Cruscanti, would have been crowned in the Capitol, but 
for his death. 

It is easy to prove the immediate popularity of the 
chief poets of the only modern nation in Europe that has 
a poetical language, the Italian. In our own, Shak- 
speare, Spenser, Jonson, Waller, Dryden, Congreve, Pope, 
Young, Shenstone, Thomson, Johnson, Goldsmith, Gray, 
were all as popular in their lives as since. Gray's Elegy 
pleased instantly, and etemaUy. His Odes did not, nor 
yet do they please like his Elegy. Milton's poUtics kept 
him down ; but the Epigram of Dryden, and the very 
sale of his work, m proportion to the less reading time of 
its publication, prove him to have been honoured by his 
contemporaries. I will venture to assert, that the sale of 



EXTRACTS FROM PAMPHLET, 1820. 



295 

couplet. The fact is, tiiat the exquisite beauty of their 
versification has withdrawn the public attention from their 
other excellencies, as the vulgar eye will rest more upon 
the splendour of the uniform than the quality of the 
troops. It is this very harmony, particularly in Pope, 
which has raised the vulgar and atrocious cant atxainst 
him : — because his versification is perfect, it is assumed 
that it is his only perfection ; because his truths are so 
clear, it is asserted that he has no invention ; and because 
lie is always intelligible, it is taken for granted that he 
has no genius. We are sneeringly told that he is the 
' Poet of Reason,"' as if this was a reason for his being 
no poet. Taking passage for passage, I will undertake 
to cite more Imes teeming with imagination from Pope 
than from any two living poets, be they who they may. 
To take an instance at random from a species of com- 
position not very favourable to imagination — Satire : set 
down the character of Sporus, with all the wonderful 
play of fancy which is scattered over it, and place by 
its side an equal number of verses, from any two exist- 
ing poets, of the same power and the same variety — 
where will you find them? 

" I merely mention one instance of many in reply to the 
injustice done to the memory of him who harmonized 
our poetical language. The attorneys' clerks, and other 
self-educated genii, found it easier to distort themselves 
to the new models than to toil after the symmetry of him 
who had enchanted their fathers. They were besides 
smitten by being told that the new school were to revive 
the language of Gtueen Elizabeth, the true English ; as 
every body in the reign of Gtueen Anne wrote no better 
than French, by a species of literary treason. 

" Blank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one 
except Milton ever wrote who could rhyme, became the 
order of the day, — or else such rhyme as looked still 
blanker than the verse without it. I am aware that 
Johnson has said, after some hesitation, that he could 
not ' prevail upon himself to wish that Milton had been 
a rhymer.' The opinions of that truly great man, whom 
it is also the present fashion to decry, will ever be received 
by me with that deference which time will restore to him 
from all ; but, with all humility, I am not persuaded that 
the Paradise Lost would not have been more nobly con- 
veyed to posterity, not perhaps in heroic couplets, although 
even they could sustain the subject if well balanced, but 
in the stanza of Spenser, or of Tasso, or in the terza 
rima of Dante, which the powers of Milton could easily 
have grafted on our language. The seasons of Thom- 
son would have been better in rhyme, although still inferior 
to his Castle of Indolence ; and Mr. Southey's Joan of 
Arc no worse, although it might have taken up six monllis 
instead of weeks in the composition. I recommend also 
to the lovers of lyrics the perusal of the present laureat's 
odes by the side of Dryden's on Saint Cecilia, but let 
him be sure to rc^AJirst those of Mr. Southey. 

To the heaven-born genii and inspired young scrive- 
ners of the day much of this will appear paradox; it will 
appear so even to the higher order of our critics: but it 
was a truism twenty years ago, and it will be a rcac- 
knowlcdgcd truth in ten more. In the moan time, I will 
conclude with two quotations, both intendcil for some of 
my old classical friends who have still enough of Cam- 
bridge about them to think themselves honoured by having 
bail John Dryden as a predecessor in tlieir college, and 
to recollect that their earliest English poetical pleasures 
were drawn from the ' little nightingale' of Twickenhum. 
" The first is from the notes to tJjo Poem of tho 
Friends,'* pages 181, 182. 
" ' It is only within the last twenty or thirty years that 
those notable discoveries in criticism have boon mado 
which have taught our recent versifiers to undervniuo 
this energetic, melodious, and moral poof. Th<» c<^n««v 
({uencus of this want of duo esteem for a writer whom 



the Paradise Lost was greater in the first four years after 
its publication than that of ' the Excursion ' in the same 
number, with the difference of nearly a century and a 
half between them of time, and of thousands in point of 
general readers. 

+ + * + * 

** It may be asked, why, having this opinion of the pre- 
sent state of poetry in England, and having had it long, 
as my friends and others well Imovv — possessing, or having 
possessed too, as a writer, the ear of the public for the 
time being — I have not adopted a different plan in my 
own compositions, and endeavoured to correct rather than 
encourage the taste of the day. To this I would answer, 
that it is easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue the 
right, and that I have never contemplated the prospect ' of 
filling (with Peter Bell, see its Preface) permanently a 
station in the literature of the country.' Those who know 
me best, know this, and that I have been considerably 
astonished at the temporary success of my works, having 
flattered no person and no party, and expressed opinions 
which are not those of the general reader. Could I have 
anticipated the degree of attention which has been 
accorded, assuredly I would have studied more to deserve 
it. But I have lived in far countries abroad, or in the 
agitating world at home, which was not favourable to 
study or reflection ; so that almost all I have written has 
been mere passion, — passion, it is true, of difl^erent kinds, 
but always passion ; for in me (if it be not an Irishism to 
say so) my indiff'erence was a kind of passion, the result 
of experience, and not the philosophy of nature. Writing 
grows a habit, like a woman's gallantry : there are women 
who have had no intrigue, but few who have had but one 
only ; so there are millions of men who have never writ- 
ten a book, but few who have written only one. And 
thus, having written once, I wrote on ; encouraged no 
doubt by the success of the moment, yet by no means 
anticipating its duration, and, I will venture to say, 
scarcely even wishing it. But then I did other things 
besides write, which by no means contributed either to 
improve my writings or my prosperity. 

♦ * + + * 

" I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of the 
day the opinion I have long entertained and expressed of 
it to all who have asked it, and to some who would rather 
not have heard it ; as I told Moore not very long ago, 
*we are all wrong except Rogers, Crabbe, and Camp- 
bell.' Without being old in years, I am old in days, and 
do not feel the adequate spirit within me to attempt a 
work which should show what I think right in poetry, 
and must content myself with having denounced what is 
wrong. There are, I trust, younger spirits rising up in 
England, who, escaping the contagion which has swept 
away poetry from our literature, will recall it to tlieir 
country, such as it once was and may still be. 

" In the mean time, the best sign of amendment will 
be repentance, and new and frequent editions of Pope and 
Dryden. 

" There will be found as comfortable metaphysics, and 
ten times more poetry in the ' Essay on Man,' tlian in the 
* Excursion.' If you search for passion, where is it to be 
found stronger than in the epistle from Eloisato Abelard, 
or in Palamon and Arcite? Do you wish for invention, 
imagination, sublimity, character? seek them in the Rape 
of the Lock, tlie Fables of Dryden, the Ode on Saint 
Cecilia's Day, and Absalom and Achitophel : you will 
discover in these two poets only, nil for which you must 
ransack innumerable metres, and God only knows how 
many rvritera of the day, without finding a tittlo of the 
same qualities, — with the addition, too, of wit, of which 
the latter have none. I have not, however, forgotten 
Thomas Brown th«5 younger, nor the F'udge Family, nor 
Whistlecraft; but that is not wit — it is humour. I will 
say nothing of tho harmony of Pope and Dryden in com- 
parison, for there is not a living poet (except Rogers, 
GifTord, Campbell, and Crabbe) who can write an heroic 



Wiidinl.y 1,01.1 nvion'iftrly frifntl. U>« R«». Fr»ncU UoOgMn. 



296 



EXTRACTS FROM PAMPHLETS, 1820. 



the good sense of our predecessors had raised to his 
proper station have been numerous and degrading 
ENOUGH. This is not the place to enter into the sub- 
ject, even as far as it affects our poetical numbers akme, 
and there is matter of more importance that requires 
present reflection.' 

" The second is from the volume of a young person 
learning to write poetry, and beginning by teaching the 
art. Hear him :* 

' But ye were dead 
To things ye knew not of— were closely wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
And compass vile ; so that ye taught a schoolf 
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and chip, and Jit, 
Till, hke the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
TJieir verses tallied. East/ was the task : 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious race. 
That blasphemed the bright lyrist to his face, 
And did not know it ; no, they went about 
Holding a poor decrepit standard out 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large 
The name of one Boileau !' 

" A little before the manner of Pope is termed 

' A scism,X 
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, 
Made great Apollo blush for this his land.' 

*I thought 'foppery^ was a consequence of refinement; 
but nHmporte. 

" The above will suffice to show the notions entertained 
by the new performers on the English lyre of him who 
made it most tunable, and the great improvements of their 
own variazioni. 

" The writer of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a young 
disciple of the sLx or seven new schools, in which he has 
learned to write such lines and such sentiments as the 
above. He says, ' easy was the task' of imitating Pope, 
or it may be of equalling him, I presume. I recommend 
him to try before he is so positive on the subject, and 
then compare what he will have then written and what 
he has now written with the humblest and earliest com- 
positions of Pope, produced in years still more youthful 
than those of Mr. K. when he invented his new ' Essay 
on Criticism,' entided ' Sleep and Poetry,' (an ominous 
title,) from whence the above canons are taken. Pope's 
was written at nineteen, and published at twenty-two. 

" Such are the triimiphs of the new schools, and such 
their scholars. The disciples of Pope were Johnson, 
Goldsmith, Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, GifFord, Matthias, 
Hayley, and ^he author of the Paradise of Coquettes ; 
to whom may be added Richards, Heber, Wrangham, 
Bland, Hodgson, Merivale, and others who have not had 
their full fame, because ' the race is not always to the 
swift, nor the battle to the strong,' and because there is a 
fortune in fame as in all other things. Now of all the 
new schools — I say all, for, 'like Legion, they are 
many' — ^has there appeared a single scholar who has 
not made his master ashamed of him? unless it be * *, 
who has imitated every body, and occasionally surpassed 
his models. Scott found peculiar favour and imitation 
among the fair sex : there was ]Miss Holford, and Miss 
Mitford. and Miss Francis ; but witli the greatest respect 



• The strange veraes that follow are from a poem by Keats.— In a 
manuscript note on this passage of the pamphlet, dated Nov. 12, 18'21, 
Lord Byron, says, " Mr. Keats died at Rome about a year after this 
was written, of a decline produced by his having burst a bloodvessel 
on reading the article on his ' Endymion' in the liuarterly Review. I 
have read the article before and since ; and although it is bitter, I do 
not think that a man should permit himself to be killed by it. But a 
young man little dreams what he must inevitably encounter in the 
course of a life ambitious of public notice. My indignation at Mr. 
Keati's depreciatiiin of Pope haa hardly permitted me to do justice to 
his own genius, which, malgrfe all the liintastic fopperies of his style, 
was undoubtedly of great promise. His fragment of 'Hyperion,' 
icems actually inspired by the Titans, and is as subhme as .^schylus. 
He is a loss to our literature ; and the more so, as he himself, before 
his death, is said to have been persuaded that he had not taken the 
right line, and was reforming his style upon the more classical models 
of the language." 

t "It was at least a grammar 'school.' " 

j " So spelled by the author." 



be it spoken, none of his imitators did much honour to 
the original except Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, until the 
appearance of ' The Bridel of Triermain,' and 'Harold 
the Dauntless,' which in the opinion of some equalled if 
not surpassed him ; and lo ! after three or four years 
they turned out to be the master's own compositions. 
Have Southey, or Coleridge, or Wordsworth made a 
follower of renown ? Wilson never did well till he set 
up for himself in the 'City of the Plague.' Has Moore, 
or any other hving writer of reputation, had a tolerable 
imitator, or rather disciple ? Now it is remarkable that 
almost all the followers of Pope, whom I have named, 
have produced beautiful and standard works, and it was 
not the number of his imitators who finally hurt his fame, 
but the despair of imitation, and the ease of not imitating 
him sufficiently. This and the same reason which in- 
duced the Athenian burgher to vote for the banishment 
of Aristides, ' because he was tired of always hearing 
him called the Just,^ have produced the temporary exile 
of Pope from the state of hterature. But the term of 
his ostracism will expire, and the sooner the better, not 
for him, but for those who banished him, and for the 
coming generation, who 

' Will blush to find their fathers were his foes.' " 



In the First Canto of Don Juan appeared the follow- 
ing passage : 

" For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
I 've bribed My Grandmother's Review,— the Britisli! 

." I sent it in a letter to the editor. 

Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 
I 'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 

Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 
And break a promise after having made it her, 

Denying the receipt of what it cost. 
And smear his page with gall instead of honey. 
All I can say is — that he had the money." 

On the appearance of the Poem, the learned editor 
of the Review in question allowed himself to be decoyed 
into the ineffable absurdity of taking the charge as seri- 
ous, and, in his succeeding number, came forth with an 
indignant contradiction of it ; to wliich Lord Byron replied 
in the following 

'•' LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF ' MY GRANDMOTHEk's 

review;' originally published in THE 'li- 
beral.' 



"to the editor of the BRITISH REVIEW. 
"my dear ROBERTS, 

" As a believer in the Church of England — to say 
nothing of the State — I have been an occasional reader, 
and great admirer of, though not a subscriber to, your 
Review, which is rather expensive. But I do not know 
that any part of its contents ever gave me much surprise 
till the eleventh article of yom- twenty-seventh number 
made its appearance. You have there most vigorously 
refuted a calumnious accusation of bribery and corrup- 
tion, the credence of which in the public mind might not 
only have damaged your reputation as a barrister and an 
editor, but, what would have been still worse, have injured 
the circulation of your journal ; which, I regret to hear, 
is not so extensive as the ' purity (as you well observe) 
of its,' &c. &c. and the present taste for propriety, would 
induce us to expect. The charge itself is of a solemn 
nature, and, although in verse, is couched in terms of such 
circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief little short 
of that generally accorded to the thirty-nine articles, to 

hich you so frankly subscribed on taking your degrees. 
It is a charge the most revolting to the heart of man, from 
its frequent occurrence ; to the mind of a lawyer, fronv , 
its occasional truth ; and to the soul of an editor, from its 
moral impossibility. You are charged then in the last 
line of one octave stanza, and the whole eight lines of the 



EXTRACTS FROM PAMPHLET, 1820. 



297 



next, viz. 209th and 210th of the first canto of that ' pes- 
tilent poem,' Don Juan, with receiving, and still more 
foolishly acknowledging the receipt of, certain monies, to 
eulogize the unknown author, who by this account must 
be known to you, if to nobody else. An impeachment 
of this nature, so seriously made, there is but one way 
of refuting ; and it is my firm persuasion, that whether 
you did or did not (and / believe that you did not) receive 
the said monies, of which I wish that he had specified 
the sum, you are quite right in denying all knowledge of 
the transaction. If charges of this nefarious description 
are to go forth, sanctioned by aU the solemnity of circum- 
stance, and guaranteed by the veracity of verse (as 
Counsellor Phillips would say) what is to become of 
readers hitherto implicitly confident in the not less vera- 
cious prose of our critical journals ? what is to become 
of the reviews? And, if the reviews fail, what is to 
become of the editors? It is common cause, and you 
have done well to sound the alarm. I myself, in my 
humble sphere, will be one of your echoes. In the words 
of the tragedian Listen, ' I love a row,' and you seem 
justly determined to make one. 

" It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that the 
writer might have been in jest; but this only aggravates 
his crime. A joke, the proverb says, 'breaks no bones ;' 
but it may break a bookseller, or it may be the cause of 
bones being broken. The jest is but a bad one at the 
best for the author, and might have been a still worse one 
for you, if your copious contradiction did not certify to all 
whom it may concern your own indignant irmocence, and 
the immaculate purity of the British Review. I do not 
doubt your word, my dear Roberts, yet I cannot help 
wishing that in a case of such vital importance, it had 
assumed the more substantial shape of an affidavit sworn 
before the Lord Mayor. 

"I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take these 
observations of mine in good part ; they are written in a 
spirit of friendship not less pure than your own editorial 
integrity. I have always admired you ; and not knowing 
any shape which friendship and admiration can assume 
more agreeable and useful than that of good advice, I 
shall continue my lucubrations, mixed with here and there 
a monitory hint as to what I conceive to be the line you 
should pursue, in case you should ever again be assailed 
with bribes, or accused of taking them. By the way, you 
do n't say much about the poem, except that it is ' flagi- 
tious.' This is a pity — ^you should have cut it up; 
because, to say the truth, in not doing so, you somewhat 
assist any notions which the malignant might entertain on 
the score of the anonymous asseveration which has made 
you so angry. 

" You say, no bookseller ' was willing to take upon him- 
self the publication, though most of them disgrace them- 
selves by selling it.' Now, my dear friend, though we all 
know that those fellows will do any thing for money, me- 
thinks the disgrace is more with the purchasers ; and 
some such, doubtless, there are, for there can be no very 
extensive selling (as you will perceive by that of the 
British Review) without buying. You then add, ' what 
can the critic say ?' I am sure I do n't know ; at present 
he says very little, and that not much to the purpose. 
Then comes, 'for praise, as far as regards the poetry^ 
many passages might be exhibited ; for condemnation, as 
far as regards the morality, all.' Now, my dear good 
Roberts. I feel for you and for your reputation ; my heart 
bleeds for both ; and I do ask you, whether or not such 
language does not come positively under the description 
of 'the puff coUusive,' for which see Sheridan's farce of 
'The Crific' (by the way, a little more facetious than 
your own fawce under the same title) towards tlie close of 
scene second, act the first. 

* The poem Ls, it seems, sold as tlie work of liOrd Byron ; 
but you feel yourself ' at liberty to suppose it not Lord 
B.'s composition.' Why did you ever suitposf that it 
was? I approve of your indignation — I applaud it — I 

38 



feel as angry as you can ; but perhaps your virtuous wrath 
carries you a litde too far, when you say that 'no misd©- 
meanour, not even that of sending into the world obscene 
and blasphemous poetry, the product of studious lewdness 
and laboured impiety, appears to you in so detestable a 
light as the acceptance of a present by the editor of a 
review, as the condition of praising an author.' The 
devil it does n't ! — Think a little. This is bemg critical 
overmuch. In point of Gentile benevolence or Christian 
charity, it were surely less criminal to praise for a bribe, 
than to abuse a fellow-creature for nothing ; and as to the 
assertion of the comparative innocence of blasphemy and 
obscenity, confronted with an editor's 'acceptance of a 
present,' I shall merely observe, that as an editor you say 
very well, but as a Christian barrister, I would not recom- 
mend you to transplant this sentence into a brief. 

" And yet you say, ' the miserable man (for miserable he 
is, as having a soul of which he carmot get rid') — But 
here I must pause again, and inquire what is the meaning 
of this parentliesis. We have heard of people of 'little 
soul,' or of 'no soul at all,' but never till now of 'the 
misery of having a soul of which we cannot get rid ;' a 
misery under which you are possibly no great sufferer, 
having got rid apparently of some of the intellectual part 
of your own when you permed this pretty piece of elo- 
quence. 

" But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, always 
supposing him not the author, to disclaim ' with all gentle- 
manly haste,' &c. &c. I ajn told that Lord B. is in a 
foreign country, some thousand miles off it may be ; so 
that it will be difficult for him to hurry to your wishes. In 
the mean time, perhaps you yourself have set an example 
of more haste than gentility ; but ' the more haste the 
worse speed.' 

" Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Roberts, 
which appears to me to be in some degree not quite expli- 
citly worded: 

" I bribed my Grandmother's Review, the British." 

" I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, tliis 
subject discussed at the tea-table of Mr. S. the poet, who 
expressed himself, I remember, a good deal surprised that 
you had never reviewed his epic poem, nor any of his six 
tragedies, of which, in one instance, the bad taste of tJie 
pit, and in all the rest, the barbarous repugnance of the 
principal actors, prevented the performance. Mrs. and 
the Misses S. being in a comer of the room perusing ihe 
proof sheets of some new poems on Italy, (I wish, by the 
by, Mrs. S. would make the tea a little stronger,) the male 
part of the conversazione were at liberty to make a few 
observations on the poem and passage in question, and 
there was a difference of opinion. Some thought tJ)e 
allusion was to the 'British Critic;' others, tliat by the 
expression, ' my Grandmother's Review,' it was intimated 
that 'my grandmother' was not the reader of the review, 
but actually the writer; thereby insinuating, my dear 
Roberts, that you were an old woman ; because, a.s people 
often say, 'Jeffrey's Review,' 'Gifford's Review,' in litui 
of Edinburgh and (Quarterly; so 'my Grandmother's 
Review' and Roberts's might be also synonymous. Now, 
whatever colour his insinuation might derive from the cir- 
cumstance of your wearing a gown, as well as from your 
time of life, your general stylo, and various passages of 
your writings, — I will take upon myself to exculpate you 
from all suspicion of th(> kind, and asarrl, widiout raliiu;^ 
Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if ever you shouH be 
chtwen Pop«>, you will |)ass through all the previous i-rro- 
monius witli as nuieli credit us any pontiff since tiic par- 
turition of Joan. It is very luiluir to jiidfic of sex Iroin 
writings, particularly from those of the British Review. 
Wc are all liable to bedereivtHi ; and it is an indLspntaWi- 
fact, that many of the Lest articles in your journal, which 
wereaitrihuted to a velernn f mule, «ere actiuilly written 
bv vou vi>nrse|f; and vet to Uiistiuy there are |M-oj)|e who 
coiil 1 never find out the diffeieiuc' Hut let us reUim to 
t)u* more immediate quc:iliun. 



298 



EXTRACTS FROM PAMPHLET, 1820. 



"I agree with you that it is impossible Lord Byron 
should be the author, not only because, as a British peer, 
and a British poet, it would be impracticable for him to 
have recourse to such facetious fiction, but for some other 
reasons which you have omitted to state. In the first 
place, his lordship has no grandmother. Now the author 
— and we may believe him in this — doth expressly state 
that the 'British' is his 'Grandmother's Review;' and if, 
as I think I have distinctly proved, this was not a mere 
figurative allusion to your supposed intellectual age and 
sex, my dear friend, it follows, whether you be she or no, 
that there is such an elderly lady still extant. And I can 
the more readily credit this, having a sexagenary aunt of 
my ovNTi, who perused you constantly, till unfortunately 
falling asleep over the leading article of your last number, 
her spectacles fell off and were broken against the fender, 
after a faithful service of fifteen years, and she has never 
been able to fit her eyes since ; so that I have been 
forced to read you aloud to her ; and this is in fact the 
way in which I became acquainted with the subject of my 
present letter, and thus determined to become your public 
correspondent. 

" In the next place, Lord B.'s destiny seems in some sort 
like that of Hercules of old, who became the author of all 
unappropriated prodigies. Lord B. has been supposed 
the author of the ' Vampire,' of a ' Pilgrimage to Jerusa- 
lem,' 'To the Dead Sea,' of 'Death upon the Pale 
Horse,' of odes to 'Lavalette,' to 'Saint Helena,' to 
the ' Land of the Gaul,' and to a sucking child. Now he 
turned out to have written none of these tilings. Besides, 
you say, he knows in what a spirit of, &c. you criticise — 
Are you sure he knows all this ? that he has read you like 
my poor dear aunt ? They tell me he is a queer sort of a 
man ; and I would not be too sure, if I were you, either of 
what he has read or of what he has written. I thought 
his style had been the serious and terrible. As to his 
Bending you money, this is the first time that ever I heard 
of his paying his reviewers in that coin; I thought it was 
rather in their own^ to judge from some of his earlier pro- 
ductions. Besides, though he may not be profuse in his 
expenditure, I should conjecture that his reviewer's bill is 
not so long as his tailor's. 

" Shall I give you what I thinlc a prudent opinion? I 
don't mean to insinuate, God forbid! but if, by any acci- 
dent, there should have been such a correspondence 
between you and the unknown author, whoever he may be, 
send him back his money : I dare say he will be very glad 
to have it again : it can't be much, considering the value 
of the article and the circulation of the journal; and you 
are too modest to rate your praise beyond its real worth. 
— Do n't be angry, — 1 know you won't, — at this appraise- 
ment of your powers of eulogy ; for on the other hand, my 
dear friend, depend upon it your abuse is worth, not its 
own weight, — that 's a feather, — but your weight in gold. 
So do n't spare it : if he has bargained for that give it hand- 
Bomely, and depend upon your doing him a friendly office. 

" But I only speak in case of possibiUty; for, as I said 
before, I cannot believe in the first instance, that you 
would receive a bribe to praise any person whatever ; and 
still less can I believe that your praise could ever produce 
such an offer. You are a good creature, my dear Roberts, 
and a clever fellow ; else I could almost suspect that you 
had fallen into the very trap set for you in verse by this 



anonymous wag, who will certainly be but too happy to 
see you saving him the trouble of maliing you ridiculous. 
The fact is, that the solemnity of your eleventh article 
does make you look a little more absurd than you ever 
yet looked, in all probability, and at the same time does 
no good ; for if any body beUeved before in the octave 
stanzas, they will believe still, and you will find it not less 
difficult to prove your negative, than the learned Partridge 
found it to demonstrate his not being dead, to tlie satisfac- 
tion of the readers of almanacs. 

" What the motives of this writer may have been for 
(as you magnificently translate his quizzing you) 'statmg, 
with the particularity which belongs to fact, the forgery 
of a groundless fiction,' (do pray, my dear R. talk a httle 
less 'in King Cambyses' vein',) I cannot pretend to say; 
perhaps to laugh at you, but that is no reason for your 
benevolently making all the world laugh also. I approve 
of your being angry; I tell you I am angry too; but you 
should not have shown it so outrageously. Your solemn 
' if somebody personating the Editor of the,' &c. &c. 
'has received from Lord B. or from any other person,' 
remmds me of Charley Incledon's usual exordium when 
people came into the tavern to hear him sing without pay- 
ing their share of the reckoning — ' If a maun, or ony 
maun, or ony other maun,' &c. &c. ; you have both the 
same redundant eloquence. But why should you think 
any body would personate you ? Nobody would dream 
of such a prank who ever read your compositions, and 
perhaps not many who have heard your conversation. 
But I have been inoculated with a httle of your proUxity, 
The fact is, my dear Roberts, that somebody has tried to 
make a fool of you, and what he did not succeed in doing, 
you have done for him and for yourself. 

" With regard to the poem itself, or the author, whom I 
cannot find out, (can you ?) I have nothing to say ; my 
business is whh you. I am sure that you will, upon second 
thoughts, be really obliged to me for the intention of this 
letter, however far short my expressions may have fallen 
of the sincere good- will, achniration, and thorough esteem, 
with which I am ever, my dear Roberts, 

" Most truly yours, 
" WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK. 

" Sept. — , 1819. 

" Little Pidlington. 

" P. S. My letter is too long to revise, and the post is 
going. I forget whether or not I asked you the meaning 
of your last words, 'the forgery of a groundless fiction.' 
Now, as all forgery is fiction, and all fiction a kind of 
forgery, is not this tautological ? The sentence would have 
ended more strongly with ' forgery ;' only it hath an awful 
Bank of England sound, and wouki have ended like an 
indictment, besides sparing you several words, and con- 
ferrmg some meaning upon the remainder. But this is 
mere verbal criticism. Good bye — once more yours truly, 

« W. C. 

" P. S. 2d. — Is it true that the Saints make up the 
losses of the review ? — ^It is very handsome in them to be at 
so great an expense — ^Pray pardon my taking up so much 
of your time from the bar, and from your clients, who I 
hear are about the same number with the readers of your 
journal. Twice more your;^ 



TRANSLATION OF , 

TWO EPISTLES FROM THE ARMENIAN VERSION. 



THE EPISTLE OF THE CORINTHIANS 
TO ST. PAUL THE APOSTLE.* 

1 Stephen,"}" and the elders with him, Dabnus, Eu- 
bulus, Theophilus, and Xinon, to Paul, our father and 
evangelist, and faithful master in Jesus Christ, health.| 

2 Two men have come to Corinth, Simon, by name, 
and Cleobus,§ who vehemently disturb the faith of some 
with deceitful and corrupt words ; 

3 Of which words thou shouldst inform thyself: 

4 For neither have we heard such words from thee, 
nor from the other apostles : 

5 But we know only that what we have heard from 
thee and from them, that we have kept firmly. 

6 But in this chiefly has our Lord had compassion, 
that, whilst thou art yet w"ith us in the flesh, we are again 
about to hear from thee. 

7 Therefore do thou write to us, or come thyself 
among us quickly. 

8 We believe in the Lord, that, as it was revealed to 
Theonas, he hath delivered thee from the hands of the 
unrighteous. II 

9 But these are the sinful words of these impure men, 
for thus do they say and teach : 

10 That it behooves not to admit the Prophets.1T 

11 Neither do they affirm the omnipotence of God: 

12 Neither do they affirm the resurrection of the flesh: 

13 Neither do they affirm that man was altogether 
created by God : 

14 Neither do they affirm that Jesus Clirist was born 
in the flesh from the Virgin Mary : 

16 Neither do they affirm that the world was the work 
of God, but of some one of the angels. 

16 Therefore do thou make haste*+ to come among us. 

17 That this city of the Corinthians may remain with- 
out scandal. 

18 And that the folly of these men maybe made mani- 
fest by an open refutation. Fare thee wcll."|"t 

Tlic d(!acons Thereptus and Tichu.sJ| received and 
conveyed this Epistle to the city of the Philippians.§§ 

When Paul received the Epistle, although he was then 
in chains on account of S'ratonice,|||l the wife of Apofo- 
lanuSjUIT yet, as it were forgetting his bonds, he niournod 
over these words, and said, weeping, " It were better for 
me to be dead, and with the Lord, For while I am in 
this body, and hear tlie wretched words of Buch false 



• Rome M.SS. liave the title tliun : Epistle of Stephen the Eider to 
Paul th" Apostle, from the Corinthians. 

t In the MSS. the marginal verses published by the Whistoiis arc 
wanting. 

t In some MSS. we fiiul, TVie elders Xiimenut, Eubulut, Theo- 
philuK, and Nomeson, to Paul their brother, health! 

5 Others reiiil, There came certain men, . . . and Clobtut, who 
vehemen'ly shake. 

if Some MSS. have, We believe in the Lord, that his pretence 
teas made manifest ; and by this hath the Lord dsliv«rid us from 
the hanU of the iiniigh'eous. 

V Others read, To rend the Prophets. 

" Nome MSS. have, Therefore, brother, do thou make haste. 

P Dihers nind, Fare thee melt in the I/ird. 

It Sim* MSS. have, The Dearonx Therspiu and Techus. 

|§ The Whislons have, To the litij of Phivnicia: but In all iho 
MSS. we find, To the cilij of the Philippians. 

III! Others read, O/i necn< nt of O.iolice. 

HIT TheWhistons hsite, Or A poll phanut : but in nil ih* MSS. we 
rsad, Apofolinus . 



doctrine, behold, grief arises upon grief, and my trouble 
adds a weight to my chains ; when I behold this calamity, 
and progress of the machinations of Satan, who searched 
to do wrong." 

And thus with deep affliction Paul composed his reply 
to the Epistle.* 



EPISTLE OF PAUL TO THE CORINTHIANS.f 

1 Paul, in bonds for Jesus Christ, disturbed by so 
many errors, J to his Corinthian brethren, health. 

2 I nothing marvel that the preachers of evil have 
made this progress. 

3 For because the Lord Jesus is about to fulfil his 
coming, verily on this account do certain men pervert and 
despise his words. 

4 But I, verily, from the begirming, have taught you 
that only which I myself received from the former apos- 
tles, who always remained with the Lord Jesus Christ. 

5 And I now say unto you, that the Lord Jesus Christ 
was born of the Virgin Mary, who was of the seed of 
David, 

6 According to the annunciation of the Holy Ghost, 
sent to her by our Father from heaven ; 

7 That Jesus m.ight be introduced into the world,§ 
and deliver our flesh by his flesh, and that he might raise 
us up from the dead ; 

8 As in tliis also he himself became the example : 

9 That it might be made manifest that man was 
created by the Father, 

10 He has not remained in perdition unsought ;|| 

11 But he is sougiit for, that he might be revived by 
adoption. 

12 For God, who is the Lord of all, the Father of our 
Lord Jesus Christ, who made heaven and earth, sent, 
firstly, the Prophets to tlie Jews : 

13 That he would absolve them from their sins, and 
bring them to his judgment. 

14 Because he wished to save, firstly, the house of 
Israel, he bestowed and poured forth his Spirit upon the 
Prophets ; 

15 That thoy should for a long time preach the wor- 
ship of God, and the nativity of Christ. 

16 But he who was the prinre of evil, when ho wished 
to make himself God, laid his hand upon lln-m, 

17 And bound all men in sin.fl 

18 Because the judgment of the world was anproocli- 
ing. 

19 But Almighty God, when he willed to justify, wai 
unwilling to abandon his oroattire ; 

20 But when lie saw his affliction, he had compassion 
upon him : 



• tn the text of (his Rplsll» (here »re »om« olhrr T.iri«tl»ia la ihs 
woixls, but lhi< irnse is the Sitine. 

t Somr MSS. have, PnuVt EpistU fr.tm pHsom, /9r the imOve- 
linn iif ih'' Corinthians. 

'. ilili.i-« lend, Pitiurhed bv t»,-irinij# fOfn:tu>flifn%». 

': N.i.ic MSS. hrtve, That Jesus mitht rw'i/'ir/ M« murU. 
iiili.r* rri\il, //• /uu not remtitrti <ndiftr»nl. 

' -I 111.' MHS hnvii, lytiid hi* h\nd, tmJ them a^td a.V Spdg ^•Ml•tf 



300 



TRANSLATION FROM THE ARMENIAN. 



21 And at the end of a time he sent the Holy Ghost 
into the Virgin foretold by the Prophets. 

22 Who, beUeving readily,* was made wortliy to con- 
ceive, and bring forth our Lord Jesus Christ. 

23 That from this perishable body, in which the evil 
spirit was glorified, he should be cast out, and it should be 
made manifest 

24 That he was not God: For Jesus Christ, in his 
6esh, had recalled and saved this perishable flesh, and 
drawn it into eternal life by faith, 

25 Because in his body he would prepare a pure 
temple of justice for all ages ; 

26 In whom we also, when we believe, are saved. 

27 Therefore know ye that these men are not the 
children of justice, but the children of wrath ; 

28 Who turn away from themselves the compassion 
of God; 

29 Who say that neither the heavens nor the earth 
were altogether works made by the hand of the Father 
of all things.f 

30 But these cursed menj have the doctrine of the 
serpent. 

31 But do ye, by the power of God, withdraw your- 
selves far from these, and expel from among you the 
doctrine of the wicked. 

32 Because you are not the children of rebellion,§ but 
the sons of the beloved church. 

33 And on this account the time of the resurrection is 
preached to all men, 

34 Therefore they who affirm that there is no resurrec- 
tion of the flesh, they indeed shall not be raised up to 
eternal hfe 5 

35 But to judgment and condemnation shall the vmbe- 
liever arise in the flesh: 

36 For to that body which denies the resurrection of 
the body, shall be denied the resurrection : because such 
are found to refuse the resurrection. 

37 But you also, Corinthians ! have known, from the 
seeds of wheat, and from other seeds, 

38 That one grain falls H dry into the earth, and within 
it first dies, 

39 And afterward rises again, by the will of the Lord, 
endued with the same body : 

40 Neither indeed does it arise with the same simple 
body, but manifold, and filled with blessing. 

41 But we produce the example not only from seeds, 
but from the honourable bodies of men.lf 

42 Ye also have known Jonas, the son of Amittai.** 



• Oihers read, BelUving teith a pure heart. 
t Some MSS. have, Of God the Father of all things. 
J Other* read, They curse themselves in this thing. 
% Others read, Children of the disobedient. 

II Some MSS. hare, That one grain falls not dry into the earth. 
H Others read. But we have not only produced from seeds, but 
from the honourable body of man. 

•• Others read. The son of Emattihut, 



43 Because he delayed to preach to the Ninevites, h© 
was swallowed up in the belly of a fish for three days 
and three nights : 

44 And after three days God heard his supplication, 
and brought him out from the deep abyss ; 

45 Neither was any part of his body corrupted ; neither 
was his eyebrow bent down.* 

46 And how much more for you, oh men of little faith ! 

47 If you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, will he 
raise you up, even as he himself hath arisen. 

48 If the bones of Elisha the prophet, falling upon the 
dead, revived the dead, 

49 By how much more shall ye, who are supported by 
the flesh and the blood and the Spirit of Christ, arise 
again on that day with a perfect body ? 

60 Elias the prophet, embracing the widow's son, raised 
him from the dead : 

51 By how much more shall Jesus Christ revive you, 
on that day, with a perfect body, even as he himself hath 
arisen ? 

52 But if ye receive other things vainly,f 

53 Henceforth no one shall cause me to travail ; for I 
bear on my body these fetters,! 

54 To obtain Christ ; and I suffer with patience these 
afllictions to become worthy of the resurrection of the 
dead. 

55 And do each of you, having received the law from 
the hands of the blessed Prophets and the holy gospel,§ 
firmly maintain it ; 

56 To the end that you may be rewarded in the resur- 
rection of the dead, and the possession of the life eternal. 

57 But if any of ye, not believing, shadl trespass, he 
shall be judged with the misdoers, and punished with 
those who have false belief. 

58 Because such are the generations of vipers, and 
the children of dragons and basiUsks, 

59 Drive far from among ye, and fly from such, with 
the aid of our Lord Jesus Christ. 

60 And the peace and grace of the beloved Son be 
upon you. II Amen. 

Done into English by me, January- February, 1817, at 
the Convent of San Lazaro, with the aid and exposition 
of the Armenian text by the Father Paschcd Aucher, Ar- 
menian Friar. Byron. 

Venice, April 10, 1817. 
/ had also the Latin text, but it is in many places very 

corrupt, and with great omissions. 



• Others add, Nor did a hair of his body fall therefrom. 

t Some MSS. have, Ye shall not receive other things in vain. 

t Others finished here thus. Henceforth no one can troupU m» far- 
ther, for I bear in my body the sufferings of Christ. The gract of 
our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, my brethren. Amen. 

§ Some MSS. have, Of the holy evangelist. 

II Others add, Our Lord be with ye all. Amen. 



THE WILL OF LORD BYRON. 



(extracted from the registry of the prerogative court of CANTERBURT.) 



This is the last will and testament of me, George Gor- 
don, Lord Byron, Baron Byron, of Rochdale, in the 
county of Lancaster, as follows : — I give and devise all 
that my manor or lordship of Rochdale, in the said county 
of Lancaster, with all its rights, royalties, members, and 
appurtenances, and all my lands, tenements, heredita- 
ments, and premises situate, lying, and being within the 
parish, manor, or lowWiip of Rochdale aforesaid, and all 
other my estates, lands, hereditaments, and premises 
whatsoever and wheresoever, unto my friends John Cam 
Hobhouse, late of Trinity College, Cambridge, Esquire, 
and John Hanson, of Chancery-lane, London, Esquire, to 
the use and behoof of them, their heirs and assigns, upon 
trust that they the said John Cam Hobhouse and John 
Hanson, and the survivor of them, and the heirs and 
assigns of such survivor, do and shall, as soon as conveni- 
ently may be after my decease, sell and dispose of all my 
said manor and estates for the most money that can or 
may be had or gotten for the same, either by private con- 
tract or public sale by auction, and either together or in 
lots, as my said trustees shall think proper ; and for the 
facilitating such sale and sales, I do direct that the receipt 
and receipts of my said trustees, and the survivor of them, 
and the heirs and assigns of such survivor, shall be a good 
and sufficient discharge, and good and sufficient dis- 
charges to the purchaser or purchasers of my said estates, 
or any part or parts thereof, for so much money as in such 
receipt or receipts shall be expressed or acknowledged to 
be received ; and that such purchaser or purchasers, his, 
her, or their heirs and assigns, shall not afterward be in 
any manner answerable or accountable for such purchase- 
moneys, or be obliged to see to the application thereof: 
And I do will and direct that my said trustees shall stand 
possessed of the moneys to arise by the sale of my said 
estates upon such trusts and for such intents and purposes 
as I have hereinafter directed of and concerning the 
same : And whereas I have by certain deeds of convey- 
ance made on my marriage with my present wife conveyed 
all my manor and estate of Newstead, in the parishes of 
Newstead and Linley, in the county of Nottingham, unto 
trustees, upon trust to sell the same, and apply the sum 
of sixty thousand pounds, part of the money to arise by 
such sale, upon the trusts of my marriage settlement : 
Now I do hereby give and bequeath all the remainder of 
the purchase-money to arise by sale of my said estate at 
Newstead, and all the whole of tlie said sixty thousand 
pounds, or such part thereof as shall not become vested 
and payable under the trusts of my said marriage settle- 
ment, unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and John Han- 
son, their executors, administrators, and assigns, u[)on 
such trusts and for such ends, intents, and purposes as 
hereinafter directed of and concerning the residue of my 
personal estate, I give and bequeath unto the said John 
Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson the sum of one thou- 
sand pounds each. I give and bequeath all the rest, resi- 
due, and remainder of my personal estate whatsoever and 
wheresoever unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and John 
Hanson, their executors, administrators, and assigns, upon 
trust that they, my said trustees, and the survivor of iheni, 
and the executors and administrators of such survivor, do 
and shall stand possessed of all such rest and residue of 
n^y said personal estate and the money to arise by sale of 



my real estates hereinbefore devised to them for sale and 
such of the moneys to arise by sale of my said estate at 
Newstead as I have power to dispose of, after payment 
of my debts and legacies hereby given, upon the trusts 
and for the ends, intents, and purposes hereinafter men- 
tioned and directed of and concerning the same, that is to 
say, upon trust, that they, my said trustees, and the sur- 
vivor of them, and the executors and administrators of 
such survivor, do and shall lay out and invest the same in 
the public stocks or funds, or upon government or real 
security at interest, with power from time to time to 
change, vary, and transpose such securities, and from time 
to time during the Ufe of my sister Augusta Mary Leigh, 
the wife of George Leigh, Esquire, pay, receive, apply, 
and dispose of the interest, dividends, and annual produce 
thereof when and as the same shall become due and 
payable into the proper hands of the said Augusta Mary 
Leigh, to and for her sole and separate use and benefit, 
free from the control, debts, or engagements of her present 
or any future husband, or unto such person or persons as 
she my said sister shall from time to time, by any writing 
under her hand, notwithstanding her present or any future 
coverture, and whether covert or sole, direct or appoint ; 
and from and immediately after the decease of my said 
sister, then upon trust that they, my said trustees, and the 
survivor of them, his executors or administrators, do and 
shall assign and transfer all my said personal estate and 
other the trust property hereinbefore mentioned, or the 
stocks, funds, or securities wherein or up n which the 
same shall or may be placed out or invested unto and 
among all and every the child and children of my said 
sister, if more than one, in such parts, shares, and propor- 
tions, and to become a vested interest, and to be paid and 
transferred at such time and times, and in such manner, 
and with, under, and subject to such provisions, conditions, 
and restrictions, as my said sisVr at any time during her 
life, whether covert or sole, by any deed or deeds, instru- 
ment or instruments, in WTiting, with or without power of 
revocation, to be sealed and delivered in the presence of 
two or more credible witnesses, or by her last will and 
testament in writing, or any writing of appointment in the 
nature of a will, shall direct or ai)point, and in default of 
any such appointment, or in case of the death of my said 
sister in my lifetime, then upon trust that they, my said 
trustees, and the survivor of them, his executors, adminis- 
trators, and assigns, do and shall assign and transfer all 
ihc trust, property, and funds unto and among the children 
of my said sister, if more than one, etjually to be divided 
between thorn, share and share alike, and if only one such 
child, then to such only child the share and shares of such 
of them as shall be a son or sons, to be paid and trans- 
ferred unto him and them when and as he or tliey shall 
respectively attain his or their ago or a^es of twenty-one 
years ; and the share and shares of such of them as shall 
be a daughter or daughters, to be paid and transferred unto 
\\".r or them when and as she or they shall respectively 
attain his or their age or ages of twonty-ono years, or be 
married, which shall first happen, and in case any of such 
childri-n shall happen to die, being a son or sons, lu'fore ho 
or tlii'v shall attain the age of twenty-one years, or being 
a duu>;hter or daughters, before she or they sliall attain 
the said age of twenty-one, or be married ; then it is m;. 



302 



LORD BYRON'S WILL. 



will and I do direct that the share and shares of such of 
the said children as shall so die shall go to the survivor or 
survivors of such children, with the benefit of further 
accruer in case of the death of any such surviving chil- 
dren before their shares shall become vested. And I do 
direct that my said trustees shall pay and apply the inte- 
rest and dividends of each of the said children's shares in 
the said trust funds for his, her, or their maintenance and 
education during their minorities, notwithstanding their 
shares may not become vested interests, but that such 
interest and dividends as shall not have been so applied 
shall accumulate, and follow, and go over with the princi- 
pal. And I do nominate, constitute, and appoint the said 
John Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson executors of this 
my will. And I do will and direct that my said trustees 
shall not be answerable the one of them for the other of 
them, or for the acts, deeds, receipts, or defaults of the 
other of tliem, but each of them for his o%vn acts, deeds, 
receipts, and wilful defaults only, and that they my said 
trustees shall be entitled to retain and deduct out of the 
moneys which shall come to their hands under the trusts 
aforesaid all such costs, charges, damages, and expenses 
which they or any of them shall bear, pay, sustain, or be 
put unto, in the execution and performance of the trusts 
herein reposed in them. I maJve the above provision for 
my sister and her children, in consequence of my dear 
wife Lady Byron and any children I may have, being 
otherwise amply pro^^ded for ; and, lastly, I do revoke all 
former wills by me at any time heretofore made, and do 
declare this only to be my last will and testament. In 
witness whereof, I have to this my last will, contained in 
three sheets of paper, set my hand to the first tw^o sheets 
thereof, juid to this third and last sheet my hand and seal 
this 29th day of July, in the year of our Lord 1815. 

BYRON, (L. S.) 
Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Lord 
Byron, the testator, as and for his last will and testament, 
in the presence of us, who, at his request, in his presence, 
and in the presence of each other, have hereto subscribeil 
ournames as witnesses. 

Thomas Jones Mawse, 
Edmund Griffin, 
Frederick Jervis, 
Clerks to Mr. Hanson, Chancery-lane. 



CODICIL.— This is a Codicil to the last will and 
testament of me, the Right Honourable George Gordon, 
Lord Byron. I give and bequeath unto Allegra Biron, 
an infant of about twenty months old, by me brout^ht up, 
and now residing at Venice, the sum of five thousand 
pounds, which I direct the executors of my said will to 
pay to laer on her attaining the age of twenty-one years, 
or on the day of her marriage, on condition that she does 
not marry with a native of Great Britain, which shall first 
happen. And I direct my said executors, as soon as 
conveniently may be after my decease, to invest the said 
sum of five thousand pounds upon government or real 
security, and to pay and apply tlie annual income thereof 
in or towards the maintenance and education of the said 
Allegra Biron, until she attains her said age of twenty- 
one years, or shall be married as aforesaid ; but in case 
she shall die before attaining the said age and without 
having been married, then I direct the said sum of five 
thousand pounds to become part of the residue of my 
personal estate, and in all other respects I do confirm my 
said will, and declare this to be a codicil thereto. In wit- 
ness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, at 
Venice, this 17th day of November, in the year of our 
Lord 1818. 

BYRON, (L. S.) 

Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Lord 
B)Ton, as and for a codicil to his will, in the presence of 
us, who, in his presence, at his request, and in the presence 
of each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses. 
Newton Hanson, 
William Fletcher. 

Proved at London, (with a codicil,) 6th of July, 1824, 
before the Worshipful Stephen Lushington, Doctor of 
Laws, and surrogate, by the oaths of John Cam Hobhouse 
and John Hanson, Esquires, the executors to whom 
administration was granted, having been first sworn duly 
to administer. 

Nathaniel Griskins, 
George Jenner, 
Charles Dvnelev, 

Deputy Registrars. 



P O E M 8, &c. 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



A ROMAUNT. 



L'uniTerBeBtuneespScedelivrejdontonn'aluque la premifire page quand onn'avu que son paya. J'ea 
ai feuilletft un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouv6 fegalement mauvaises. Get examen ne m'a point 6t6 ia- 
fructueux. Je haissaisma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai v6cu, 
m'ont r§concili6 avec elle. Q,uand je n'aurais tirt d'autre b&n6fice de mes voyages que celui-14, je n'en 
regretterais ni les frais, ni les fatigues. , „ «„„,,^„^, ,™„ 

LE COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE. 

The following poem was written, for the most part, 
amid the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was 
begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain and 
Portugal were composed from the author's observations 
in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to 
state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes 
attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, 
Acamania, and Greece. There for the present the poem 
stops : its reception will determine whether the author 
may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the 
East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos are 
merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece ; which, however, 
makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggest- 
ed to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, 
that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I may 
incur the suspicion of having intended some real person- 
age : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is 
the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. 
In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, 
there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in the main 
points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation 
"Childe," as ''Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," 
&c. is used as more consonant with the old structure of 
versification which I have adopted. The '< Good Night," 
in the beginning of tlie first canto, was suggested by 
"Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, 
edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published 
on Spanish subjects, there may bo found some slight co- 
incidence in tlie first part, which treats of tlio Peninsula, 
but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception of a 
few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was writ- 
ten in the Levant. 

A 



The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most 
successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie 
makes the following observation : " Not long ago I began 
a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I 
propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either 
droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or 
satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, 
the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all 
these kinds of composition."* — Strengthened in my 
opinion by such authority, and by the example of some 
in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no 
apology for attempts at similar variations in the following 
composition ; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, 
their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the 
design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, 
and Beattie. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical jour- 
nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To 
the justice of tlie generality of tlicir criticisms I have 
nothing to object ; it would ill become mo to quarrel with 
their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if 
tliey had been less kind they had becti more candid. 
Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for 
their liberality, on one point alono shall I vonliiro an 
observation. Among the many objections justly urged 
lo the very indiflerent character of tlie " vagrant Childe," 
(whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I 
still maintain to bo a fictitious personage,) it has been 
staled, that, besides the anachronism, ho is very un- 



D«attle't Lctttri. 



2 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



hnighlly, as the times of the Knights were times of lov 
honour, and so forth. Now it so happens that the good 
old times, when " I'amour du bon vieux terns, I'amour 
antique" flourished, were the most profligate of all pos- 
sible centuries. Those who liave any doubts on this 
subject may consult St. Palaye, passim, and more parti- 
cularly vol. ii. page 69. The vows of chivaliy were no 
better kept than any other vows whatsoever ; and the 
songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and 
certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. 
The " Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour ou de cour- 
tesie et de gentilesse" had much more of love than of 
courtesy or gentleness. See Rolland on the same subject 
with St. Palaye. Whatever other objection may be 
urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, 
he was so far perfecj-ly knightly in his attributes — " No 
waiter, but a knight templar."* By the by, I fear that 
Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no better than they 
should be, although very poetical personages and true 
knights " sans peur," though not " sans reproche." If 
the story of the institution of the "Garter" be not a 
fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries 
borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent 
memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have 
regretted that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette 
was quite as chaste ag most of those in whose honours 
lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
Joseph Banks, (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient 
and modern times,) few exceptions will be found to this 
statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach us not 
to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold" to live his day, such as 
he is ; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more 
easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been 
easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and 
express less, but he never was intended as an example, 
further than to show that early perversion of mind and 
morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappoint- 
ment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, 
and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most 
powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so consti- 
tuted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the 
poem, tliis character would have deepened as he drew to 
the close ; for the outline which I once meant to fill up 
for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern 
Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 



' Th» Rovej-». Antijacoblfi. 



TO lANTHE. 

Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd ; 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd— 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak? 

Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now tfiou art, ^ 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West ! — 't is well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed. 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, [creed. 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even, loveliest hours de- 

Oh I let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle^s, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh. 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast. 
Such is the most my memory may desire [require ? 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO I. 



Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse 1 form'd or fabled at the minstrers will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth. 
Mine dares not call tliee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,* 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is stiU ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 



Whilome in AllMon's isle there dwelt a youth. 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

in. 

Childc Harold was he hight: — ^but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame. 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad iosel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time : 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay. 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme. 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 



Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun. 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 
Nor deem'd before liis little day was done 
One blast might chill iiiin into misery. 
But long ere scarce a tliird of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe Ixjfcll ; 
He felt the fulness of satiety: 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad ccl 



For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did aunss, 
Had sigh'd to many though hi; loved but one, 
And that \ovv.A one, alas! could ne'er be bis. 
All, ha[)py she! to 'scape from liitn whose luss 
Had been polbition imto auglit so chasle; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm damoHfic pctxco had ever deigned to taste. 



And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for wo, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. 



The Childe depatted from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength ^va^ pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 



Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to luiow ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow. 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whatc'er tliis grief moto be, which he could not control. 



And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
Ho knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
Rut pomp and power alone are woman's cure, 
And where these are light Eros finds a fore ; 
IVIaiilons, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way wiicre Scrai>lis might despnir. 



Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun; 
A sister whom ho loved, but saw her not 
Hefiiri! his weary |)ilgriniage begun: 
If friends ho had, ho bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thenco his breast a bre^ist of slocl; 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to doto upon 
A few dear objects, will in sa<lness feel 
Such pirlijigs break tJie heart they fomlly Uopo to heal. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands. 
Might shaJce the saintship of an anchorite. 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine. 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. 



The sails were fill'd, and fair the hght winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view. 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sat and wept. 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 



But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twiUght. 
WhUe flew the vessel on her snowy wing. 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good Night.' 

1. 

"AuiEir, adieu! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild seamew. 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee. 

My native Land — Good Night! 

2. 

"A few short hours and He will rise 

To give the Morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother Earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

3. 

•* Come hither, hither, my little page ! 

Why dost thou weep and wail? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage. 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our ship is svidft and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 



'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wdnd ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 



5. 

'My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
"Enough, enough, my little lad! 

Such tears become thine eye; 
If I thy guileless bosom had, 

Mine own would not be dry. 



"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 

Why dost thou look so pale? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 

Or shiver at the gale ?" 
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

7. 

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake. 
And when they on their father call, 

WTiat answer shall she make?' — 
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of Ughter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away. 

8. 

"For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 



"And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, vsade sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog vsoll whine in vain. 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again, 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

10. 

"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to. 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native Land— jQood Night!" 



On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone. 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon. 
New shores descried make every bosom gay; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
Xjrainst those who most transgress his high command. 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust h8st, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied. 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford: 
A nation swobi with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
To save them fi-om the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. 

XVII. 

But whoso eotereth within this town, 
That, sheenmg far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee •, 
For hut and palace show like filthily: 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? 
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates, 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd. 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, witii varied beauty glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you <to. 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
And rest yet at our " Lady's house of wo ;'"* 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have jnmish'd been, and lo ! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. 

XXI. 

And hero and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near tlio path: 
Yet deem not these devotion's ofForing — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For whorosoo'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood bcneatii the assassin's knife, 
Somo hand er«jct8 a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glon with thousand sucli arc rifo 
Throughout this purple land where law secures not life.' 



On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whUome kings did make repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 
Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wout to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow: 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide: 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide ! 

XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!* 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll. 
Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll. 
Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
And Policy regain'd what arms had lost; 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast, 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, C intra! at thy name; 
And folks in office at the mention fret. 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight o'ertlirown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 
year? 

XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in sohtary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee. 
More restless than the swallow in the skies: 
Though hero a while he learn'd to moralize, 
For meditation fix'd at times on him; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth, mispont in njaddest whim ; 
But OS he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

xxvni. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again ho rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and tl\o bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pi!grin\ago ; 
And o'er liiin many rhanging scenes must roll 
Ere foil his thirst fl>r travel can assuage, 
Or ho shvill calm Ium breast, or loam experience sage. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XXIX, 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,6 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; 
And church and court did mingle their array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordhngs and freres — ^ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt. 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 



O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freebom race!) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foohsh chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share, 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend: 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul, 



But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.^ 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd. 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast. 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
Here ceased the swift then- race, here sunlv the strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
MLx'd on the bleeding stream, by floatmg hosts oppress'd. 

XXXV, 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
'When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore ?' 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail. 



XXXVI, 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? 
-Ah! such, alas! the hero's amplest fate! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee 
wrong ? 

XXX VII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: 
In every peal she calls — "Awake! arise!" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore ? 



Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadfiil note? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high: — ^from rock to rock 
Each volley teUs that thousands cease to breathe ; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock, 

XXXIX, 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun. 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this mom three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 

XL, 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no fi-iend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mLx'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away. 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 



Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain, 

XLII, 

There shall they rot — ^Ambition's honour'd fools ! 
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XLiir. 
Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
Who could foresee ihee, in a space so brie^ 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other cliiefiains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song ! 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay. 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, l)lest hirelings ! for their country's good. 
And die, that living might have proved her shame; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 

XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with ti-aces rude. 
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre,, might yet survive. 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume. 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds : 
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; 
Here Folly still his votaries inthralls ; 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds; 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
Still to the last land Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 

XLVII. 

Not so tlie rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afai-, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate. 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could yo taste the mirtli ye mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; 
The hoarso dull drum would sleep, and Man bo happy 
yet! 

XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
Of love, romance, devotion, is iiis lay, 
As whilome ho was wont the leagues to cheer. 
His quidt bells wildly jingling on tiio way ? 
No ! as he speeds, lie chants, " Viva el Rcy !" 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
And gore-faced Treason sj)rung Com her adulterate joy. 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crowu'd 
With crags, whcroon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide scattcr'd hoof-marks dint the woimded grouiul ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkon'd vest 
Tells that the foe wnn Andalusia's guest: 
Hero was the camp, the watch-flam.', and tlio host, 
Hero the bold peasant storm'd tin; dragon's nest; 
Still does ho mark it with triumphant boast, 
And pointa to yonder clilH-i, which oft were won and lost. 



And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue. 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet :'^ 
Wo to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke J 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue. 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke. 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. 



At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
Tlie station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd. 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,*'* 

lAI. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
A little moment deigneth to delay: 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah ! Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unflirl'd, 
And thou shall view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'i. 

LIII. 

And must they fall ? the young, the proud, tlie brav^ 
To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign? 
No step between submission and a grave? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,. 
The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart 
of steel? 

LIV. 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar. 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread,. 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
Tlie falchion flash, and o'er tho yet waim dead 
Sialics with Minerva's sle[) where Mars might quake to 
tread. 

LV. 

Yo who shall marvel when you hear her talc, 

Oh ! had you known lier in her softer hour, 

Mark'd her blaclt eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 

' Heard her liglit, lively tones in Lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
II(^r fairy form, with more than female grace. 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld hor smilo in Danger's Gorgon face, 

Thin tho closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearfbl chase. 

I.VI. 

Iler lover sinks — she sheds no ili-limod tear; 
Iler chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Hor fallows floe — she cheolis flieir base career ; 
Tho foo retires — she lu\ad.s the sallying host; 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost f 
Wiio can avenge so w^^ll a loadi^'s fell ? 
Wliat maid rtifrievo when miui's fliish'd hope is lost? 
Who hang so fiercely on tho flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by u woman's hand, before a balterVl wall V • 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons. 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 

LVIII. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch :^2 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest. 
Bid man be vaUant ere he merit such: 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother fi-om his amorous clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek ? 
How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, and 
weak! 

LIX. 

Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind. 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to know 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angehcally kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus !" whom I now survey. 
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye. 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string. 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave 
her wing. 



Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to thinlt at last I look on Thee ! 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave o^ though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot. 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave. 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I tum'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant. 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 



But ne'er didst thou, fair Moimt ! when Greece was 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, [youngs 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fiire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in tlie glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glaxles. 

LXT. 

Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days ;'* 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape. 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by time— accursed Time ! 
The queen who conquers aU must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white : 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, fi-om night tiU startled Mom 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new. 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense bums. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 

LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast ; 
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn ; 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn. 



The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer ; 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan. 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair ; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provolung envious gibe fi-om each pedestrian churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair. 
Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?'* ^ 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn. 
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till mom. 



1 



CHIIiDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



9 



LXXI. 

All have their fooleries — «ot alilce are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er tlie dark blue sea! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Vfell do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 

LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd. 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; 
Long ere the fii-st loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
Yet ever well incUned to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die. 
As moonstruck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance 
Four cavahers prepare for venturous deeds. 
And lowly bending to the Usts advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance. 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
And all tjiat kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. 



In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadorc 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof^ nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute. 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 



Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away, 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare tho spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or disj)lay 
The skill tiiat yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble corusers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed ho goes ; 
Streams from his flank Ihc crimson torrent clear : 
Ho flies, ho wheels^ distracted witli his throes ; 

Dart follows dart ; lance, laucc ; loud bellowings speak 
liis woes. 

i,xxvir. 
Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor tho wild plungiliff Sf the tortured horse; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vaituM* is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretcird a mangled corse ; 
Anolher, liidcous sight! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest imvoils lifo's panting source ; 
Though <loath-slruck, Ktill his feeble frame ho rojus; 

Staggering, but slennning all, his lord unharm'd he licars. 
B 



Lxxvm. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, flirious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay. 
Mid wounds, and chnging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fi-ay : 
And now the Matadores around him play. 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinlis upon the sand ! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to dechne: 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes- 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart dehghts 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe, 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain. 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow. 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
stream must flow, 

LXXXl. 

But Jealousy has fled ; his bars, his bolts. 
His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage, 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green. 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
Queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved. 
Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved. 
For not yet had ho drunk of Lethe's stream; 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fiiir, how young, how soft soe'er ho seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er tlie flowers its bubblmg venom flings.'* 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form ho was not blind, 
Thougli now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
Antl Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still he behold, nor niingled with tho throng; 
But view'd tlu'uj not with misanthrojiic hate: 
Fain would ho now have join'tl tho ilance, tho song ; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? 
Nought that ho saw his sadness could alnilo: 
Yot once ho struggled 'gainst tho doinon's swa)', 
And as in Beauty's bow«>r ho pensive sale, 
Poiir'd forth this unproinodilalod lay 
To clmrnus as fair as those tliat soothed liis liuppior day 



10 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



TO INEZ. 

1. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

2. 
And dost thou ask, what secret wo 

I bear, con-oding joy and youth ? 
And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, eVn thou must fail to sooth ? 

3. 

It is not love, it is not hate, 
Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most; 

4. 
It is that weariness which springs 

From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 



It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 

That wUl not look beyond the tomb, 
But camiot hope for rest before. 

6. 

What Exile from himself can flee ? 

To Zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be, 

The blight of life—the demon Thought. 

7. 
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem. 

And taste of all that I forsake ; 
Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 

8. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 

With many a retrospection curst ; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I 've known the worst. 



What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 

LXXXT. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? 
When all were changing thou alone wert true. 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to die ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:''' 
Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry ! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
They figlit for freedom who were never free ; 
A Kingless people for a nerveless state. 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee. 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery : 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life. 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife. 
War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!"'* 



LXXXVII. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know. 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's Ufe: 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed ! 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
Ijet their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain. 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees : 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Ctuito's sons sustain'd, 

While o'er the parent cluTie prowls Miu-der unrestrain'd. 
xc. 
Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight. 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead. 
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
When shall her Ohve-Branch be free from blight ? 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night. 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 

And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ! 
xci. 
And thou, my friend !'^ — since unavailing wo 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
Had the sword laid thee ^vith the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain : 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain. 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 

What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? 

XCII. 

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most I 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost. 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And Mom in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes. 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier. 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose. 
And moum'd and mourner lie united in repose. 



Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know. 
Shall find some tidings in a future page. 
If he that rhyme th now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much? stern Critic! say not so: 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
queU'd. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



11 



CANTO II. 



CoMEj blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but thou, alas 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,' 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. 2 



Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? 
Gone — glimmering through the dream of tilings that 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal, [were : 

They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 



Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — ^but molest not yon defenceless urn : 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, wliose shrines no longer bum. 
Even gods must yield — rehgions take their turn : 
'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
I'oor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on 
reeds. 



Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
Tliat being, thou would'st be again, and go. 
Thou know'st not, rcck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and wo? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
That little urn sailh more than thousand homUies. 



Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :' 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
But now not one of saddening tliousands weeps, 
Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where dcmi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shattcr'd cell ! 



Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall. 
Its chambers desolate, and port als foul : 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, oyoloss hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 



Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
"All that we know is, nothing can be known.'' 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their OAvn. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 



Yet if^ as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right ! 

IX. 

There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled. 
Have left me here to love and Uve in vain — 
Twined vdth my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
When busy Memory flashes on my brain? 
Well — I will di-eam that we may meet again. 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
If aught of young Remembrance then remain, 
Be as it may Futurity's behest. 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest ! 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne :* 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols bv. 



But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas liuger'd, loatli to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine: 
Thy free-born men should spare what once was free ; 
Yet they could \'iolate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.' 



But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath si)arcd :• 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his lioart as hard. 
Is he whoso head conceived, uliose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains 
Her sons too weak the sacred siirine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains," 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's cliniii 



What! shall it oVr he said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her basom wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannin, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding lan<l : 
Yes, she, whoso gen'rous aid her name endears, 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants Icfl to Rlnnd. 



12 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Where was thine JEgis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?^ 
Where Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, 
His shades from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more. 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 

XV. 

Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that \vill not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
By British hands, which it had best behooved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hoiu- when from their isle they I'oved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
abhorr'd I 

XVI. 

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? 
Little reck'd he of all that men regi-et ; 
No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other cUmes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, [ ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be. 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow. 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
The dullest sjiiler wearing bravely now, 
^0 gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved gims, the netted canopy,^ 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
Wlien, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : 
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the taclde glides ; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
And well the docile crew that sldlfui urchin guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain. 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic sialics. 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he tallvs 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
jFrom law, however stern, which tends their strength to 
nerve. 

XX. 

Blowi swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay. 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day. 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these I 



The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of hght o'er dancing waves expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids beUeve : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime seme rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry hsteners stand. 
Or to some well-lmown measure featly move. 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore ; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosmg rock, and slope, and forest brown. 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadov.'s frown. 
From mountain-cliff" to coast descending sombre down, 

XXIII. 

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its bafiied zeal. 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
Who \\ath the v.eight of years would wish to bend, 
When Youth itself sur\aves young Love and Jov ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy ? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
And flies xmconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than selfj possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 



To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
imroll'd, 

XXVI. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to sec, to feel, and to possess. 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none v,hom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
None that, v.ith Icindred consciousness endued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godlj^remite. 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen. 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene. 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



13 



XXVIIX. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack. 
And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorro\vs sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-gii't citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell. 
Till on some jocund mom — lo, land ! and all is well, 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Cal3rpso's isles,*° 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles. 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep. 
And o'er her cUfFs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne. 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by: 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote. 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught. 
But Imew hun as his worshipper no more. 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well dccm'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze. 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe. 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; 
All that gay Beaut}' from her bondsmen claims: 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames. 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger 
dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seembig marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the si)oiler's art. 
And spread its snares Ucenlious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arls no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would ho join the lover's whining crew. 



Not much lie ken.s, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who tliinks that wifllton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts wlu^n once possoss'd? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
I?ul not too humbly, or slic will despiso 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
Disguise ov'n tenderness, if thou art wiho; 
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; 
Pifjuc her and sooth in turn, soon Passion cro\vn3 thy 
hopes. 



'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
W^hen all is won that all desire to woo. 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost. 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these ! 
IfJ kindly cruel, early Hope is c st. 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song. 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along. 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read. 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though alway changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her patli: 
To me by day or night she ever smiled 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
, wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania! where Iskandcr rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrvinlc from his deeds of cliivalrous cmprize : 
Land of Albania!" let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, tliy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen. 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot'^ 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await tlio lyre. 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; 
A sjjot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave; 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, , 
Actium, Lepanlo, fatal Trafalgar;'^ 
Mark them unmoved, for ho \\ould not delight 
(Bora beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight. 
But loathed the bruvo's trade, and laughed nl niarlinl 
wight. 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo, 
Antl hail'd tlio last resort of fruitless love,'* 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow: 
And a.s the stately vessel gliileii .«*low 
Beneath the shadow of that aneient mount. 
Ho watch'd the billows' melancholy lli>\v, 
And, sunk albeit in thought ns he was wont, 
More placid bcem'd his eye, ami smixitii his pallid front 



14 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Morn dawns ; and with it stem Albania's hills. 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolJ^ the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few ; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's 
heat. 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here. 
Though sadly scofF'd at by the circumcised. 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear ; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross. 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized. 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? 

XLT. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless tiling ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king ' * 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second CjEsar's trophies rose! ^"^ 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering : 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God ! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose ? 

XL VI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime. 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen: nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. 

XLVII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, *' 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further joui-ney take 
To greet Albania's chie^^^ whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.'^ 

XL VIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! ^° from thy shady brow. 
Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, belovi'. 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound. 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
soul. 



Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity. 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer,^! nor rude is he. 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest vdng \vill fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath— oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay. 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,^^ 
CWmsera's alps extend from left to right : 
Beneath, a Uvmg valley seems to stir ; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the moimtain-fir 
Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! ^^ 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon. 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 
none! 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; 
But peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock. 
The Uttle shepherd in his wliite capote ^'^ 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 

LIII. 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
What valley echo'd the response of Jove? 
What trace remaineth of the thunderer's shrine ? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath 
the stroke! 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale, 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy die : 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie. 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn trance. 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,^^ 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;26 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, do^ATi the steep banlis winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelhng the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening glen. 



CKILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



15 



He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort: 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor ; 
And oft-times through the area's echoing door 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound armounced the close 
of day. 

LVIII, 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see ; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek ; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to bo meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous: some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops. 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
• There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God is great !" 



Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past. 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain. 
But from the chambers camo the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

rxr. 
Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, vcil'd, to move. 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; 
For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares. 
Blest cares ! all other feelings fir above ! 
* Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears. 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 



In marbled-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose. 
Whoso bubbUng did a genial freshnesH fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes; 
Yet in his lineaments yc cannot trace. 
While GcntUmcss her mikler railianco iJirow.-. 
Along that aged venerable fijro, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and slum him witli disgrace. 



It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes tliat scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming ali men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span. 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began, 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise: 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sure, 
When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 

LXTI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
And after view'd them, when, within their power. 
Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press : 
But these did shelter him beneath their roo^ 
When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof— 2'' 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof? 

LXVII, 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around v/as desolate and dark ; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore. 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting soro 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain fear ! the Suliotcs stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland. 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, 
And lill'd the bowl, and triinm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had : 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to sooth the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at loa-s( the bad. 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this nioimlain-land, 
Combined maraudvTS half-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnatiia'8 forest wide, 
In war well neason'd, and with luboiirt* tann'H, 
Till ho did greet while Aclielous tide, 
And from his further l';mk ^l^tolia's wolds espied. 



16 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's gi-ove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast. 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene : — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass immoved the gentle scene. 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence glean. 



On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed. 
The feast was done, the red wme circling fast,^^ 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past. 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar ^^ his sabre from him cast, 
And bouncUng hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
their 
clan. 



Childe Harold at a Uttle distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie. 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd. 
Their gestures nunble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to then* girdles stream'd, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
scream'd :^° 

I. 

31 Tambourgi! Tambourgi!* thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, lUyrian, and dark Suhote ! 



Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 

In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock. 

And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 



Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



r ask not the pleasures that riches supply. 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hau-. 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 



/* Drummer. 



I love the fair face of the maid in her youth. 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre^ 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

8. 
Remember the moment when Previsa fell,'^ 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, Wt 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 



I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier : 
Smce the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped. 
Let the yellow-hair'd* Giaoursf view his horse-tailj 

with dread ; 
When his Delhis§ come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

11. 

Selictar ! [j unsheathe then our chief's scimitar: 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore. 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! '^ 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth. 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whUome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thennopylse's sepulchi-al strait — 
Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
Leap from Eurotas' banlcs, and call thee from the tomb ? 



Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow ^* 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
Not thii-ty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand. 
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed,unmann'd. 

L,XXV. 

In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigli, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's moumiiil page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not ^ 

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 



* Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians, 
t Horse-tails are the insignia of a Pacha. 
I Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 



t Infidel. 

II Sword-bearer, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



17 



The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; ^^ 
Or Wahab'd rebel brood who dared divest 
The ^^ prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 



Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin. 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share 
In motley robe to dance at masldng ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 



And whose more rife with merriment than thine. 
Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: 
(Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the corhmon joy they now must feign. 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
As woo'd the eye, and thrili'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone. 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: 
The Q,ueen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
THi sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks tliey lave. 



Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home. 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand. 
Or gently prest, rcturn'd the pressure still : 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
I'hese hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill ! 

L XXXII. 

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade. 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searrncnt half betray'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness ot the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
How do tlicy loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 
This must he feel, the true-born son of Grecco, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast: 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peaoo. 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all ho lost, 
Yet witli smooth smilo his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, tint the swor<l : 
Ah ! Griicce ! they love (hno least who owe thoc must 
Their birth, their blond, and that sublime rcrord 
Of hero sires, who whanio thy now degenerate lionlc! 



LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then, 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of wo, 
Land of lost gods and godlilte men ! art thou ! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy liills of snow,^'^ 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some sohtary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; ^^ 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cbfF, and gleams along the wave ; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave. 
Where the gray stones and umnolested grass 
Ages, but not obUvion, feebly brave. 
While strangers only not regardless pass. 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas I" 



Yet are thy slues as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled. 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the bhthe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air 5 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still hi his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still b fair. 

Lxxxvm. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads aroimd. 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush 'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic ^^'ord ; ^^ 
Which utter'tl, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 

xc. 

The flying Mode, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his reil pursuing spear; 
Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain below j 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene — wliat now reinaineth hero? 
What sacred trojihy murks llu^ hallow 'd ground, 
Recording Freedom'.s smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoot; rude stranger! spurns around. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
FiU with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awftil lore. 

XCII. 

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; 
He that is lonely hither let him roam. 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth, 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth : 
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide. 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 

XCIII. 

Let such a4)proach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
But spare its rehcs — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced. 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 

xciv. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse witli inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days ; 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please when none are left to love. 

xcv. 
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one I 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me ; 
Who did for me what none beside have done. 
Nor shrank from one albeit unwortliy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see — 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam ! 



Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 

And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 

But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 

All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou hast 

The parent, friend, and now the more tlian friend : 

Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 

And gi-ief with grief continuing still to blend. 

Hath snatch'd the httle joy that life had yet to lend. 
xcvxi. 
Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all tliat Peace disdains to seek? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud. 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign tlie pleasure or conceal the pique : 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 

Or raise the wrillung lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 



XCVIII. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the Vvrinkle deeper on the brow? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd: 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow. 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earUer years alloy'd. 



CANTO m. 



Afin que cette application vous forgat de penser t autre cliose ; il 
n'y a eu verilfc de rera6de que celui-li et le temps." 

Leltre du Roide Prusse d D'Alembert, Sept.T, 177G. 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair cliild ! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we par^ 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on liigh 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
Whither [ know not ; but the hour 's gone by, 

When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

II. 
Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves boimd beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 
In my youth's summer 1 did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing v^dnd 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind, 
O'er which all Ij^avily the journeying years 

Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. 

IV. 

Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I clbg, 
So that it ween me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

V. 

He, who grown aged m this world of wo. 
In deeds, not years, piercing the deptlis of life. 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
Cut to his he^rt again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpau-'d, though old, in the soul's hatmt^ cell. 



I 



(JlilLDE HAROLD'S PiLGHIMAGE. 



19 



'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as wo guc 
The life wc image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth. 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth. 



Yet must I tliink less wildly : — I have though.t 
Too long and darkly, till my brab became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwroughf, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tamo, 
My springs of hfe were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 



Something too much of this : — ^but now 'tis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold reappears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more wouKi feel. 
Wrung with tlw wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal : 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Firo from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 



His had been quaff 'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground. 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen. 
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain. 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step ho took through many a scene, 

X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind. 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
Ho found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 



But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's check, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the voctcx, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 



But soon he knew himself tlie most unfit 
Of men to herd witli Man ; with whom ho held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quoU'd 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompolIM, 
Ho would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits agamst whom his own rcbell'd ; 
Proud though in dosolalion ; which could find 
A lif.? within iisi'lf, to breathe without mankind. 



"Where ro.^.? the mountains, there to him were friends \ 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had tlie passicm and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breakers foam. 
Were unto hira companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tcngue, which he v/ould oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 



Lil.e tlie Ghaldea.n, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their o'»vn beams ; and earth, and earth-born jais. 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy ; but this clay will gink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven wliich woos us to its brink. 



But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing. 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome. 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till tlie blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XVI. 

Self-e.\iled Harold wanders forth again. 
With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain. 
That all wa,s over on this side tho tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume. 
Which, tliough ' twere wild, — as on the plundcr'd wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — 
Did yet insj^irc a cheer, which he forbore to check. 



Stop^ — For tliy tread is on an Empire's dust! 
An Earthqualie's spoil is sepulchred below! 
Is tlic spot mark*d with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red ram hath mado tho harvest grow I 
And is tliis all tlio world lias gain'd by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ? 



And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo; 
How in an hour the power which gaw annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place" ' lierc last tlio eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon tho rent plain, 
Pierced by tho shaft of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's lifo and labours all were vain ; 
Ho wears the shatter'd links of tho world's bpokcn chain. 



Fit retribution! Gaul may champ tho bit 
And foam in fetters; — but is Earth more free ? 
Did nations combat lo make One rubmit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again bo 
The paloh'd-up idol of cnhghten'd ilays? 
Shall wo, who struck the Lion down, shall wo 
Pay tho Wolf homage ? profl'cring lowly pare 
Anil sorviloknpos tothrono?? No :;iro«r U^forvyo prai< 



20 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius ^ drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; ^ 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 



Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On vfith the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
No sleep tUl morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But, hark ! — that heavy sovmd breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is- — the caimon's opening roar ! 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that liigh hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear : 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

XXIV. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips—" The foe ! They come ! 
they come !" 

XXVI. 

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years 
And * Evan's, * Donald's fame rings in each clansman's 
ears! 



XXVII. 

And Ardennes ^ waves above them her green leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanunate e'er grieves, 
Over the unrelurning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden Uke the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery masis 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalUng in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnLlcently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
Tlie earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
^.Vhich her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent. 
Rider and horse, — ^friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 



Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line. 
And partly that I did his sii-e some wrong. 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard ! 

XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee. 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
TSIiich living waves where thou didst cease to live. 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive. 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I tum'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.'' 



XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfuhiess were mercy for their sake^* 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
Those whom they thii-st for ; though the sound of Fame 
May for a moment sooth, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honour'd but assumes a stronijer, bitterer claim. 



They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn : 

The tree will wither long before it fall ; 

The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 

The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 

In massy hoarmess ; the ruin'd wall 

Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; 

The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 

The day drags through tho' storms keep out the sun 

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 

XXXIII, ■ 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multipUcs; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



21 



XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fmit, 
Like to the apples on the ^ Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of hfe, — say, would he name 
threescore ? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true., 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span. 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
" Our countrymen were warring on that day !" 
And this is much, and all which vsall not pass away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men. 
Whose spirit antithetically mlxt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme in all tilings ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seck'st 
Even now to reassume the imperial mien. 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 



Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less tlie same ♦ 

To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 

xxxviu. 
Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarclis' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild. 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
With that untatight innate philosophy. 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by. 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-endnring eye; — 
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child. 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in lliy fi)rlunes; for in tlieiu 
Ambition steol'd tliee on too far lo show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not bo 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to iiso 
Till (hoy were turn'd untf) thine overthrow : 
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all su<-h lot who choose. 



IfJ like a tower upon a headlong rock. 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; [throne. 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been throwm) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.^ 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their contagio.i ; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule ; 

XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twihght, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which eats into itselfj and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head. 
And thus reward tlie toils which lo those summits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with tliese ! true Wisdom's world will bo 
Within its own creation, or ia thine. 
Maternal Nature ! fov vvlio teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, 
And chiotless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. 

XLVII. 

And (hero (hey stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd. 
All lenantless, save to the rraimying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with (he cloud. 
There was a day wlx-n they were young and pron.l, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But (hey who fi)ught are in a blootly shroud, 
And those which waved are shredloss dust ere now, 
And the bleak l>n(tlements shall bear no fiittire blow 



22 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws '° conquerors should have? 
But History's purchased page to call them great? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLLX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields. 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would gUde ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied. 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 



But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as Ihey flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me, 

Even now what wants thy stream ? — ^that it should Lethe 
be. 

n. 
A thousand battles have assail 'd thy. banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks ; 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's bhghting dream 

Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which hero 
Awoke the joeund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear : 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelmgs fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face. 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 

LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt. 

And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 
nv. 
And he had learn'd to love, — I know not why. 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood,— 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mmd so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and tliough in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 

In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow. 



And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was' bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed. 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmitiea 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour ! 

I. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels " 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine. 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowaing these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 

2. 
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes. 
And hands which offer early flowers. 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
Above, the fi*equent feudal towers 
Through green leaves Uft their walls of gray. 
And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay. 
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such ; 
For 1 have cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And^uide thy soul to mine even here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh. 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 

4. 
The river nobly foams and flows. 
The cl^arm of this enchanted ground. 
And ail its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round : 
The haughtiest breast its wish might boimd 
Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 
To nature and to me so dear, 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 



By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground. 
There is a small and simple pyramid. 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd fi-om tlie rough soldier's lid. 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
FaUing for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

LVII. 

BriefJ brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of ificse. 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.' 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



23 



LViir. 
Here Ehrenbreitstein,*^ with her shatter'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight, 
And laid those proud roofe bare to Summer's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long dehghted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
'Tis with the thankfial glance of parting praise ; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 

LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolhng stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between. 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
A race effaces happy as the scene, 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, ^ [fall, 
Still springing o'er thy banlts, though Empires near them 

LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the s[)irit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show [below. 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument; — the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering 
ghost.'* 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannaj's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and luind 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cau;^o 
Of vice-entail 'diDorruplion; they no land 
Dooni'd t(j bewail the bhuspheiuy of laws 
Making kin-js' rightH divine, by some Draconic J.ur-e. 



By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days, 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bcwilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze. 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, c ■ 

When the coeval pride of human hands, <. ..- L ,/ 
Levell'd ^^Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 

LXVI. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The hfe she hved m ; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust. 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
dust.'s 

LXVII. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away. 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth ; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its wo, 
And from its immortaUty look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,^'' 
Imperishably pure beyond all tlungs below. 

LXVHI. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect m each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mind the might which [ behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind : 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil. 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are slroni'. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, wo may plimge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the bUght 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come witli hues of Night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invito, 
But there arc wanderers o'er Eternity 
Whoso bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall bo. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to bo alone,- 
And lovo Earlli only for ita earthly sake .' 
By ti)o blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, '" 
(^r the pure bosom of its nui-sing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth nuiko 
A fair but froward infant hor own care, 
Kissing its cries away as tlicso awaltc ; — 
Is it not belter thus our livo.<? to wear, 
I'han join the crushing rrowd, doom'd to iJiflict oi boai ? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXII. 

I live not in myself but I become 
Poition of that around me : and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A hnk reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the pealc, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

I.XXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life ; 
I look upon the peopled desert past. 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Wliere, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh puiion ; which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing. 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. 

LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? 
The bodiless thouglit ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
Of which, even now, 1 share at times the immortal lot ? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared wdth these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feeUngs for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
Gazin" upon tlie ground, with thoughts whicli dare not 
glow ? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme ; and 1 return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made liim wretched ; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 



His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame. 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing Iccnis 
Along his burning pago, distcniper'd though it sconis. 



This breathed itself to Ufe in Juhe, this 
Invested her with all that 's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every mom liis fever'd hp would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship liis would meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
E^lash'd the tluill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possust.'^ 

LXXX. 

His Ufe was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
Had grou-n Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
'Gainst whom he raged with ftiry strange and blind. 
But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find ; 
But he was phrensied by disease or wo, 

To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reaspning show. 
rxxxi. 
For then he was inspired, and from him came. 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore. 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembhng to tlie yoke she bore. 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 

Roused up to too much wratli, which follows o'ergrown 
fears ? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearflil monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions— things which grew. 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
And what behind it lay all earth shall view. ' 
But good with ill they also overthrew. 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upoi^he same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd, 

LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwell, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That wliich disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
FLx'd Passioii holds his breath, until tlie hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despaii- : 
It came, it comcth, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake. 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me fi-om distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice'reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 



A-/hjr>^^//^ 








4-^4/y 





. 3^ 



Lithc^ o/^ndicott Sf Svm^. .ATw-yari. 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



25 



LXXXVl. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mmghng, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
There breathes a Uving fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empii-es, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, [a star. 

That fortune, fame, power, Ufe, have named themselves 



All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep. 
But breathless, as we grow when feeUng most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still: From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast. 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 



Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, wiiich through our being then doth melt 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cythcrea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 't would disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 



Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'crgazing mountains,2° and thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whoso honour shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! 



The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
F'rom peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
I-icaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her'misly shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to iu;r aloud ! 

n 



XCIII. 

And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birtk 

xciv. 
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene. 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ! 
Tho' in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed : 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 



Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all tlie band. 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd 



Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the Imoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye lilie those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, hke eagles, some high nest ? 

xcvii. 
Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon exjjression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word. 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 

XCVIII. 

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day: wo may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on tliy shores, fair Lcman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, tliat may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens! sweet Clarons, birth-place of deep Love 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the s?»ows a.ho\o 
The very Glaciers have his colours caught, 
And sunset into rose hues sees tluMU wrought ■* 
By rays which sleep tlierc lovingly: the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell hero of Love, who sought 
In them a refuge from tho worldly slKKks, [mocks 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woo«, tlion 



26 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading hfe and Hght, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparlding, and his breath hath blown, 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 

CI. 

All things are here of him ; from the black pines. 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore. 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood. 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But Ught leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 

Offering to him, jind his, a populous soHtude, 
oil. 
A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words. 
And imiocenlly open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of hfe : the gush of springs. 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 

Mingling, and made by Love, imto one mighty end. 

CHI. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
That tender mystery, wiU love the more. 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world 's waste, have driven him far from those, 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 

CIV. 

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 

Peopling it with affections ; but he found 

It was the scene which passion must allot 

To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 

Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound. 

And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 

And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 

And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
throne. 

cv. 
Lausanne ! and Femey ! ye have been the abodes ^^ 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame: 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile [flame 

Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 

On man and man's research could deign do more than 
smile. 

cvi. 
The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
ffistorian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind. 
The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind. 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 

Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 



The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year. 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his \veapon with an edge severe. 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 
The lord of irony, — ^that master-spell, 
Which stimg his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited; the penalty is paid; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
The hour must come when such things shall be made 
I&iown unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie deca^d ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'T\\iU be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

cix. 
But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air- 



Itaha ! too, Itaha ! looking on thee, 
FuU flashes on the soul the hght of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian ahnost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quafling there her fill. 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. 



Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, — and to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal, 
Vv^ith a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— 
Passion or feeUng, purpose, griefj or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought. 
Is a stern task of soul : — ^No matter, — it is taught. 

cxii. 
And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, fo beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; * 

I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud [could 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still 
Had I not filed ^* my mind, which thus itself subdued. 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGfi. 



27 



CXIV. 

E have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes wliich will not deceive, 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing: I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve f^ 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 

That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream, 
cxv. 
My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end — 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — 

A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 
cxvi. 
To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 

I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 

Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the same — 
1 know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain. 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the moimtains where I now respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee. 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me ! 

CANTO IV. 



VintohoToscana, Lombardm, nomagna, 

Cluel Monte che divide, e quel che serra 

Italia, e un mare e 1' allro, che la bagim. 

Ariosto, Snlira iii. 

Venice^ January 2, 1818. 

TO 

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. 
^c. ^c. 4rc. 

MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, 

After an interval of eight years between the 
composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 
the conclusion of the poem is aliout to be submitted to! 
the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not ex- 
traordinary lliat I should recur to one still older and 
better, — to one who has beheld the birth and death of 
the otlier, and to whom I am far more, iiidebled for the 
social advantages of an ciilighten<ul friendship, than — 
though not ungratrfiil — I can, or could bo, to Cliilile 
Harold, fir any public favour reflected through the poem 
on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, and 
a€Comi)anied far, whom 1 have found walieliil ov<t my 
sicknofs, and kind in my sorrow, glud in my prospcrilVi 



and firm in my adversity, true in counsel, and trusty in 
peril — to a friend often tried and never found wantincr ; 
— to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in 
dedicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded 
state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
wish to do honour to myself by the record of many 
years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of 
steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours 
to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of sincerity 
have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship ; and 
it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a 
heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much 
accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to with« 
stand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to comme- 
morate your good qualities, or rather the advantages 
which I have derived from their exertion. Even the 
recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of 
the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but 
which cannot poison my future, while I retain the re- 
source of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will 
henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, 
inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to 
thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men 
have experienced, and no one could experience, without 
thinking better of his species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various 
periods,' the countries of chivalry, history, and fable — ■ 
Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy: and what 
Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, 
Venice and Rome have been more recently. The 
poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me 
from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardonable 
vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on 
a composition which in some degree connects me with 
the spot where it was produced, and the object, it would 
fain describe ; and however unworthy it may be deemed 
of those magical and memorable abodes, however short 
it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate im- 
pressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, 
and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a 
source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it 
with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that 
events could have left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the pre- 
ceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the 
author speakmg in his own person. The fact is, that I 
had become weary of drawing a line which every one 
seemed determined not to perceive: hke the Chinese in 
Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," whom nobody 
would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I as- 
serted, and imagined that I iiad drawn, a distinction be- 
tween the author and the pilgom ; and the very anxiety 
to preserve this difleronce, and disappointment at finding 
it unavailing, so far crushed my cflbrts in the composi- 
tion, that I determined to abandon it altogether — and 
have done so. The opinions which have been, or may 
be, formed on that subject, are noio a matter of indiller- 
ence ; the work is to depend on itself] and not on Uio 
writer ; and the author, who has no resources in his own 
mind beyond the reputation, transient or pernian-nt, 
which is to arise from his literary clForts, deserves llio 
fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my inten- 
tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have tourhod 
upon tile present state of Italian literature, and perhaps 
of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 
I soon found hardly sninciont for the lahyrinlli ofoxtornal 
objects and the consequent relleetions ; and for the 
whole of the notes, excepting a few of the siiortest, I am 
indebted to yourself, anil iheso were necessarily limited 
to the elucitlation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dis- 
sert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dis- 



28 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



similar; and requires an attention and impartiality 
which would induce us, — though perhaps no inattentive 
observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of 
the people amongst whom we have recently abode, — to 
distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more nar- 
rowly examine our information. The state of literary, 
as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, 
so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between 
them is next to impossible. It may be enough then, at 
least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful 
language — " Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che 
vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, 
tutte tutte la vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche 
la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto 1' antico 
valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy 
has great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, 
Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, 
Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will 
secure to the present generation an honourable place in 
most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles 
Lettres ; and in some the very highest ; — Europe — the 
World — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that "La 
pianta uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qua- 
lunque altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi 
si commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscrib- 
ing to the latter pari of his proposition, a dangerous 
doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
grounds^ namely, that the Italians are in no respect more 
ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wil- 
fully blind, o'- ignorantiy heedless, who is not struck with 
the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a 
word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their 
acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of 
their genius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all the 
disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of 
battles and the despair of ages, their still unquenched 
*' longing after immortality," — the immortaUty of inde- 
pendence. And v/hen we ourselves, in riding round the 
walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' 
chorus, " Roma ! Roma! Roma! Roma non 6 piu come 
era pi-:ma," it was difficult not to contrast this melan- 
choly dirge v.'ith the bacchanal roar of the songs of ex- 
ultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the 
carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of 
Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose con- 
duct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the 
better days of our history. For me, 

" Noil movero mai corda 
Ove la tuiba di sue ciance assorda." 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
ascertained that England has acquired something more 
than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Cor- 
pus ; it is enough for them to look at home. For what 
they have done abroad, and especially in the South, 
•* Verily they tvill have their reward," and at no very dis- 
tant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agree- 
able return to that country whose real welfare can be 
dearer to none than to yourself I dedicate to you this 
poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how 
iruly I am ever 

Your obliged and affectionate friend, 
BYRON. 



I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of sighs ;' 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw fi-om out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles ! 



She looks a sea-Cybele, fi-esh from ocean,^ 
Rismg with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers: 
And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 



In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,^ 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
And music meets not always nov/ the ear : 
Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die : 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity. 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 



Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first fi-om Hope, the last from Vacancy : 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; 4 
Yet there are things v>'hose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky. 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 



I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go — 
They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound. 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 



I've taught me other tongues— and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should 1 leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



29 



Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuaiy. I twine 
My hopes of being remcmber'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incUne, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Obhvion bar 

X. 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
"Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."* 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
a seed. 

XI. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd. 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood * 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power. 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 

XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — ^ 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunl< to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwme loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
Oh for one hour of bhnd old Dandolo ! '' 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? ^ 

^ Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun. 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 

From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 



In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion," ^ which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free. 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shivcr'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges arc declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of iheir splendid trust; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as miist 
Too ofl remind her who and what enUirals,'" 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 



When Athens' araiies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,^^ 
Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 



Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion I to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 

XVIII. 

I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart. 
Rising hke water-columns from the sea. 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, RadclifFe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art>>^ 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
Perchance even dearer in her day of wo. 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 



I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 
And more, it may be, than I hoj)ed or sought ; 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught , 
There are some feelings Time camiot benumb. 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 



But from their nature will the tanncn grow " 
Loftiest on lofi:iest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came. 
And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms: mute 
The camel labours with the heaviest load. 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd. 
Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event, 
Ends: — Sonu', with hope replenish'd and robuoy'd, 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent 
Wax gray and ghastly, wiihering ere their time. 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 



so 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darldy bound ; 

XXIT. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this hghtning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The Wight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of thmgs familiar, undesign'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — anew. 
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet how 
few ! 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. 
The beautifiil, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other chmes' fertiUty ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 

XXVII. 

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! 



A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still '* 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
RoU'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, [glows. 

Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues. 
From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
Their magical variety difflise : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new coiour as it gasps away. 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 



There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air. 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover : here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name '* 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 



They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; " 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride- 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 



And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortahty have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make suflScient holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive ; 



Or, it may be, with demons, who impair '' 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melanclioly bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earhest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb. 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 



Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for soUtude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. 



And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



31 



The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of v/orthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the linlc 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn ; 



TJwu! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die. 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty ; 
He ! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow ^* 
No strain whicli shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth— monotony in wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! ' twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form e 



Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
Then not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magic line. 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust '^ 
The iron crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves ; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves ^° 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly Su|)erstition grieves, 
KJnow, that the lightning sanctifies below 2' 
Whate'cr it strikes; — ^yon head is doubly sacred now. 

• XLII. 

Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast 22 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couidst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and driiilc tho tears of thy distress ; 

• XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired. 
Be homely and bo peaceful, und(!plorcd 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired. 
Would not bo seen the artnod torrents pour'd 
Down tho deep Alps ; nor would tho hostile liordo 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from tho Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor tho stranger's ffword 
Bo thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou tho slave of friend or foo. 



Wandermg in youth, I traced the path of him,^^ 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
The friend of TuUy : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
.^gina lay, Piraeus on the right. 
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 



For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dweUings on their shatter'd site. 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age. 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XL, VI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd m their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form,^* 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet, Italy! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our Rehgion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven. 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of iiills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills »* 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; witliin tho palo 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when Nature's self would fiiil ; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy tho innate flash which such a soul could mould: 

L. 

Wo gazo and turn away, and linow not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till tho heart 
Reels with its fulness; there— for ever there— 
Chain'd to tho chariot of triumphal Art, 
Wo stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
Tho paltry jargon of tho marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes: 
Blood— pulse— and breast, confirm the Dardan Shop- 
herd's prize. 



.32 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Appear dst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War ? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! ^^ while thy hps are 
With lava kisses mehing while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an 
urn ! 

LII. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments hke their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, 
From what has been, or might be, things which grow 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LIII. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
lict these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 

LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 2' 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortaUty, 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfteri's bones, and hisj^^ 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose.^^ 



These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! [rents 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from rum : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 



But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country's marbles nought to say '? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? 



Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,^" 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ;3» 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown ^^ 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore. 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
Hie life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. 



Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd ^3 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? 
That music in itselfj whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom .' 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Cassar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more : 
Happier Ravenna ! on tliy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — ^Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. 

LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 3* 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stai%, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 

rxi. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

rxii. 
Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er, 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away! 3'' 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet ! 

LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds 
Stumbling o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
words. 



4; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



33 



Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — 
A httle rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and tum'd the unwilling waters red. 

I-XVI. 

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave '^ 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing- hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy bftnks whereon the milk-nvhite Steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 

LXVII. 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 
Of small and deUcate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales. 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails [tales. 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 

Lxviir. 
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — ^'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
Vclino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the hght 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they how\ and hiss. 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlcgcthon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round. 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground. 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to bo 
Parent of rivers, wliich How gushingly, 
Witli many windings, through Uio vale : — Look back ! 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity. 
As if lo sweep d<jwn all things in its track, 
Charming the cyo with dread.— a raatchlcBS cataract,^'' 
E 



I.XXII. 

Horribly beautifol ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the ghttering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,^^ 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene. 
Love watching Madness with imalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thitndering lauwine — might be worshipp'd more ; ^^ 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and near. 
And in Chimari heard the thimder-hills of fear, 



Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as ' twere for fame, 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, ^tna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break. 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake , 

And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake. 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word *" 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which tum'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it leam'd, 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought. 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII, 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so. 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curso 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 

LXXVIII. 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone motlier of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their potty misery. 
What are our woes and sufieranco ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear tlio owl, and pknl your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples. Ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet aa fragile aa our clay. 



34 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The Niobe of nations ! there she stands 
Childless and crowTiless, in her voiceless wo ; 
An empty urn within her wither'd hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; *' 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarch's ride, 
Where the car climb'd the' capit»jl ,*. far and«wide 
Temple an! tower went down, nor left a site: — 
Chaos of ruins 1 who shall trace the void. 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. 
And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map. 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumblmg o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka !" it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

L^XXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! ^^ and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
Tlje conquero'rs sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for TuUy's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page ! — ^but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 

tXXXIII. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roU'd on Fortune's wheel,'*^ 
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too. 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown-^ 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day d\\'indle that which made 
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? 
She who was named Eternal, and arra^d 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd. 
Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was Almighty hail'd! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates wliile he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. 



The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd liim, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.'** 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway 
And all we deem deUghtful, and consmne 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in**^* 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 
Thou who beheld'st, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the blcody Caesar .lie^ 
• Foldin^^s riA'e in dj'kig flt|ofty, *^%''' 
''.^ An offering to thine altar fi-om the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ** 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dngs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart. 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart. 
And thy hmbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd, 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have. 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd. 
Save one vain man, who is not in the gi-ave, 
But, vanquish'd by himself] to Ins own slaves a slave— 

xc. 
The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modcll'd in a less terrestrial mould,'*'' 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold. 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd, 

xci. 
And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A hstener to itself was strangely framed; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity. 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
At what ? can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd ? 

XCII. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate. 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow I — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



35 



What from this barren being do we reap ? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,^^ 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
Opinion and omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright. 

And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
much Ught. 

xciv. 
And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free. 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 

Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree, 
xcv. 
I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avov^'d. 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud. 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 

I'oo glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done, 
xcvi. 
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Palla?, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 

Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? 

XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen. 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. 
And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Wliich nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying. 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 

Bo shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth, 
xcix. 
There is a stern round tower of other days,"' 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's bafllcd strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone. 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
Tho garland of eternity, whore wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
What was this tower of strength? within its cave 

What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave. 



But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she not 
So honour'd — and conspicuously there. 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Corneha's mien. 
Or the Ught air of Egypt's graceful queen. 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war. 
Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affections 
are. 

CII. 

Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; yet shed ^° 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 

Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 
cm. 
Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 

By Rome But whither would Conjecture stray? 

Thus much alone we know — MetcUa died, 

The wealthiest Roman's wife ; Behold liis love or pride ! 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 

Forms from tlie floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind ; 
cv. 
And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and tho ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should 1 steer ? . 

Thero woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is 
here. 

Then let the winds howl on! tlieir harmony 
Shall honc(;forth bo my music, and the night 
Tho sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in th<> fading light 
Dim o'(>r the bird of darkness' native site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their largo eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What arc our [letty griefs? — lot me not number mine. 



36 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls." 

CVIII. 

There is the moral of all human tales ',^^ 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — ^barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast. 
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here. 
Where gorgeous Tyrarmy had thus amass'd 
All treasures, all dehghts, that eye or ear, 

Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask Away with words ! 

draw near, 

cix. 
Admire, exult— despise — ^laugh, weep, — for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — ^Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span. 
This mountain, whose obUterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 

Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to 
build? 

ex. 
Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's? No— 'tis that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 

To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,*' 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home, 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
The Roman globe, for afl:er none sustain'd. 
But yielded back his conquests : — ^he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore.** 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep 
Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field bfelow, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep— 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow. 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passion's were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd. 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembhng senate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans ! While the tree ** 
Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a lea^ 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief— 

Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too brief, 
cxv, 
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart *^ 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air. 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth. 

Thou wert a beautiflil thought, and softly bodied forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinlded 
With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinlded. 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
Are clothed vsdth early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class^ 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earUest oracle 1 



And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart; 
And Love, which dies as it was bom, in sighing. 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys. 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? 

cxx. 

Alas ! our young aflfections run to waste. 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



37 



Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 

An unseen seraph, we beUeve in thee, 

A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, . 

But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 

The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 

The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 

Even with its own desiring phantasy. 

And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — 
wrung — and riven. 

cxxn 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 

And fevers into false creation : — where, 

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 

In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 

Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 

Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 

The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. 

Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again 



Who loves, raves — ^"tis youth's frenzy — ^but the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on. 
Reaping the whirlwind from the ofc-sown winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. 

^*'*'*^ CXXIV. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 

And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 
cxxv. 
Few — none — find what they love or could have loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscrcator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, [trod. 

Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all have 

cxxvi. 
Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
This uneradicablc taint of sin, 
Tliis boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all tlie woes we sec — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 

The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 
cxxvii. 
Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base ''"' 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our riglit of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
Though from our birtli the faculty divine 
Is cliain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest tlio truth should sluno 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind. 

The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. 



CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

cxxix. 
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in tlie ruin'd battlement. 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

cxxx. 

Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err. 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For ail beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 

cxxxi. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 

This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? 
cxxxir. 
And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! ^^ 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss. 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss. 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 
Had it but been from hands less near — in tliis 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 

Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou shalt, and 
must. 

CXXXIII. 

It is not that I may not have incurred 

For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 

I bleed witlial, and, had it been conforr'd 

With a just weapon, it had How'd unbound ; 

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 

To diee I do devote it — thou shalt talte 

The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 

Which if / have not taken fi)r the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is sutfcr'd: let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion lt>ave it weaJv ; 
But in this |)age a record will I seek. 
Not in iho air shall these my wonls disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreoli 
The deep prophetic fiilness of this vcrsr, 
And pile on human heads tlie mountain of my curse ! 



38 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



cxxxv. 
That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven !— 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot '/ 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven. 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

cxxxvi. 
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye. 
Learning to he with silence, would seem true. 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 



But I have Uved, and have not lived in vain: 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of. 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre. 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : ^^ 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder- shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inliuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were v/ith his heart, and that was far away. 
He reck'd not of the lif? he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. 
There were liis young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — '"'° 
All tliis rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 



But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman milUon's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,^i 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — ^yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, [away. 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 

CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to cHmb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head 5^^ 
When the hght shines serene but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 

CXLV, 

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand :^' 
"When falls the CoUseum, Rome shall fall; [land 
" And when Rome falls — the World." From our own 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, [will. 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods. 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ;^'^ 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — ^pride of Rome ! 

CXL VII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages. Glory sheds 
Her Ught through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them 
close.*^* 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light «* 
What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there, 
Witli her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



39 



Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart and /rom the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of hps that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man Imows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — [Eve's. 
What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — Cain was 

CL. 

But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Bom with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
no such tide. 

CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,^' 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles. 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth. 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth ! 

CLIII. 

But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous domej'^s 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackall in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 

CUV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be. 
Of earthly structures, in his honour piled. 
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all arc aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undcfiled. 

CLV. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot. 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as Uiou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 



Thou movest — but increasing with the advance. 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance 5 
Vastness which grows — ^but grows to harmonize — 
All musical in its immensities ; 
Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 
claiiTi, 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make. 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

cLViir. 

Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX, 

Then pause, and be enhghten'd ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the plaoe, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor slcill, nor thought could plan ; 
The fountain of subUmity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 

CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifyin* pain — 
A fadier's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending : — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by. 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXII. 

But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nym|)h, whoso breast 
Long'd for a deathloss lover from above, 
And madden'il in tliat vision — arc oxprest 
All that ideal beauty over bloss'd 
Tlio mind with iii its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest— 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Starlilto, around, until ihoy gathered to a god ! 



40 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if rrtade 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with vrhich 'twas 
wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past ? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which hve and suffer — ^let that pass— 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, Ufe, and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
And spreads the dim and universal pall [cloud 

Through which all things grow phantoms ; and the 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more. 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same': 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 
gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; [ground. 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled. 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
Oh thou that v/ert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 



CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. 
The love of miUions ! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherds' eyes: — 'twas but a meteor 
beam'd. 

CI-XXI. 

Wo unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate ^' 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which cruishes soon or late, — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no. 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there 1 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair. 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 

The land which loved thee so that none could love thee 
best. 

cLXxm. 
'° Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the sides, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, cahn as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. 

All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprang the Epic war, 
"Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star 
Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right, 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
The Sabine farm was tiU'd, the weary bard's delight.'' 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrmi's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roU'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begim: 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feci gladden'd by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



41 



Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That 1 might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do 1 err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which T steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like ^a. drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 



The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title talic 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as Iho snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alilie the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
F 



CLxxxri. 
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy sHme 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goesl forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do here. 

CLXXXV 

My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch sliall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp— and what is writ, is writ, — 
Would It were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must bo, and hatJi been— 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon, and scalloi>shcll ; 
Farewell ! witli him alone may rest the pain, 
rf such there were — with i/ou, the moral of his strain! 



JNOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO 1. 



1. 



Ves ! sighed oW Delphi^s long deserted shrine. 

Stanza i. line 6. 
The little village of Castri stands partly on the site 
of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from 
Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and 
from the rock. " One," said the guide, " of a king who 
broke his neck hunthig." His majesty had certainly 
chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. 

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, 
of immense depth ; the upper part of it is paved, and 
now a cow-hou.se. 

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas- 
tery ; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, 
with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and appa- 
rently leading to the interior of the mountain ; probably 
to theCorycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From 
this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of 
CastaUe." 

2. 
And rest ye at our "Lady''s house ofwo.''^ 

Stanza xx. line 4. 
The Convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa 
Scnora de Pena*, on the summit of the rock. Below, 
at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. 
Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From 
the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 
3. 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. 
Stanza xxi. Ime last. 
It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the 
assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 
were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
men ; but that Englislimen were daily butchered : and 
so far from redress being obtained, we were requested 
not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- 
ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in 
the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, 
when the streets were not more empty than they gene- 
rally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop and in 
a carriage with a friend ; had we not fortunately been 
armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have 
adorned a tale instead of telliiig one. The crime of 
assassination is not confined to Portugal : in Sicily and 
Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever 
punished ! 

4. 
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! 
Stanza x.\.iv. line I. 
The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace 
of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord 
Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, 
indeed, done wonders; he has perhaps changed the 
character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, 
and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his 
predecessors. 

5. 
Yet Mafra shaU one moment claim delay. 

Stanza xxlx. line \. 



* Since ihe publication of this poem, I Imvc been informed of the 
misapprehension of the term Nossa Senora de Pcruz. It was owing to 
the wont of the tilde, or mark over tlie n, which altars the bignification 
of the word : with it, Pena signifies a rock; without it, Peiw. has the 
sense 1 adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage, as 
though the common acceptation affixed to it is " Our Lady of the Rock," 
1 may well assume the other sense from the severities practised there 



The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contauis a 
palace, convent, and most superb church. The six 
organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in point of 
decoration •, we <lid not hear them, but were told that 
their tones were correspondent to their splendour. 
Mafra is termed the Escurial of Portugal. 

6. 
IVell doth the Spatiish hind the difference know 
^Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 

Stanza xxxiii. lines 8 and 9. 
As I foimd the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
them. That they are since improved, at least in cou- 
rai^e, is evident. 



When Cava's Iraitor-sire first cuWd tlie band 

That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore. 

Stanza xxxv. lines 3 and 4. 

Count Juhan's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of 
the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after 
some centuries, completed their struggle by the con- 
quest of Grenada. 

8. 
No ! as he speeds, he chants, " Vivd el Rey ."' 

Stanza xlviii. line 5. 

" Viva el Rey Fernando '." Long live King Ferdinand ! 
is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs: 
they are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, 
the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard 
many of them ; some of the airs are beautiful. Godoy, 
the Principe de hi Paz, was born at Badajoz, on the 
frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in tlie ranks 
of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the 
queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, 
&c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards univei - 
sally impute the ruin of their country. 

9. 

Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hv£, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 
Stanza i. luies 2 and 3. 
The red cockade, with " Fernando Septimo" in tlie 
centre. 

10. 
The ball-inled pyramid, t!ie ever-blazing match. 

Stanza li. line last. 
All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- 
midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The 
Sierra Morena was fortified m every defile through 
which I passed in my way to Seville. 

11. 

FoiPd by a woman's hand, before a baUcr\l wall. 
Stanza Ivi. line last. 
Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. 
When the author was at Seville she walked daily on 
the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by com- 
mand of the Junta. 

12. 
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch. 

Stanza Iviii. fines 1 and 2. 
" Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
Vestigio demonstrantraollitudinem." Aul. Gel. 
13. 
Oh, thou Parnassus! 

Stanza Ix. line 1. 
These stanzas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) at 
the foot of Parnassus, now called AiuKvpa— Lia^urn. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



43 



14. 

Fair is proud Sit:ville ; let her c-ninlry boast 
Her strength^ her wealth, her site of ancient days. 
Stanza Ixv. lines 1 and 2. 
Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 
15. 
Ask ye, Bceotian shades ! the reason why ? 

Stanza Ixx. line 5. 
This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
best situation for asking and answering such a question ; 
not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of 
Boeotia, where the first riddle was propounded and 
solved. 

16. 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 
Stanza Ixxxii. line last. 
"Medio de fonto leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." 

Luc. 
17. 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud. 

Stanza Ixxxv. line 7. 
Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
Governor of Cadiz. 

18. 
" War even to the knife .'" 

Stanza Ixxxvi. line last. 
" War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the French 
general at the siege of Saragoza. 
19. 
And thou, my friend ! ^c. 

Stanza xci. line 1. 
The Honourable I*. W**. of the Guards, who died 
of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, 
the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. 
In the short space of one month I have lost her who 
gave me being, and most of those who had made that 
being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no 
fiction : 
" Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was elain. 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." 
I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing 
College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all 
praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the 
attainment of yrealer honours, against the ablest can- 
didates, than those of any graduate on record at Cam- 
bridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the 
spot where it was acquired : while his softer qualities 
hve in the recollection of friends who loved him too 
well to envy his superiority. 



CANTO II. 



— - despite of war and wasting /ire 

Stanza i. line 1. 
Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by tiie explo- 
sion of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 
2. 
But worse tlian steel and flame, and ages sloio, 
Is tfic dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred, glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on jwlisKd brcaxts hcstoio. 

Stanza i. line 6. 
Wo can all feel, or imagini^, the regret with which 
the ruins of cities, onco the capitals of empires, are 
beheld ; the reflections suggestfd by such objects are 
too trite to require recapitulation. Hut never did the 
littleness of man, and the vanity of iiis very best virtues 
of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to dcfi'nd his coim- 
try, appear more conspicuous than in ih»> record of 



what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now 
is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, 
of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposi- 
tion of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, 
is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual 
disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain 
British nobility and gentry. "The wild foxes, the owls 
and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less 
degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have the 
plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have 
only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the 
bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when two 
painters contest the privilege of plundering the Par- 
thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of 
each succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, 
Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens; but it re- 
mained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable 
agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his 
pursuits. 

The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire 
during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, 
and a mosque. In eacn point of view it is an object of 
regard : it changed its worshippers ; but still it was a 
place of worship thrice sacred to devotion : its viola- 
tion is a triple sacrilege. But 

" Man, vain man, 
Drest in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep." 
3. 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. 

Stanza v. line 2. 
It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
their dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred 
entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their 
decease ; and he was indeed neglected, who had not 
annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of 
his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, 
&c. and at last even Antinous, whose death was as he- 
roic as his life was infamous. 
4. 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne. 

Stanza x. line 3. 
The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally 
there were 150. These columns, however, are by 
many supposed to belong to the Pantheon, 
5. 
And bear these altars jaW the long-reluctant brine. 
Stanza xi. line last. 
The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

6. 
To rive what Goth, and Turk,, and Time hath spared. 
Stanza xii. line 2. 
At this moment, (January 3, 1809,) besides what has 
been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vessel is 
in the Pyricus to receive every portable relic. Thus, 
as 1 heard a young Greek observe, in common with 
many of his countrymen — for, lost as they are, they 
yet feel on this occasion — thus may Lord Elgin boast 
of having ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the 
first eminence, named Lusieri, is the agent of d(^vasta- 
tion ; and like the Gicck fndcr of Verresin Sicily, who 
followed the same profession, he has proved the able 
instrument of pUmdcr. Between this artist and the 
French Consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the re- 
mains for his own government, there is now a violent 
dispute concerning a car employed in their conveyance, 
the wheel of which — I wish llioy were both broken 
upon it — has been locked up by the Consul, and Lusieri 
has laid his complaint before the Waywode. Lord 
Elgin has been exlrenioly happy is his choice of Signor 
Lusieri. During a residence of ton years in Athens, 
ho never had tlie curiosity to proceed as far as Suiiium,* 



• NowCu|iuCi>l.inmi. In nil AKicii, it wc cxociil Allinm ilsdf ami 
Mnrailion, tliore U no sceno more inlei'ollng limn Cii|'<' ''i'l'''"i >■ To 
the uutlutiai-y nnil iii'tiHt, Rixtovii coliinins nit) un ini'vl ' >'' 

ohitnrviUKiu niul (IvHi-rii ; (d Uu< pliiliMiophcr, tho «ii|'i "i- 

of riuto'u coiivcrmitiouB will not bo iinwclconiP : nnil ' ' ■• 

slnick with Um beaiily of Ihopiosiiccl over " A/t* .'/"..' „^'i'» 

-^./i." Imt rormi Eiigli»limaii,ColouimhOiycl an luUliUiuial iiitm«t, 



44 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



till he accompanied us in our second excursion. How- 
ever, his works, as far as ihey go, are most beautiful ; 
but they are almost all unfinished. While he and his 
patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, apprecia- 
ting cameos, sketching columns, and cheapening gems, 
their little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox- 
hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, or any 
such pastime ; but when they carry away three or four 
shiploads of the most valuable and massy relics that 
time and barbarism have left to the most injured and 
most celebrated of cities ; when they destroy, in a vain 
attempt to tear down, those works which have been the 
admiration of ages, I know no motive which can excuse, 
no name which can designate, the perpetrators of this 
dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the crimes 
laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plundered Si- 
cily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. The 
most unblushing impudence could hardly go farther than 
to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of the 
Acropohs ; while the wanton and useless defacement 
of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one com- 
partment of the temple, will never permit that name to 
be pronounced by an observer without execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival ; 
but I have some early prepossession in favour of Greece, 
and do not think the honour of England advanced by 
plunder, whether of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he has 
done less : but some others, more or less noble, yet " all 
honourable men," have done best, because, after a deal 
of excavation and execration, bribery to the Waywode, 
mining and countermining, they have done nothing at 
all. \Ve had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, which al- 
most ended in bloodshed! Lord E.'s "prig" — see Jona- 
than Wylde for the definition of " priggism" — quarrelled 
with another, Gropius* by name, (a very good name 
too for his business,) and muttered something about sa- 
tisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the poor Prus- 
sian : this was stated at table to Gropius, who laughed, 
but could eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were 
not reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to 
remember their squabble, for they wanted to make me 
their arbitrator. 

7. 
Hei- sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 

Stanza xii. lines 7 and 8. 
I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of 
my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no com- 
ment with the public, but whose sanction will add ten- 
fold weight to my testimony, to insert the following ex 
tract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note 
to the above lines. 
" When the last of the Metopes was taken from the 



Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the super- 
structure with one of the trigiyph^was thrown down by 
the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, 
who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his 
pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplica- 
ting tone of voice, said to Lusicri, T/Xoj ! — I was pre- 
sent." 

The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present 
Disdar. 

8. 
IVhere was thine ^gis, Pallas ! that appaWd 
Stem Alaric and Havoc on their way ? 

Stanza xiv. lines 1 and 2. 
According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- 
ened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that 
the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- 
tish peer. — See Chandler. 



as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are for- 
gotten, in the recoUuclion of Falconer and Campbell : 

" Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In 
two journeys which 1 made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view 
from either side, Ijy land, was less striking than the approach from the 
isles. In our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from a 
party of Mainotos, concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told 
afterwards, by one of their prisonera subsequently ransomed, that they 
were deterred from attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians ; 
conjecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a complete guard 
of these Arnaonts at hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our 
party, which was too small to have opposed any effectual resistance. 

Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates ; there 
" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
Aail makes degraded nature picturesque." 

(See Hodgson's Ladv Jane Grey, &c.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. I was 
fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist ; and hope to 
renew my acquaintance with this and many other Levantine scenes, by 
the arrival of his performances. 

* This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose 
of sketching, in which he excels ; but I am sorry to say, that he has, 
through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, been tread- 
ing at humble distance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. A shipful of his tro- 
phies was detained, and I believe confiscated, at Constantinople, in 1810. 
I am most happy to be now enabled to state, that " this was not in his 
bond ;" that lie was employed solely ais a painter, and that his noble pa- 
tron disavows all connexion with liim, except as an artist. If the error 
in the first and second edition of this poem has given the noble Lord a mo- 
ment's pain, I am very sorry for it : Sr. Gropius has assumed for vears 
the name of his agent : and though I cannot much condemn myself for 
sharing in the mistake of so many, I am happy in being one of the first to 
be undeceived. Indeed, 1 have as much pleasure in contradicting this as 
i felt r»grel in stating il. 



the netted canopy. 

Stanza .xviii. line 2. 
The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from falling 
on deck during action. 

10. 
But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. 

Stanza xxix. line I. 
Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 

La7id of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee^ thou rugged nurse of savage m^nl 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 5 and 6. 
Albania comprises part of Macedonia, lUyria, Chao- 
nia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alex- 
ander ; and the celebrated Scanderberg (Lord Alexan- 
der) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the 
thirty-eighth stanza. I do not know whether I am cor- 
rect in making Scanderberg the countryman of Alexan- 
der, who was born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gib- 
bon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in 
speaking of his exploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country "within 
sight of Italy is less known than the interior of Ameri- 
ca." Circumstances, of little consequence to mention, 
led Mr. Hobhouse and myself into that country before 
we visited any other part of the Ottoman dominions ; 
and with the exception of Major Leake, then officially 
resident at Joannina, no other Englishmen have ever 
advanced beyond the capital into the interior, as that 
gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha was 
at that time (October, 1809) carrying on war against 
Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a strong 
fortress which he was then besieging : on our arrival at 
Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, his highness's 
birthplace, and favourite Serai, only one day's distance 
from Berat ; at this juncture the Vizier had made it 
his headquarters. 

After some stay in the capital, we accordingly Ibl- 
lowed ; but though furnished witii every accommoda- 
tion, and escorted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we 
were nine days (on account of the rains) in accomplish- 
ing a journey which, on our return, barely occupied four. 
On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and 
Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size ; 
and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery 
in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, the frontier 
village of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to 
descant, because this will be done so much better by 
my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably pre- 
cede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow as 
I would to anticipate him. But some few observations 
are necessary to the text. 

The Arnaouts, or Albanesc, struck me forcibly by 
their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in 
dress, figure, and manner of hving. Their very moun- 
tains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The 
kilt, though white ; the snare, active form ; their dialect, 
Celtic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all carried 
me back to Morven. No nation are so detested and 
dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese ; the 
Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks 
as Moslems ; and in fact they arc a mixture of both, and 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



45 



sometimes neither. Their habits are predatory— all are 
armed ; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montene- 
grins, Chimariots, and Gegdcs, are treacherous; the 
others differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in cha- 
racter. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak 
favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a 
Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of 
Turkey which came within my observation ; and more 
faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service are rarely 
to be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the Mos- 
lem, Dervish Tahiri ; the former a man of middle age, 
and the latter about my own. Basili was strictly 
charged by Ali Pacha in person to attend us ; and Der- 
vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the 
forests of Arcanania to the banks of Achelous, and on- 
ward to Messalonghi in MtoVia. There I took him into 
my own service, and never had occasion to repent it 
till the moment of my departure. 

When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr. 
II. for England, I was seized with a severe fever in 
the Morea, these men saved my life by frightening 
away my physician, whose throat they threatened to 
cut if I was not cured within a given time. To this 
consolatory assurance of posthumous retribution, and 
a resolute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's prescriptions, I 
attributed my recovery. I had left my last remaining 
English servant at Athens; my dragoman was as ill 
as myself, and my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an 
attention which would have done honour to civilization. 

They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, 
Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was always 
squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; insomuch that 
four of the principal Turks paid mo a visit of remon- 
strance at the Convent, on the subject of his having 
taken a woman from the bath — whom he had lawfully 
bought however — a thing quite contrary to etiquette. 

Basili also was extremely gallant amorig his own 
persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
church, mixed with the highest contempt of churchmen, 
whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most heterodox 
mamicr. Yet he never passed a church without cross- 
ing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in entering 
St. Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once been a 
place of his worship. On remonstrating with him on 
his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably answered, 
" our church is holy, our priests are thieves ;" and then 
he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the 
first "papas" who refused to assist in any required ope- 
ration, as was always found to be necessary where a 
priest had any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his 
village. Indeed a more abandoned race of miscreants 
cannot exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my 
Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. Ba- 
sili took his with an awkward sliow of regret at my in- 
tended departure, and marched away to his quarters 
with iiis bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for 
some time he was not to be found ; at last he entered, 
just as Signor Logotheli, father to the ci-devant Anglo- 
consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek acquaint- 
ancbs, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but 
on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping iiis 
hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out of 
the room, weeping bitterly. From that moment to the 
hour of my embarkation, he continued his lamentations, 
and all our efforts to console him only produced this an- 
swer, " Ma f/ic(V£«," " He leaves me." Signor Logodieti, 
who never wept before for any thing less ihan the 
loss of a para*, molted ; the padre of the convent, my 
attendants, my visitors — and I verily believe that even 
Sterne's " foolish fat scullion" would havo left her " fish- 
kettle," to sympathize with the unaffected and unex- 
pected sorrow of this barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a short 
lime bel()r() my dei)arturc from England, a noble and 
most intimate associate had excusecl himself from tak- 
ing leave of mo because he had to attend a relation " to 
a milliner's," I felt no less surprised than humiliated by 
the pr«'S("nt occurrence and the past recollection. 

That Dervish would leave me with some regret was 



" I'nin, iilioiil ilic fiinrlli of a fnrlliiiii; 



to be expected : when master and man have been scram- 
blintf over the mountains of a dozen provinces together, 
they'are unwilling to separate ; but his present feehngs, 
contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my opinion 
of the human heart, I believe this almost feudal fide- 
lity is frequent among them. One day, on our journey 
over Parnassus, an Englishman in my service gave him 
a push in some dispute about the baggage, which he 
unluckily mistook for a blow; he spoke not, but sat 
down leaning his head upon his hands. Foreseeing the 
consequences, we endeavoured to explain away the af- 
front, which produced the following answer :— " I have 
been a robber ; I aw a soldier ; no captain ever struck 
me ; you are my master, I have eaten your bread, but 
hy that bread! (an usual oath) had it been otherwise, 
I would have stabbed the dog your servant, and gone to 
the mountains." So the affair ended, but from that 
day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thought- 
less fellow who insulted him. 

Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- 
tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic : be that 
as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. 
It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull 
round-about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian 
party had so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the culti- 
vators of the earth in the provinces, who have also that 
appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of 
countenance ; and the most beautiful women I ever be- 
held, in stature and in features, wc saw levelling the 
road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- 
atrical ; but this strut is probably the eftect of the ca- 
pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their 
long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their courage 
in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they 
have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes,! never saw a 
good Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the Eng- 
lish saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 
12. 
and pass'd the barren spot^ 



Where ftad Penelope oWlook'd the wave. 

Stanza xxxix. lines 1 and 2. 



Ithaca. 



13. 



Acthany Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 

Stanza xl. line 5. 
Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 
battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but 
less known, was fought in the Gulf of Patras. Here 
the author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 
14. 
And haiVd the last resort of fruitless love. 

Stanza xli. line 3. 
Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promon- 
tory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown 
herself. 

15. 

many a Roman chief and Asian Kivs.. 

Stanza xlv. line 4. 
It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of Ac- 
tium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 
16. 
Look where the second Cccsa/s trophies rose ! 

Stanza xlv. line 6. 
Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome 
survives in a few fragments. 
17. 

Avhcrusin^s lake. 

Stan/a xlvii. line 1. 
Accordinc toPouqucvillo the lake of Yanina ; but Pou 
quevillp is always out. 

18. 
To i^rccl Albania 'i chief. 

Slaii/a \lvii. line 1. 
The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinarv 
man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's 1 ra- 
vels. 



46 



NOTES TO CHiLBE HAROLD. 



19. 

Yet here and there some dmin^ mountain band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 

Stanza xlvii. lines 7, 8, and 9. 
Five thousand Suliotes, amoig tlic rocks and in the 
castle of Suli, \vithstood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen 
years ; the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this 
contest there were several acts performed not unwor- 
thy of the better days of Greece. 
20. 
Monastic Zitza, ^c. 

Stanza xlviii. line 1. 
The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour- 
ney from Joannina,or Yanina, the capital of the Pacha- 
lick. In the valley of the river Kalamas (once the 
Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine 
cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, 
though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acar- 
nania and iEtolia may contest the pahn. Delphi, Par- 
nassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port 
Raphti, are very inferior ; as also every scene in Ionia, 
or the Troad : 1 am almost inclined to add the approach 
to Constantinople; but from the different features of 
the last, a comparison can hardly be made. 
21. 
Here dwells the caloyer. 

Stanza xlix. line 6. 
The Greek monks are so called. 
22. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. 

Stanza h. line 2. 
The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vol- 
canic. 

23. 

behold black Acheron ! 

Stanza U. line 6. 
Novv? called Kalamas. 

24. 

in his white capote. 

Stanza lii. Unc 7. 
Albanese cloak. 

25. 
The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit. 

Stanza Iv, line 1 . 
Anciently Mount Tomarus. 
26. 
And Ijxos wide and fierce came roaring by. 

Stanza Iv. Ime 2. 
The river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
It ; and, immediately above Tepalcn, was to the eye 
as wide as the Thames at Westminster ; at least in the 
opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr. Hob- 
house. In the summer it must be much narrower. It 
certainly is the finest river in the Levant ; neither Ache- 
lous, Alpheus, Acheron, Schamandcr, nor Cayster, ap- 
proached it in breadth or beauty. 
27. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof 

Stanza Lxvi. line 8. 
Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 
28. 

the red loine circling fast. 

Stanza Ixxi. line 2. 
The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
and indeed very few of the others. 
29. 
Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 

Stanza Ixxi. line 7. 
Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 
from Tla^^iKapi, a general name for a soldier amongst 
the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it means 
properly "a lad." 

30. 
IVhile thus in concert, ^c. 

Stanza Ixxii. line last. 
As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
the lUyric, I here insert two of their most popular cho- 



ral songs, which are generally chanted in dancing by 
men or women inchscriminately. The first words are 
merely a kind of chorus without meaning, like some in 
our own and all other languages. 



Bo, iJo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 

Naciarura, popuso. 

2. 
Naciarura na civin 
Ha penderini ti hin. 

3. 
Ha pe uderi escrotini 
Ti vin ti ma:r servetini. 

4. 
Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 



Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 

Gi egem spirta esimiro. 

6. 
Caliriote vu le funde 
Ede vete timde tunde. 



1. 

Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; be 
thou silent. 
2. 
I come, I run ; open the door 
that I may enter. 
3. 
Open the door by halves, 
that I may take my tur- 
ban. 

4. 

Caliriotes* with the dark 

eyes, open the gate that I , 

may enter. j 

5. 

Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my soul. ' 



Caliriote mc surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 

8. 
Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



Va le ni il die cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 

10. 
Plu hari ti tirete 
Plu huron cia pra seti. 



An Arnaout girl, in costly 
garb, walks with graceful 
pride. 

7. 
Caliriot maid of the dark 
eyes, give me a kiss, 
8. 
If I have kissed thee, what 
hast thou gained? My 
soul is consumed with fire. 
9. 
Dance lightly, more gently, 
and gently still. 
10. 
Make not so much dust to 
destroy your embroidered 
hose. 

The last stanza would puzzle a commentator: the 
men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, 
but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be 
addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots 
and slippers but a well-turned and sometimes very 
white ankle. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer 
than the Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. 
They preserve their shape much longer also, from be- 
ing always in the open air. It is to be observed, that 
the Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of 
this song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, 
are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are 
copied by one who speaks and understands the dialect 
perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 

1. 1. 

Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa I am wounded by thy love, 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but to 

scorch myself. 

2. 2. 

Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Thou hast consumed me ! 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. AJi, maid ! thou hast 

struck me to the heart. 

3. 3. 

Uti tasa roba stua I have said I wish no dowry, 

Sitti eve tulati dua, but thine eyes and eye- ■ 

lashes. 

4. 4. 

Roba stinori ssidua The accursed dowry I want 

Q,u mi sini vetti dua. not, but thee only. 

6. 5. 

Qurmini dua civileni Give me thy charms, and 

Roba ti siarmi tildi eni, let the portion feed the 

flames. 



Utara pisa vaisisso me I have loved thee, maid, 

sinii rin ti hapti with a sincere soul, but 

Eti mi hire a piste si gui thou hast left me like a 

dendroi tiltati. withered tree. 



* The Albanese, particularly llie women, are frequently termed " Cnli- 
iotes ;" for what reason I inqnirefl in rain. 



I 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



47 



7- . . # 7. 

Udi vura udorini udiri ci- If I nave placed my hand on 

cova cilti mora * thy bosom, what have I 

Udorini talti hoUna u ode gained? my iiandis with- 

caimoni mora. drawn, but retains the 

flame. 
I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- 
ent measure, ou^ht to belong to another ballad. An 
idea something similar to the thought in the last lines 
was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come hi 
contact with one of his " {»7roKo>7rtot," Critobulus or 
Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting 
pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and 
therefore very properly resolved to teach his disciples in 
future without touching them. 
31. 
Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy Harum afar^ ^-c. 

Song, Stanza i. line 1. 
I'heso Stanzas arc partly taken from different Alba- 
nesc songs, as far as I was able to make them out by 
the exposition of the Albancse in Romaic and Italian. 
32. 
Remember the moment when Previsafell. 

Song, Stanza vhi. hue 1. 
It was taken by storm from the French. 
33. 
Fair Oreece I sad relic of departed worth, ^c. 

Stanza kxiii. lino 1. 
Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
subjoined papers. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle^s brow 
Thou sai^st with Thrasybidics and his train. 

Stanza Ixxiv. lines 1 and 2. 
Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
has still considerable remains : it was seized by Thra- 
sybulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty, 

35. 
Receive thef^-y Frank, her former guest. 

Stanza Ixxvii. line 4. 
When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
years. — See Gibbon. 

36. 
^'hc prophets tomb of all its pious .'spoil. 

Stanza Ixxvii. line 6. 
Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 
37. 
Thy vales of ever- green, thy hills of snow — 

Stanza Ixxxv. line 3. 
On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
tense lieat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on 
the plains, even in winter. 

38. 
Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 

Stanza Ixxxvi. lines 1 and 2. 
Of Mount Pcntelicus, from whence the marble was 
dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. — 
The modern name is Mount Mcndeli. An immense 
cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till 
the end of time. 

39. 
IVhen Marathon became a magic word. 

Stanza Ixxxix. line 7. 
"Siste Viator — hcroa calcas!" was the epitaph on 
the famous count Merci; — what then must bo our ft^el- 
in<TS when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred 
(Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The principal bar- 
row has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few or no 
relics, as vases. &c. were found by the excavator. The 
plain of Marathon was offeicd to mc for sale at the sum 
of sixteen thotisand piastres, about nin(^ hundred 
pounds I Alas ! — « Expended— tjuot libias in (hu;<" sum- 
mo-.-invenies!" — was the dust of Milliadts worth iu> 
more? It could scarcely have fc(clif<l U-^^ il "''• '>v 
nTf ght. 



PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. 

Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say 
somcthmg, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to 
have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of 
a gentleman than a " Disdar Aga," (who by the by is 
not an Aga,) the most impolite of petty officers, the 
greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw, (except 
Lord E.) and the unworthy occupant of the Acropohs, 
on a handsome annual stipend of 150 piastres, (eight 
pounds sterling,) out of which he has only to pay his 
garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated 
Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was 
once the cause of the husband of "Ida of Athens" 
nearly suffering the bastinado ; and because the said 
" Disdar" is a turbulent husband and beats his wife ; so 
that I exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a 
separate maintenance in behalf of " Ida." Having pre- 
mised thus much, on a matter of such import to the 
readers of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention 
her birthplace. 

Selling aside the magic of the name, and all those 
associations which it would be pedantic and superfluous 
to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens would ren- 
der it the favourite of all who have eyes for art or na- 
ture. The climate, to me at least, appeared a perpe- 
tual si)ring ; during eight months I never passed a day 
without being as many hours on horseback : rain is ex- 
tremely rare, snow never lies in the plahis, and a cloudy- 
day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and 
every part of the East which I visited, except Ionia 
and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate 
to our own ; and at Constantinople, where I passed 
May, June, and part of July, (1810,) vou might "damn 
the climate, and complain of spleen, five days out of 
seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but 
the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of 
Mcgara the change is strikingly perceptible. But I 
fear Hesiod will still be found correct in his description 
of a Boeotian winter. 

Wc found at Livadia an "esprit fort" in a Greek 
bishop, of all free thinkers ! This worthy hypocrite ral- 
lied his own religion with great intrepidity, (but not be- 
fore his flock,) and talked of a mass as a " coglioneria." 
It was impossible to think better of him for this ; but, 
for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his absurdity. — 
This phenomenon (with the exception indeed of Thebes, 
the remains of Chajronca, the plain of Platea, Orcho- 
menus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophonius) 
was the only remarkable tlhng we saw before we passe<l 
Mount Citlu-cron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my com- 
panion (who, resolvmg to be at once cleanly and clas- 
sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of 
Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may con- 
tradict him. At Caslri wc drank of half a dozen stream- 
lets, some not of the jjurest, before wc decided to our 
satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and even that 
had a villanous twang, probably from the snow, though 
it did not throw us into an epic fever, like poor Dr. 
Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle, of which lar^e remains still exist, 
the Plain of Athens, Pcntelicus, Il}niettus, the -^gean, 
and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or 
Istambol. Not the view from (he Troad, with Ida, the 
Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can 
ctjual it, though so superior u» extent. 

I heard nmch of the beauty of Arcadia, but excepting 
the view from the monastery of Megaspelion, (which is 
inferior to Zit/a in a conunand of country,) and llio 
descent from the mountains on the way from rriiiolitzu 
to Argos, Arcadia has Utile to recommend it beyond the 
naino. 

" Slernitur, el duhxs moriens rcminisiilur Argos." 
Virgil could hnvti put this into th(> moulli of none btit an 
Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it does nol 
deserve the epithet. And il the Polynices of StaliuP, 



48 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



"Inmediis audit duo lilora campis," did actually hear 
both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he had 
better ears than have ever been worn in such a journey 
since. 

"Athens," says a celebrated topographer, "is still 
the most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may of 
Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joannina in Epirus 
is universally allowed, among themselves, to be supe- 
rior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of 
its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for their 
cunning ; and the lower orders are not improperly cha- 
racterized in that proverb, which classes them with " the 
Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, &c. there was 
never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the 
Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- 
puted with great acrimony. 

Mr. Fauvel,the French consul, who has passed thirty 
years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an 
artist and manners as a gentleman none who have known 
him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared 
in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve to be 
emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds of their " na- 
tional and individual depravity ;" while he forgot that 
such depravity is to be attributed to causes which can 
only be removed by the measure he reprobates. 

Mr, Roque, a French merchant of respectability long 
settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing 
gravity, " Sir, they are the same canaille that existed 
in the days of Themistocles /" an alarming remark to 
the " Laudator temporis acti." The ancients banished 
Themistocles ; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque : 
thus great men have ever been treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most 
of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c. of passage, 
came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the 
same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn 
the nation by virholesale, because he was wronged by 
his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the 
SieursFauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 



traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler 
whose journal abuses them ! This is the amount of 
their obligations to foreigners. 

IL 

Fraiiciscan Convent^ Athens, January 23, 1811. 

Among the remnants of the barbarous policy of the 
earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist 
in different countries; whose inhabitants, however 
divided in religion and manners, almost all agf*»,e in 
oppression. 

The EngUsh have at last compassionated their Ne- 
groes, and under a less bigoted government, may proba- 
bly one day release their Catholic brethren : but the in- 
terposition of foreigners alone can emancipate the 
Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a 
chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews have 
from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
at least the younger men of Europe devote much of 
their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, 
which would be more usefully spent in mastering their 
own. Of the moderns, we are perhaps more neglectful 
than they deserve ; and while every man of any pre- 
tensions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often 
his age, in the study of the language and of the ha- 
rangues of the Athenian demagogues in favour of free- 
dom, the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy 
republicans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, 
although a very slight effort is required to strike off 
their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising 
again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculous ; 
as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, 
after reasserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there 
seems to be no very great obstacle, except in the apa- 
thy of the Franks, to their becoming an useful depen- 
dency, or even a free state with a proper guarantee ; — 
under correction, however, be it spoken, for many and 
well-informed men doubt the practicability even of 
this. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they 



of the day, who divide between them the power of Peri- are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their 
cles and the popularity of Clcon, and puzzle the poor ^-^^- ^-^- t. i- • , ., ^ 

Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in the utter 
condemnation, " nulla virtute redemptum," of the Greeks 
in general, and of the Athenians in particular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it 
knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less than 
five tours of the first magnitude and of the most threat- 
ening aspect, all in typographical array, by persons of 
wit, and honour, and regular common-place books : but, 
if I may say this without offence, it seems to me rather 
hard to declare so positively and pertinaciously, as al- 
most every body has declared, that the Greeks, because 
they are very bad, will never be better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- 
gyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De JPauw 
and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent ; they will 
never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they 
ever should ! but they may be subjects without being 
slaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they are 
free and industrious, and such may Greece be hereafter. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the 
Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and phy- 
sical ilLs that can afflict humanity. Their life is a 
struggle against truth; they are vicious in their own de- 
fence. They are so unused to kindness, that when they 
occasionally meet with it they look upon it with suspi- 
cion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingers if you 
attempt to caress him. " They are ungrateful, notori- 
ously, abominably ungrateful !" — this is the general cry. 
Now, in the name of Nemesis! for what arc they to be 
grateful ? Where is iho human being that ever con- 
ferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks ? They are to be 
grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks 
for their broken promises and lying counsels. They 
arc to be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, 
and to the antiquary who carries them away ; to the 



probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Rus- 
sians ; but they have twice been deceived and aban- 
doned by that power, and the dreadful lesson they re- 
ceived after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has 
never been forgotten. The French they dislike ; al- 
though the subjugation of the rest of Europe will, pro- 
bably, be attended by the deliverance of continental 
Greece. The islanders look to the English for succour, 
as they have very lately possessed themselves of the 
Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever appear 
with arms in their hands will be welcome ; and when 
that day arrives. Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans, 
they cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, and 
speculating on what they may be, let us look at them 
as they are. 

**And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety 
of opinions : some, particularly the merchants, decrying 
the Greeks in the strongest language ; others, gene- 
rally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and 
publishing very curious speculations grafted on their 
former state, which can have no more eflect on their 
present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the future 
fortunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the "natural 
allies of Englishmen ;" another, no less ingenious, will 
not allow them to be the allies of any body, and denies 
their very descent from the ancients ; a third, more in- 
genious than either, builds a Greek empire on a Russian 
foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of 
Catherine II. As to the question of their descent, 
what can it import whether the Mainotes arc the lineal 
Laconians or not ? or the present Athenians as indi- 
genous as the bees of Hymcttus, or as the grasshoppers, 
to which they once likened themselves ? What Eng- 
lishman cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or 
Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welshman, is afflicted 
ith a desire of being descended from Caractacus? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 



i 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



49 



things of this world, as to render even their claims to 
antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel, then, in 
Mr. Thornton to disturb them in the possession of all 
that time has left them ; viz. their pedigree, of which 
they are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call 
their own. It would be worth while to publish together, 
iand compare, the works of Messrs. Thornton and De 
Pauw, Eton and Sonnini ; paradox on one side, and 
prei'"iice on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives him- 
seli to have claims to public confidence from a fourteen 
years' residence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the sub- 
ject of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight 
into the real state of Greece and her inhabitants, than 
as many years spent in Wapping into that of the West- 
ern Highlands. ^ 

The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and if 
Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I 
should place no great reliance on his information. I 
actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their 
little general intercourse with the city, and assert of 
himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but 
four times at Constantinople in as many years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece 
as a cruise to Bervvick in a Scotch smack would of 
Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does 
he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a 
body of men, of whom he can know little ? It is rather 
a curious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who so 
lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on every occasion of 
mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse to him as 
authority on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial ob- 
server. Now Dr. Pouqueville is as httle entitled to 
that appellation, as Blr. Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, wc are deplorably in want of information 
on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their 
literature, nor is there any probability of our being bet- 
ter acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- 
mate, or their independence confirmed : the relations of 
passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the 
invectives of angry factors ; but till something more 
can be attained, we must be content with the httle to 
be acquired from similar sources.* 

However defective these may be, they are preferable 
to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of 
the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such as 
De Pauw ; who, when he asserts that the British breed 
of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spar- 
tans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal know- 
ledge of English horses and Spartan men. His "phi- 
losophical observations" have a much better claim to 
the title of "poetical." It could not be expected that 
he who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- 
brated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on 
the mod(!rn Greeks; and it fortunately hap|)ens, that 
the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers re- 
futes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of 
De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a 
reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and 



* A word, en pneannl, with Mr. 'I'homlo.i ami Dr. Poiuiiipvillr, who 
Jiave beeiiE'iilly between lliem ofsiiilly cliiipiiig the RiiltHii's Turkish. 

Dr. Pouqueville tells a lon^ story of a Moaleiii who swallowed corroaive 
Biililimute ill mich quantities that he acciuired the imiiic of ^ySultymaii 
Yeijen," i.e. quoth the Doctor, " Sulyinrut, the inter nf corroaivf suh- 
Ihnnte." "Aha," Ihinlts Mr. Thornton, (aii^ry with the Doctor for the 
(iflieth time,) " Imve 1 caiiRht you .•"' — Then, in b. note twice the thick- 
nen8of the Doctor's anecdote, lie questions the Doctor's proficiency in the 
Turkish tongue, and his veracity in hiii own. — " For," oliservea Mr. 
Tliornlon, (after inflicting on uh the touph particiiile of a Turkish verli,) 
" it means nothini; more than Hulcyman the eater,'' and quite cashieis 
the supplementary ^' snhlwia'e." Now holh arc riRlit, ami hulh are 
wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he next resides " fourteen veai-» in the 
factory," will con.sult his Turkish dicliouiiry, or ask any of fiis Stanilio- 
line arnualntunre, he will discover Ihiit " iiii/m.i/ia'ii i/njcri," put lo- 
Itether discreetly, ineun the " Swnllowrr of nuh/ininle," without any 
'^ is'ulei/mnn" hi the case : " ilului,nia" f:i'j;Milyin'T " cnnoaira sulili- 
mate,' and not heing a proper iiauie ou ihi.s occasion, allliauch it be an 
orthodox name enough with (he addition of n. ;M'ler Mr. Thornton'n 
fre(|uenl jiints of profound i >rientaliH[ii, he loiHlit httve found linn out be- 
fore he saiii; stuli pjeaim over Dr. Pouqueville. 

Alter iIiIh, I think " 'I'ravellers vemua Factors" shall he our motto, 
thoiif;h the above Mr. Thornton hos condemned " hoc Keiius oniiie," lor 
inistaki' and iiiiKicpresi'iilution. " N« Kuior ultra rii pidaui," " No 
merchant beyond his bales." N. B. For the beiielU of Mr. Thornton, 
" Sulor'' i« not apiopernHmc. 

G 



policy, have been amply punished by three centuries and 
a half of captivity. 

III. 

Athens^ Franciscan Convent, Mar. 17, 1811. 
" I nuiEl have some talk with this learred Theban." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
this city, I received the thirty-first number of the Edin- 
burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this 
distance an acceptable one, from the captain of an 
Enghsh frigate off Salamis. In that number. Art. 3. 
containing the review ofia French translation of Strabo, 
there are introduced some remarks on the modern 
Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On 
those remarks I mean to cround a few observations, 
and the spot where I now write will I hope be suff.cient 
excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
connected with the subject. Coray, the most cele- 
brated of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was 
born at Scio, (in the Review Smyrna is stated, I have 
reason to think, incorrectly,) and, besides the transla- 
tion of Beccaria and other works mentioned by the 
Reviewer, has published a lexicon in Romaic and 
French, if I may trust the assurance of some Danish 
travellers lately arrived from Paris ; But the latest we 
have seen here in French and Greek is that of Gregory 
Zolikogloou.* Coray has recently been involved in 
an unpleasant controversy w'nh M. Gail,t a Parisian 
com.mentator and editor of some translations from the 
Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute having 
awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates 
"Ilcpt {i(5aT-a)v," &c. to the disparagement, and conse- 
quently displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions 
literary and patriotic great praise is undoubtedly due, 
but a part of that praise ought not to be withheld from 
the two bfothers Zosimado, (merchants settled in Leg- 
horn,) who sent him to Paris, and maintained him for 
the express purpose of elucidating the ancient, and 
adding to the modern, researches of his countrymen. 
Coray, however, is not considered by his countrymen 
equal to some who lived in the two last centuries ; more 
particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks that 
Meletius terms him, " Msra tuv QovKvSiSpv Kai Htvo- 
(j>u)VTa apiaros 'EWr/voiv" (P. 224. Ecclesiastical His- 
tory, vol. iv.) 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenellc, 
and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more 
particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in 
Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. 
The lasi-menlioncd has published in Romaic and Latin 
a work on " True Happiness,'' dedicated to Catherine 
II. But Polyzois, who is stated by the Reviewer to 
be the only modern except Coray who has distin- 
guished himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be 
the Polyzois Lampanilziotes of Yaniiia, who has pub- 
lished a number of editions in Romaic, was neither 
more nor less than an itinerant vender of books ; with 
the contents of which ho had no concern beyond his 
name on the title-page, placed there to secure" his pro- 
perty in the publication ; and he was, moreover, a man 
utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. As the 
name, however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois 
may have edited the E])istles of Arisla'-netus. 

It is to be refjrcttetl that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
I he Greeks received their publications, particularly Ve- 
nice and Trieste. Even tlie common "rammars for 
children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their originTil works the Geography of INlele- 
tiuK, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theolo- 
gical quartos and poetical |)aniphlets, are to be met 



• I have In uiy posM ssjon nn excellrnt Lexicon •" Tjiiy 
I received In exchnu';e fiom S.t< — , K»q. for n smnii gem : my nntiquA- 
rian friends Imve m vi i- foi yotlen it, or forgiven me. 

t In Call's paniph.hl a"ain«t Cornv. he talks of " thiowinjUhe insolent 
IIilkMilstu nut of the « M„;,,u ., ■' . i„ il.i, a French critic excl«im«. "Ah, 
inydud! throw nn I ihe window I what sncrilevr I" It 

crrtninly wuiiUI bo a : .r ihoae unthorn who dwrll In tlir 

aillc* ! but I hnve <p , uierely to prove the ilmilarity ol' 

style among thn couii<'>i < ^iiummm oi all puliahed rnunlriei ; lioiulou or 
Kduibuigh could hardly parnilcl this JhrrUian cbuUlilou. 



60 



NOTES TO PUlhDE HAROLD. 



with ; their grammars and lexicons of two^ three, and 
four languages, are numerous and excellent. Their 
poetry is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have 
lately seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, 
English, and French traveller, and the Waywode of 
Wallachia, (or Blackbey, as they term him,) an arch- 
bishop, a merchant, and Cogia Bachi, (or primate,) in 
succession ; to all of whom under the Turks the writer 
attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs are 
sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally 
unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the best is the famous 
" Aevre izaUts rdv 'EXAjyvwv," by the unfortunate Riga. 
But from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now 
before me, only fifteen can be found who have touched 
on any theme except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangements, if 

f»ossible, for printing in London a translation of Barthe- 
emi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other oppor- 
tunity, unless he despatches the MS. to Vienna by the 
Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at 
Hecatonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebas- 
tiani : he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali ; a town 
on the continent, where that institution for a hundred 
students and three professors still exists. It is true 
that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, 
under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were con- 
structing a fortress instead of a college : but on inves- 
tigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, 
it has been permitted to continue. The principal pro- 
fessor, named Ueniamin, (i.e. Benjamin,) is stated to be 
a man of talent, but a freethinker. He was born in 
Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, Latin, 
and some Frank languages ; besides a smattering of th 
sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this 
topic than may allude to the article in question, I cannot 
but observe that the Reviewer's lamentation over the 
fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it 
with these words : " !Z'/ie change is to be attributed to 
their misfortunes rather than to any ^physical degrada- 
tion.^ " It may be true that the Greeks are not physi- 
cally degenerated; and that Constantinople contained, 
on the day when it changed masters, as many men of 
six feet and upwards as in the hour of prosperity ; but 
ancient history and modern politics instruct us that 
something more than physical perfection is necessary 
to preserve a state in vigour and independence ; and the 
Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy example of the 
near connexion between moral degradation and national 
decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan " we believe" by 
Potemkin for the purification of tne Romaic, and I have 
endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of 
its existence. There v/as an academy in St. Peters- 
burgh for the Greeks ; but it was suppressed by Paul, 
and has not been revived by his successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip 
of the pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh Review, 
where these words occur : — "We are told that when the 
capital of the East yielded to Solyman'^ — It may be pre- 
sumed that this last word will, in a future edition, be 
altered to Mahomet II.* The " ladies of Constantinople," 
it seems, at that period spoke a dialect, " which would 
not have disgraced the hps of an Athenian." I do not 
know how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
in general, and the Athenians in particular, are much 
altered ; being far from choice either in their dialect or 



* In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is observed : 
' Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might 
have learned lh!\t pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet 
means & fiddle." Q,nery,— "Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen 
of the Kdinburgh Review learned that Solyman means Mahomet II. any 
more than criticism means infalWiility ? — but thus it is, 

" Caidimus inque vicem prabemns crura sagittis." 
The mistake seenied so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great simi- 
larity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the former 
pages of the literary leviathan) that I should have passed it over as in the 
text, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exul- 
tation on all such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and 
■yllnbles are subjects of disquisition and tranaposiUon ; and the above- 
mentioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me to 
hint how much easier it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, 
having enjoyed many a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge 
me a slight ovation for the preseitt. 



expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to a 
proverb : 

" SI K6i]va Ti port] %ti)j)a 
Tt yaiSapovs rpe^eis ruipaP 
In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence : — 
" The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, 
though the compositions of the church and palace some- 
times affected to copy the purity of the Attic models." 
Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult 
to conceive that the "ladies of Constantinople," in the 
reign of the last Caesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna 
Comnena wrote three centuries before : and those royal 
pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, 
although the princess y\wTTav tix^v AKPIBilS Attiki- 
^ovaav. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek 
is spoken : in the latter there is a flourishing school 
under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who is 
making a tour of observation through Greece : he is 
intelligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner 
of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the 
spirit of inquiry is not dormant among the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author of 
the beautiful poem " Horee lonicae," as qualified to give 
details of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, 
and also of their language : but Mr, Wright, though a 
good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where 
he states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- 
mate nearest to the Hellenic : for the Albanians speak 
a Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aber- 
deenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where, 
next to the Fanal, the Greek is purest,) although 
the capital of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania 
but Epirus ; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper, 
up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen, (beyond which I did 
not advance,) they speak worse Greek than even the 
Athenians. I was attended for a year and a half by twa 
of these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is 
Illyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen 
(whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount 
of twenty thousand in the army of Vely Pacha) praised 
for their Greek, but often laughed at for their provincial 
barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
among which some from the Bey of Corinth, written 
to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the 
dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea, (which last 
governs in Vely Pacha's absence,) are said to be favour- 
able specimens of their epistolary style. I also received 
some at Constantinople from private persons, written 
in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique 
character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the 
tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 
59) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own 
language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less 
likely to understand the ancient Greek, because he is per- 
fect master of the modern ! This observation follows a 
paragraph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study 
of the Romaic, as " a powerful auxiliary," not only to 
the traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the clas- 
sical scholar ; in short, to every body except the only 
person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its uses ; 
and by aparity of reasoning, our old language is conjec- 
tured to be probably more attainable by " foreigners," 
than by ourselves ! Now I am inclined to think, that a 
Dutch Tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon 
blood) would be sadly perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," 
or any other given " Auchinleck MS." with or without 
a grammar or glossary ; and to most apprehensions it 
seems evident that none but a native can acquire a 
competent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete 
idioms. We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, 
but no more believe him than we do Smollett's Lisma- 
hago, who maintains that the purest English is spoken 
in Edinburgh. That Coray may err is very possible ; 
but if he does, the fault is in the man rather than in his 
mother tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest 
aid to the native student. — Here the Reviewer pro- 
ceeds to business on Strabo's translators, and here I 
close my remarks. 
Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



61 



Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole, 
and many others now in England, have all the requisites 
to furnish details of this fallen people. The few obser- 
vations I have offered I should have left where I made 
them, had not the article in question, an.d above all the 
spot where I read it, induced me to advert to those 
pages, which the advantage of my present situation 
enabled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have endeavoured to wave the personal feelings, 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part 
of the Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish to conciliate 
the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance 
of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from 
a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- 
ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more 
particularly at this distance of time and place. 

ADDITIONAI, NOTE, ON THE TURKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been 
much exaggerated, or rather have considerably dimi- 
nished of late years. The Mussulmans have been 
beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to 
voyagers. 

It IS hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks 
and Turkey ; since it is possible to live among them 
twenty years without acquiring information, at least 
from themselves. As far as my own slight experience 
carried me I have no complaint to make ; but am in- 
debted for many civilities, (I might almost say for 
friendship,) and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son 
Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of higti 
rank in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor 
of Athens, and now of Thebes, was a bon vwant, and as 
social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
table. During the carnival, when our English party 
were masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more happy to " receive masks" than any dowager in 
Grosvenor-square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his 
friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried 
from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christen- 
dom ; while the worthy Waywode himself triumphed 
in his fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever 
found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
In transacting business with them, there are none of 
those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, 
difference of exchange, commission, &c. &c. uniformly 
found in applyir.g to a Greek consul to cash bills, even 
on the first houses in Pcra. 

With regard to presents, an established custom in 
the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as one 
worth acceptance is generally returned by another of 
similar value — a horse, or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers 
are formed in the same school with those of Christiani- 
ty ; but there does not exist a more honourable, friendly, 
and high-spirited character than the true Turkish pro- 
vincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It is not 
meant here to designate the governors of towns, but 
those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess 
lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece and 
Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the 
rabble in countries with greater pretensions to civiliza- 
tion. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country- 
towns, would be more incommoded in England than a 
Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regimentals 
arc the best travelling dress. 

The best accovmts of the religion, and difTorcnt sects 
of Islamism, may be found in D'Ollison's French; of 
their manners, &c. perhaps in Thornton's English. The 
Ottomans, with all their defects, arc not a people to he 
despised. Equal, at least, to flic Spanianls, they arc 
superior to the Portuguese. If it be diflicult to pro- 
nounce what they are, wo can at least say what they 
are not : they are 71.0/ treacherous, they are not cowardly, 
they do not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor 
has an enemy advanced to their capital. They are 
faithful to their sultan till ho becomes unfit to f,'overn, 
and devout to their God without an in<|uisilion. Were 



they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French 
or Russians enthroned in their stead, it would become 
a question, whether Europe would gain by the exchange ? 
England would certainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are so 
generally, and sometimes justly accused, it may be 
doubted, always excepting France and England, in 
what useful points of knowledge they are excelled by 
other nations. Is it in they^ommon arts of life ? In 
their manufactures ? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a 
Toledo ? or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed 
and taught, than a Spaniard '/ Are their Pachas worse 
educated than a Grandee ? or an EflFendi than a Knight 
of St. Jago ? I think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in 
the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now this 
question from a boy of ten years old proved that his 
education had not been neglected. It may be doubted 
if an English boy at that age knows the difference of the 
Divan from a College of Dervises ; but I am very sure 
a Spaniard does not. How httle Mahmout, surrounded, 
as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, had 
learned that there was such a thing as a Parliament it 
were useless to conjecture, unless we suppose that his 
instructors did not confine his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended ; and the poor are 
taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
peril. I believe the system is not yet printed ; (though 
there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books 
printed on the late military institution of the Nizam 
Gedidd ;j nor have I heard whether the Mufti and the 
Mollas nave subscribed, or the Caimacam and the 
Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenious youth 
of the turban should be taught not to " pray to God 
their way." The Greeks also — a kind of Eastern Irish 
papists — have a college of their own atMaynooth — no, 
at Haivali; where the heterodox receive much the 
same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as the 
Catholic college from the English legislature. Who 
shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant bigots, 
when they thus evince the exact proportion of Christian 
charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous and 
orthodox of all possible kingdoms? But, though they 
allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to partici- 
pate in their privileges; no, let them fight their battles, 
and pay their haratcn, (taxes,) be drubbed in this world, 
and damned in the next. And shall we then eman- 
cipate our Irish Helots ? Mahomet forbid ! We should 
then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Christians ; at 
present we unite the best of both — Jesuitical faith, and 
something not much inferior to Turkish toleration. 



APPENDIX. 

Among an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
course to foreign presses even for their books of reli- 
gion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so few 
])ublications on general subjects than that we find any 
at all. The whole number of the Greeks, scattoreH 
up and down the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may 
amount, at most, to three millions ; and yet, for so 
scanty a number, it is impossible to discover any nation 
with so great a proportion of books and their authors, 
as the Greeks of the i>resent century. "Ay," but say 
the gen<'rous advocates of oppression, who, while they 
assert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent 
tlxun from dispelling it, "av, but these are mostly, if not 
all, eerlesiastieal tracts, and consequenllv good lor no- 
thing." Well, and pray vvhat else can they write about ? 
It is pleasant enough to lu-ar a Frank, partieulaily an 
Englishman, who may abuse the govenuuent ofhisown 
country ; or a Frenchman, who may abuse every govern- 
ment except his own, and who may range at will over 
every philosophical, religious, scientific, skeptical, or 
moral subject, sneering at the Greek legends. A Greek 



52 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



i! 



must not write on politics, and cannot touch on science 
for want of instruction ; if he doubts, he is excommu- 
nicated and damned ; therefore his countrymen are not 
poisoned with modern philosophy ; and as to morals, 
thanks to the Turks ! there are no such things. What 
then is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling ? Reli- 
gion, and holy biography : and it is natural enough that 
those who have so little in this life should look to the 
next. It is no great wonder then that in a catalogue 
now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, many of 
whom were lately living, not above fifteen should have 
touched on any thing but religion. The catalogue al- 
luded to is contained in the twenty-sixth chapter of the 
fourth volume of Meletius's Ecclesiastical History. 
From this I subjoin an extract of those who have writ- 
ten on general subjects ; which willl TSe followed by 
some specimens of the Romaic. 



LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS.^ 

Neophitus; Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has 
published an extensive grammar, and also some politi- 
cal regulations, which last were left unfinished at his 
death. 

Prokopius, of Moscopolis, (a town in Epirus,) has 
written and published a catalogue of the learned 
Greeks. 

Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works 
in the Turkish language, but Greek character ; for the 
Christians of Cararaania, who do not speak Romaic, but 
read the character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
the tour of England for the purpose of study {xapcv 
HadrjaEws) : but though his name is enumerated, it is 
not stated that he has v.'ritten any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople : 
many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, 
and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of 
Constantinople. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
academy of Warsa,AV. A church biographer. 

Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolits, has written 
many works, particularly "A Commentary on Hesiod's 
Shield of Hercules," and two hundred tales, (of what is 
not specified,) and has published his correspondence 
with the celebrated George of Trebizond, his cotem- 
porary. 

Meletius, a celebrated geographer; andauthor of the 
book from whence these notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : 
his Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is es- 
teemed by the moderns (I quote the words of Meletius) 
fjLerd Tov QovKvbibr]v koi "EsvofujvTa apia-ros ''E.\'Srjv(i)V. 
I add further, on the authority of a well-informed 
Greek, that he was so famous among his countrymen, 
that they were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and 
Xenophon were wanting, he was capable of repairing 
the loss. 

Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, profes- 
sor of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member 
of that academy, and those of Stockholm and Upsal. 
He has published, at Venice, an account of some ma- 
rine animal, and a treatise on the properties of iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 
He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on 
which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. 
See the dissertation which he published in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantino has published a four-tongued 
lexicon. 

George Ventote ; a lexicon in French, Italian, and 
Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and 
Romaic, French, &c. besides grammars in every mo- 
dern language, except English. 

Among the living authors the following are most 
celebrated : — t 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric 
in Hellenic. 



Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has pubUshed, in Vi- 
enna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- 
lator of Fontenelle's" Plurality of Worlds," (a favourite 
work amongst the Greeks,) is stated to be a teacher of 
the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris j in both 
of which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhe- 
toric. 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written "e/s 
TO (itaoSdpSapov" on logic and physics. 

John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated into 
French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be an 
excellent Hellenist, and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geogra- 
phical work : he has also translated several Italian au- 
thors, and printed his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has been already 
given. 



3 



* It is to be observed, that the names given are not in chronological 
order, but consist of some selecteJ at a venture from among those who 
flourished from the taking of Constantinople to the lime of Meletius. 

t These names are not lakeu from an publication. 



GREEK WAR SONG.* 
1. 

AEY'TE, TTaih? twv 'EXXjJi/wi/ ' 

6 Koipos Trig So^TJi ^X0£J', 
as (i>av<x)H£V ci^ioi ktctivwy 

TTOV jxai 6(iicrav rj)v apxvv ' 
^Ag iraT/iffOfjiev avSpeicas 

TOV ^vybv Trig TvpavviSos- 
'JS.KSiKria(iip.Ev TraTpiSos 

Kad' oveihog alaxpov. 

Ta oTiXa ug \d6wfxev 

ira^Seg 'KWyjvwv aywuev ' 

TtoTajxihwv ixdpoJv to alfxa 
&g Tpt^r] vnb irohoiv. 



"OQev eJaOe rwv 'EW^vuv 

kSkkuXu aviptiofjiiva, 
TTvtvfxaTa ecKopTna/xeva, 

TU)pa XdStTE TTVorjv ; 
^(TTT]v (pwvfjv TTjg coXtti^kSs fiov \ 

cvvaxOi'/TE oXa hixov ' 
Trjv iiTToXocpov ^/7r£tr£, 

Kai vikcLte -pb -rravTov. 

Ta onXa ug XdSunev, &C. 
3. 
JlTrdpTa, llTTdpTa, ti KoifiacOe 

VTTVov Xydapyov (3a6vv \ 
^virvrjcov Kpa^e 'AOrjvas 

c{)jXHaXOV TTaVTOTElv/jV. 

^EvBvixeidrjTe Aeovvidov 

ripwog TOV ^ukogtov, 
TOV avlpbg eTTaivefxivov 

<po6tpou Kal Tpo/xepov. 

Td bnXa ug XdSwixev, &C. 
4. 
'O TTOV tig Tag QepixoirvXas 

TrbXefxav avTbg KpoTE7, 
Kot Tovg Tlfpaag dj>avi^£i 

KO^ avTU)v KaTci KpaTcl' 
MiTpiaKocxiovg avSpag 

tig TO KEVTpoV 7rp($%a)j3£t, 

KoX o)g Xiojv Qv^iWjXEvog, 
ds TO aiixa tGjv ^ovteI. 

Td '6i:Xa ug Xd6u)ixev, &C. 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Pwffo-uj, "AyKXog, Kai TdXXog KdfxvovTEg t>)v vEpifiyrimv 
Trig 'EXXa^o?, Koi (iXii:ovTEg ti]v aOXiav Trjv KaTor- 
CTaffiv, EtoiioTricav KUTopx^^S Eva TpaiKov (fnXiXXtjva 
6id vii fxaOovv r>)v ahiav, jxet avTov 'iva iiriTpo- 
TToXiTriv, eItu Eva PXdxfJtTTEiv, EireiTa 'iva Trpayna- 
TEVTTiv, Kai 'iva irpoEaTuJTa. 



A translation of this song ■will be found among the smaller Poems, in 
:e 185. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



53 



KaLTt)V aTrapiyopriTov tC)v Tovok(i)v Tvpavviav^^ 
TTWf Toig ^v\a7s Kal vCipianovs kul ffr/drinoSeaixiay 
iraiSiov, irapShuyv, yvvaiKU)v avvKovaTOV (jjOopelaV, 
Aiv tJd^ai hel? aTzoyovoL tKdvwv rdv 'EAXjyvoJV 
Twv {\cvdipo}v Kai (xocpdv Kal tGv ^iXoTiaTp'i6o)v " 
KoX -Tw? tKclvoi dzidvndKOv 6ia Tr]v iXcvOcpiav, 
Kai Tupa ftrets vTzovKSKrOai. els riroiav rvpavviav, 
Kai TTolov yivoi w? iads itfTdOt] (pwriajxhov ^ 
th Ti)v (TO^piav, ()vvanni', clg k' oXa ^aKovajxevov ' 
rws vvv eKaraarijcrare t))v (pwrtvrjv 'EWdSa. 
Pa6a ! ws ha aKiXtdpov, wj aKortivnv XainrdSav . 
'OixiXti, (plXraTt TpaiKi, chi ixas rfiv alriav: 
ut) Kpvirrrjs Thorrn i'uxGJv, \6£ Tt]v diropiav. 



'O $IAE'AAHN0S. 

'Tcocra-ayKXo-yaWoi, 'EXXaf, KaiSxi aXXoi, 

rjrov, ws XfTE, t6(tov fieydXr], 

vvv (Jf dOXta, Kai dva^ia 

d(j>^ (pov cpx('cr£J' ); dy.aOia. 

har riixiiOpovaav vd tiiv ^vrrvfiar] 

TOVT^ th TO Xtipov Tijv bSrjyniJai 

avrfi CTSvd^ei rd TtKva Kpd^ec,^ 

ct6 va irpoKdirrovv bXa irpoaTaC^ei 

Kai t6t£ iX-rri^Ei otl KcpSi^ei. 

chpuv, birov '%££ vvv Tr)v (pXcyiC^ei 

Ma" barii ToXpiar) va t)]v ^v~vrjcT] 

■ndycL arbv d6r]v xwp'f ^iva Kpiciv. 

The a.bove Is the commencement of a long ramaiic 
satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry ; it 
is contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curious 
as a specimen of their rhyme : I have the whole in 
MS. but this extract will be found sufficient. The 
Romaic in this composition is so easy as to render a 
version an insult to a scholar ; but those who do not 
understand the original will excuse the following bad 
translation of what is in itself indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchrnan making the 
tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of 
the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to 
learn the cause ; afterwards an Archbishop, then 
a Vlackbey,* a Merchant, and Cogia Bachi or 
Primate. 

Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 

Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord? 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd, 

The wrongs of tlie matron, the stripling, and maid? 

The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye! 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from tlic blood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave ! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 

Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost ! 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour, 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and j)owcr! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase, 

Oh shameful dishonour ! the darkness of Greece ? 

Then tell us, beloved Aclia;cn ! reveal 

The cause of the woes wliich you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Phileilenist I have not translated, 
as it is no better than the question of the travelling tri 
umvirate ; and the above will sufHciontly show with 
what kind of composition the Greeks arc now satisfied 
I trust I have not much injured the original in the few 
lines given as faithfully, and as near tho 

"Oh, MisB Bailey! unforlunalo Miss Diiilcy!" 

measure of the Romaic, as I could make tlicni. Almost 
all their pieces, above a song, which aspire to thi^ name 
of poetry, contain exactly the quantity of feet of 

•'A captnln lioUl of Halifax, who lived in coiinliy qimrtors," 



which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the 
Romaic. 



SCENE FROM 'O KA$ENE2. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI, 
BY SPERIDION VLANTI. 

SKHNH KF'. 

IIAATZIAA £/j T>)v irdprav tov x^viov, Kai ol avu^ev. 

IIAA. ii Qeel diru to irapaQvpi nov l(pdvv vd aKoiaut 
rrjv (l)wvi]v tov dvhpog {xov ' dv avTog civai f(5w, 'dcpOaca a^ 
Kaipbv vd TOV ^evTpo-idau}. [Evyaivti evag SovXos dird 
TO tpyatJTi'ipi.'] UaXiKapi-ig jxov c£ irapaKaXSi ttoios ehai 
iKc7 eh fKEivovs Tovs dvTdSeg ; 

AOTA. TfEt? xP'/o"'/"" avSpe?. "Evas b Kvp Eiymo?, 
h dXXos b Kvp MdoTios NairoXLTdvos, Kai b rptVoj 6 KiJp 
K6vTe AiavSpos ^ApSevTris- 

PA A. {^Avdixe(Ta eh avTovs Sev elvai b ^Xaixiviog^ Sv 
ojiws Sev dXXa^ev dvofia.) 

AEA. Nd ^1] 1} KaXn Tix^Tov Kvp Elyevlov. [Ut- 
v(i)VTas-] 

OAOI. Nm ^77, va i^fj. 

IIAA. (AvTos tlvai b avhpas fiov %wp£S aXXo.) KaX2 
dvOpoiTre Kdfxe fj.ov Ti)v %ap(i^ vd jie avvTpo<pevcrr]s dirdvSi 
eh avTovs TOVS dfevTdieSi o-qv ^iXw vd roiis nai^o) fi[av» 
[Upbs Tuv ^ovXov-] 

AOT. 'Opiafids cas' {ovvrjOiciJiivov 6(p<plKiov rSv 
6ov\evTwv.) [T>)v iiiitd^ei and Tb tpyactTrjpi tov naiyvi- 
Siov.] 

PIA. KapSid, KapSid, Kdixere KaXi)v Kap6idv, Sh etvai 

TlTTOTeS. [Upbs TtjV BiTTdpiav.] 

BIT. 'EyCi ahOdvoixai nws aireOaivii' [Hvvepxerai 
eh Tbv iavTdv Trts.\ 

['AttJ Td vapdBvpa Tutv ovTdSmv (palvovTai 8\oij 
OTTOv (rrjKovwvTai d-rrb to Tpaire^i crvyXK^IJ^ivoi, 
6id TUV ^acpvKTjxbv tov AedvSpov pXfirwvTas 
T^v UXuT^iSa, Kai SiaTi avTbg Seixvei irGs 
^iXei vd Ti)v (povevcjT).] 

EYr. "Oxf, cTaOnTe. 

MAP. Mnv KaixveTe. . . 

AEA. Sf'/cw, (l>{)ye an-' fJw. 

IIAA. 'BorjOeia., ^o/jOeia. [^eiyei dirb ty'v cKaXav, b 
AiavSpos •SfXet vd t)]v uKoXovOtjcrr] fxe rd atraOi, Kai b Eiy. 
Tbv (3a(7Td.^ 

TPA. [Mi eva -niaTO /if ^ayi eh l^iav ner^tTa ittiS$ 
d-rrb Tb napaSvpt, Kai (^evyei eh Tbv Ka(pev€,] 

IIAA. [Evyalvet dnb rb IpyaaT/jpi tov iraiyviSiotf 
Tpix<^vTas, Kai (j>tuyei eh Tb ;\;«i'«-] 

EYr. [Mi dpnaTa eh Tb %fp£ irpbs SiacpivTevffiv Trjs 
UXdr^iSaS) tvavTiov tov Aedv^pov, ottw r>)v Kararpt'xet.] 

MAP. [Evyaivei Kai avTog ciyd aiyd dnb Tb ipya- 
(jTt'ipt, Kai (pevyei XfywirajJ Riynores luge. ['PovixSpes 
(j)ovye.]* 

Ol AotJXot. ['Airb Tb epyaar^pi airepvovv th rd )(^dvi, 
Kai KXeiovv t^jv Trdprav.] 

BIT. [Mfi'ft th Tbv Ka(ptvi ^orjOrmivr) dirb Tbv 'Pt- 
^(5X(6ov.] 

AEA. ASceTC tSttov' ^iXwpivd £fx6(o vd cfiSu) eh 
iKuvo Tb Yurt. [Mf Tb (rraOi eh Tb x« ' ivavrlov tov 
Evyev[ov.\ 

EYr. "Ox'j ixi) yivoiTo iroTt etaai evas crXrjpdKapSoi 
IvavTiov tT]s yvvaiK6s trov, Kai eyd ^iXei ti'/v iia^evTtiau) 
ws eh Tb vcTTCpov alixa. 

AEA. Soil Ka^vu) opKov irtSj SiXei Tb ^tTavoiuxrjjS. 
[Ktvrjyqi Tbv Klyiviov /uf to airaOl.] 

EYr. Afv fff (poGovftat. [KaTarpf'xc* Tbv Aiav^poVy 
Kai Tbv (iidX^ei vd ffvpOfi itrldui Tdaov, bnov tvp((TK(i)vTds 
uvoiKTov Tb anTiTi tTjs x^P^^Tpitis iftSalvei th avrb, xal 
(TdivtTai.] 

TRANSLATION. 

Platzitla from the Door of the Hotel, and the Others. 

Pla. Oh God! from the window it seemed llint I 
heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I liave arrived 
in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant enttrs front 



VlncVlipy, Princo of Wttllucliia. 



Atiyoj Xonvi/cdj, 6iro« S{\nvA iIt»- <>ivyi rorj (rf'V\i«j. 



64 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those 
chambers. 

Serv. Three gentlemen: one, Signer Eugenio; the 
other, Signor Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the third, 
my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

Pla. Flaminio is not among these, unless he has 
changed his name. 

Leander. [Within drinking.] Long live the good 
fortune of Signor Eugenio. 

[The whole Company, Long live, &c.] (Literally, 
Na ^J7, vd ^fj, May he live.) 

Pla. Without 'doubt that is my husband, [To the 
Serv.] My good man, do me the favour to accompany 
me above to those gentlemen ; I have some business. 

Serv. At your commands. [Aside.] The old office 
of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gaming- House.] 

Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the stage.] 
Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him 
as if fainting.] 

[From the windows above all within, are seen rising 
from table in confusion : Leander starts at the 
sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures to 
threaten her life. 

Eugenio. No, stop 

Martio. Don't attempt 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 
P/a. Help! Help! [Flies down the stairs, 'Led.nAer 
attempting to follow with his sword, Eugenio flinders 
him.] 

[Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony 
from the window, and runs into the Coffee-House.] 

[Platzida runs out of the Gaming-House, and takes 
shelter in the Hotel.] 

[Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-House, and 
goes off, exclaiming "Rumores fuge." The Servants 
from the Gaming-House enter the Hotel, and shut the 
door.] 

[Victoria remains in the Coffee-House assisted by 
Ridolpho.] 

[Leander sword in hand opposite Eugenio exclaims. 
Give way — I will enter that hotel.] 

Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- 
drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop 
of my blood. 

Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Me- 
nacing with his sword.] 

Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander, and 
makes him give back so much, that finding the door of the 
dancing girVs house open, Leander escapes through, and 
so finishes.] * 



A6yia l^wTiKa, ^ aydirrjs. 
Zwrj fxov. 

'AKpiSrj jxov ^vxh' 
'AyairriTi jxov, aKpiSi /xov. 
KapSir(,a jiov. 
^Aydnr] jxov. 



Affectionate expressions. 

My life. 
My dear souL 
My dear. 
My heart. 
My love. 



Aid vd evxapicrr^cTvg, vd Ka- To thank, pay compliments^ 
firji TrepiiToirjaes, Kai ^iXi- and testify regard. 
Kals Se^iwaeS' 

'Eyw (Tag evxapiiTTw. I thank you. 

Saj yvo)piZ,(ji) %ap£v. I return you thanks. 

SSf elfxai iiToxpsos Kara I am much obliged to you. 
TToXXa. 

'Eyw -SAo) rd Kafxei ixerd I will do it with pleasure. 

Xapds. 
Me dX)]V inov TTiv KapSiav. 



Ml KaX^v ixov Kap6iav. 
Saj eJfxat VTzdxpsos- 
E('//ai bXo{ eiiKog aag. 
Eijjiai SovXos (rag. 
TaireivoraTog SovXog. 



With all my heart. 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to you. 

I am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Your most humble servant. 



AIA'AOrOI OI'KIAKOI. Familiar Dialogues. 
Ata vd ^TjTijcrris ha irpdyixa. To ask for any thing. 
2af •jrapaKaXw, Sdaeri he av I pray you, give me if you 



^iperi jie. 
Aavdctri ^s. 
YLriyaivtre vd ^r)rriatT£. 
Twpa thQhg. 



please. 
Bring me. 
Lend m.e. 
Go to seek. 
Now directly. 



ii dKpiU jiov Ki'p(£, KdntTs My dear Sir, do me this 

fieavrfiv rriv xa'ptv. favour. 

'Eyw cdg -irapaKaKib. I entreat you. 

'Eyw adg i^opKtZ,u}. I conjure you. 

|Eyw Gag^ to ^j/rw 6id X"-9^v. I ask it of you as a favour. 
'Tiroxpeuxxtri yn dg roaov. Oblige me so much. 



1 .• f .r^ir "!"='>«?, '—awkwardly enough, but it is the literal trans- 
lation of the Romaic. The onginal of this comedy of Goklonl's 1 n^ver 
read, but it does not appear one of his best. " II Bugiardo" is one of the 
most lively; but I do not think it has been translated into Romaic • it is 
much more amusmg than our own " Liar," by Foote. The character of 
Leho IS better drawn than Young Wilding. Goldoni's comedies amount 
to fifty ; some perhaps the best in Europe, and others the worst His life 
U also one of the best specimens of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has 
observed, " more dramatic than any of his plays." The above scene 
was selected as containing some of the most familiar Romaic idioms not 
for any wit which it displays, since there is more done than said the 
:5reater part consisting of stage directions. The original is one of the few 
"^e^e? by Goldoni which is without the bufloonery of the speaking 



E7o-T£ Kard-KoWdivysviKbg. You are too obliging 
lioWd rreipd^ecde. You take too much trouble. 

To £x« Sid x'^P'^v f 0^ '"'^ ^ ^^'^® ^ pleasure in serv- 

rdg 6o\ei)(T(i). ing you. 

E7(rT£ EvyeviKdg Kal tvizpoarj- You are obliging and kind. 

yopog. 
Avrb elvai Trpi-jrov. That is right. 

Tt HXiTt ; tX bpi^ers; What is your pleasure? 

What are your commands? 
'Eag irapaKaXS) vd juc fisTa- I beg you will treat mo 

X£tpi(,£a^de eXevdtpa. freely. 

Xtopig irepnroiTjdeg. Without ceremony. 

Edg dya-rru) i^ bXrjg fiov Kap- I love you with all ray heart. 

6iag. 
Kal eyu) buSiag. And I the same. 

TipiacTe ix£ Ta7g Trpocraya7g Honour me with your com- 

cag. mands. 

"Ex£T£ TiTToreg vd fxs Trpoa- Have you any commands 

Td^ere ; for me ? 

Ylpoard^eTt rbv SovXov cag. Command your servant. 
Ilpoo-yuf vw Taj irpocraydg Gag. I wait your commands. 
Ml KdnvtTt ficydXriv Tijirjv. You do me great honour. 
^Odvovv fj Tiepiiroirjaeg crag Not so much ceremony I 

liUpaKaXSi. beg. 

UpoaKwrjaere eKjAipovg fiov Present my respects to the 

Tov apxovra, tj rbv K6piov. gentleman, or his lordship. 
BeBaiuxieTe rbv Trwg rbv evdv- Assure him of my remem- 

ixovfxai. brance. 

BeSaidoacTE rbv ttSj rbv Assure him of my friend- 

dyand. ship. 

Aiv -SAcij Xeixpet va tov rb I will not fail to tell him of 

CtTTW. it. 

TLpoaKw^liara iig t))v dp- My compliments to her 

X^vTiGaav. ladyship. 

n>7yat v£r£ enxpoaQd Kal cdg Go before, and I will follow 

aKoXovOu). you. 

^H^Evpu) KaXd rb xp^os fiov. I well know my duty. 
'H|£i;pw TO zlvai jxav. I know my situation. 

Ml KdnvETt vd ivrpitroiiiai You confound me with SO 

fxl ralg T6Gaig (piXo^poai)- much civility. 

vaig aag. 
OiXeTE Xonrbv vd KdyLW jjiiav Would you have me then 

dpx^ioTVra ; be guilty of an incivility? 

'Yirdyd) iixnpocdd Sid vd adg I go before to obey you. 

hnaKovGU). 
Aid vd Kdixit) Ti)v TTpocTTayrjv To comply with your com- 
mas, mand. 
Atv dyaTTU) rdaaig Trtpinoit]- I do not like so much cere- 

aeg. mony. 

Aev elixai areXetus irepiiroi- I am not at all ceremonious. 

rjTiKog. 
Avrb tivai rb KoXirepov. This is better. 
T6gov rb KaXirepov. So much the better. 

"Exers Xdyov, sx^rt SUaiov. You are in the right. 

Aid vd ISeSaiwatjg, vd dpvrjO^g To affirm, deny, consent^ 
vd ffvyKarauvGrjg, Kal t|. ^c. 

Ehai dXrjOivbv, thai aXn^i- It is true, it ia very true. 
ararov. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



65 



AiavdarageiTr<x>T^vaX>]deLav To tell you the truth. 

OvT0)s, hlv ^'^vai. Really, it is so. 

TloToi cni(l>i6d\\u ; Who doubts it ? 

Alv thai TToo-wj &ix<i>i6oyia. There is no doubt. 

Ta «<rr£«}w, hh rb iriffTedu). I believe it, I do not believe 

it. 
A/yo) rb vah I say yes. 

Aiyu) TO oxt- I say no. 

BaAXw aTixnua bri elvai. I wager it is. 
BaXAw arixniia bri Sev elvai I wager it is not so. 

Nat, //a Trjv mariv fxov. Yes, by my faith. 

E<j t;)v o-uv£«5>7o-tv yiov. In conscience. 

Mtt rJ7v X^wfiv jxov. By my life. 

Nai, <ra? ^//i/iJw. Yes, I swear it to you 

Saj Ofivviji wadv Te;*J7//fvoff I swear toyou as anhonest 

aVflpwTrof. nian 

25? (5/ii/6a) fTravo) c/f r^i/ I swear to you on my 

Tiix^v jxov. honour. 

Ui(TT£V(TeTe jxt. Believe me. 

'Blxno^S)vdadsTb0tSaiw<y(o. I can assure you of it. 
"HOAa ^a\ri arixviJ^a, bri I would lay what bet you 

■9fXer£ 6id TovTo. please on this. 

M^ Tvxn Kal a(Tr£i^£o-0e Your jest by chance? 

(xoparevere ;) 
'0/xtX£tr£ ^f rd o\a cag ; Do you speak seriously ? 
'Eyw cruj 6//iXw /x£ ra 8Xa I speak seriously to you, 

Hov, Koi ads Xey^ rf]v and tell you the truth. 

a\i']deiav. 



'Eyw ffoj rb ^tSaiwvdi. 

Tb iTrpo(pr]T£6aeTe. 

To iiriTevxcTe. 

Xa? Tucrrevu). 

Ilniirei vd ads viartvaw. 

Avrb 6ev tlvai aSvvarov. 



I assure you of it. 
You have guessed it. 
You have hit upon it. 
I believe you. 
I must believe you. 
This is not impossible. 



To Xoinbv Of £7vni us kuXtiv Then it is very well 

wpav. 
KaXd, KaXd. Well, well. 

Aev thai dXvOivbv. It is not true. 

Elvai xptv6ii. It is false. 

Aiv tivai TiiroTcs airb ahrb. There is nothing of this. 
E7vat 'iva \ptv6os n'la airdTti. It is a falsehood, an impos- 
ture. 
'Eyw aarelC^oiJLOVv (^xopa- ^ ^^^ i" P^^- 

Tcva.) 
'Eyw TO iiira 5id vdytXdau). I said it to laugh. 
TiJ dXrideiq. Indeed. 

M£ dpiati KUTd noXXd. It pleases me much. 

"ilvyKaTaptOo) tU tovto. I agree with you. 

Ai6(j} Ti]v iprj(pov ixov. I give my assent. 

Afv dvTiaTtKoixai tig tovto. I do not oppose this. 
Ei'juat (Tu/z^wvoy, tK aviicpdi)- I agree. 

vov. 
'Eyw Sev 5fXa>. I will not. 

'Eyw ivavTidvoixai th tovto. I object to this. 
Aid vd avix6ovXcv0rjg,vd aTO- To consult, consider, or re- 

XaaO^i, rj vd dTTO<paataiji. solve. 

Ti rrpinti vd Kanmyitv ; What ought we to do? 

Tl Sa Kdjiwutv ; What shall we do ? 

T/ ni aviiSovXtieTt vd Kaiio); What do you advise me to 

do? 
'OttoTov rpSirov &iXoncv nt- What part shall wo take? 

ra;^£(pi(T0fj fijitls , 
""Aj Kdnuintv h^ri. Let us do this. 

E7i/at KuXiTtpov tyui vd It is better that I — 

TlTaOrjTt dXlyov. Wait a little. 

Aev ijOtXev thai KaXtTtpov Would it not bo better 

vd— that— 

'Eyw dyanovTa KaXlrepa. I wish it were better. 
OtX£r£ KUjiti KaXlTtpa av — You will do better if— 
*A.<i)iiatTi lit. Li»t me go. 

'Av tifiovv ch rbv rdtrov traj If I were in your place I — 

EZi-ai rb Uiov. It is the same. 



The reader by the specimens below will be enabled to com- 
jjure the modern with the ancient tongue. 

PARALLEL PA88AGKS FKOM KT. JOIIn's GOSPEL. 

Uiov. Ahlhvriubv. 

KtipdX. d. Ki(pdX. d. 

1. Elil t;> apxt)v ^Tov b \. 'EN upxfl 'T** ^ Xbyog, 



Xdyos' Kal 6 Xoyos vtov ixtTd 
Qtov' Kal Qtog ^tov 6 Xdyos. 

2. "Etovtos tJtov els t^v 
dpx^l^ (i-tTd Qtov. 

3. "OXa [rd irpdyiiara] 
did fiiaov tov [Xdyov] tyivr)- 
Kav, Kal ;\;wf)£ff avTov Sh 
'iyivt Kaviva tiTi tyivt- 

4. Ei'f avTbv fjTov 5<*"V 
Kai f) ^(i)fi rjTov Tb (pSs Tuiv 
dv6pix>K(i}v. 

5. Kal Tb 0WJ tls Tfjv 
aKOTtiav cpiyyti, Kal f) aKo- 
Ttia ch Tb KaToXaSt. 

6. ""Etyivtv tvas avOpuTTos 
OLTTtaTaXixtvos dnb Tbv Qtov, 
rb ovoud tov 'ludvvrjs- 



Kal b Xdyos ^iv Trpbs Tbv Q^v, 
Kal Gfoff rjv b Xoyos. 

2. OvTos ijv iv dp^ij irpbs 
Tbv Qtdv. 

3. ndvTa 61 aiiTov iyi- 
vtTo ' St x'^P'S alTov iyivtTo 
ovSt ev, yiyovtv. 

4. 'Ev aiT{^ ^o)fi ^v, Kal 
f] ^wr; ^v Tb (pds Twv dv0pw- 

TTWV. 

5. Kal Tb (pGs iv tJj aKorlq, 
<paiv£i, Se ^ aKOTia avTb oi 
KaTtXaStv. 

6. ^KyivtTo avOpoiiros aire- 
aTaXfjiivos Trapd Qtov, Svofia 
ahTw 'lu)dvvi^S' 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS, 
FROM.MELETIUS. 

'OPXOMENO^S, Koivws 'EKpnrov, TldXis noTc ttXcv- 
aiUTdTT] Kal laxvp'ji)TdTri, irpdTtpov KaXoviJLtvr] BotoiTiKal 
'Adrjvai, tls TTjv bitoiav ?JTOv b Naof rwv Xaptrwv, tls Tbv 
bitoXov inXijpujvov TtXtj ol QrjBaioi, ovtivos Tb tdacpos 
dvcaKdfdt TTort vnb tCjv ^AairaXdyKwv. 'ETrav^yyOpJ^ov 
tls ai)TfjV TTjv HoXiv Td ^apiTrjaia, tov biroiov 'Aywvos 
tvpov iiTiypafds iv arrjXais tvSov tov KTiaOivTos Naoy iff* 
dvdfiaTri t^j QtoToKov, vtto tov HpuyToanadapiov AiovTOSy 
i-i TTwv BaaiXiwv BaaiXtiov, AiovTos, Kal KwvoravTfvou 
i^ovaas ovtcjs. 'Ev jxtv ti) m^ koivujs- 

" Q'l6e iviKwv TOV dyuiva twv xaptrj/ciwv. 

SaXTTtOT*)?. 

M.rivis 'AttoXXwi/jou '' Avtio-)(^v\)S ai^b MaidvSpov* 

Krjpv^. 
Zwi'Xof Zwi'Xou Ild(pios. 

'Paip(j}6bs. 
Noviirjvios Novixrjviov ^AOrivaloS' 

HoitjTfis iirdv. 
'Ajxrivlas AvuoKXiovs QrjBaloS' 

AvXrjTris. 
'A-rroXXdSoTos ' AitoXXo56tov KpfjS. 

AvXwSog. 
'TddiiTiros 'PoSiTTTrov 'Apyjjof. 

KidapiaTtjs. 
i>avias ^AttoXXoSStov tov 'Paviov AloXtbs dvb Ki;/i1}S« 

Ki6apo)6bs- 
ATJIirJTpios YlapfitilaKov KaXxn^dvios. 

Tpayw(5df. 
'IniroKpdTTis ' ApiaToixivovs "PdSios. 

Kw/iwt^of. 
KaXXiarparos 'E^a/cforoD Qr]6a7os. 

HoitjTris "HaTvpwv. 
'Afitjvlas ArjjjioKXiovs Qn^aTog. 

'XiroKpiTiis- 
AojpdOtos A(j)pod£ov TapavTivbs- 

HoDjTtis Tpayw^twv. 
HoipoKXi'is 'Lo(()OKXiovs 'Adrjvalos- 

'XircKpiTiis. 
KaGtpixoS Qto6u)pov QrjBalos. 

Iloit]Tt}s Kw//w(^iwv. 
^AXi^avSpos ^ApiaTU)vos ^AOrivahS' 

^YiroKpiTfis. 
"ArTrtXof 'AttuXov ^A0r]va7os. 
O'ibe iviKiov rbv v^'minov liywva twv 6uo^a)(i)v. 

nrti<^af avXtjards- 
AiokXi}S KaXXiyn'iSov Of/fiaToj. 

n(j(<^a« ifytn6vas. 
5ItputT»'oj Y^vvIkov Of/fiuToj. 

"AK^pas Ai)X>/T»if. 
AiqkXtis KaXX(/ii'/(^ou Qu^alos. 

"Avfipas fiytfidvas. 
'PdSiinros 'Podiirrrov 'Apytlog- 

Tpriywi^Of. 
'.l-niroKpaTiis 'ApioTO/i/i'ovj 'P<5Jiof. 

Ktojuo(\)s- 
KaXXlarpiiros AilaKiarov On^aloS' 

T<J iiriiUia. 
Kw^wi^dLi' llo»»7Ti>s. 
'AX/(av(^pos 'Apitrr/wvoj 'AOtivaios" 



56 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



'El/ Ss Tfj irep^ SupiKuiS' 

" Mvaaivo) a^xovro? aycovoderlovTug rbv 
Xapireia-Lov, Evapioaru) -kolvtwv 8s rvh fViKditrav r<J 
XapirdTia. 

H.akTnyKTai. 
^lXivo? ^iXiviji 'Addvsiog. 

Kdfiov^. 
Ef'pw^aj "EwKparios QeiBcios. 

no£tr«f. 
MijaTiop MrjaTopog ^WKaievs- 

'Fa^a£vSdg. 
KpccTcov KXiwvos QeiSeioS' 

AvXeiras. 
Uepiyeveis 'UpaicXciSao Kov^iKrjvbs. 

AvAaevobs. 
AajxfivtToi T\avKU) "Apytoj. 

YLiQapicTTag. 
Ad-iiaTpos 'A//a/\w(j AloXevs airb MovpivaS' 

TpayaevSbs- 
^AcKXanidScopos Hovdedo TapavTivbS' 

NiKdffTpaTos 'J'LXociTpdTo) 6ei6eios, 
Td eniviKEia Kwixaev6bg. 
^vap'^og 'RpoSoTO) Kopojvevg." 

'Ev d'XXcf) AiOci). 

" Mvpixog TloXvKpdrovg 'lapmvvixog Sioyirbivog avhpecfctL 
XopaydaavTsg viKdaavrtg Siovvaov dvidtjKav ri^ixtvog 
apxovTog avXiovTog /cXfoj aSovrog okKiadiviog. 

'Ej/ hepi^ A£0(p. 

" ^vvdpx^o apxovTog, fxtivbg ^eiXovdiO), apxi^ • • • wf^Eu- 



6(i)\i dpxeSdixi^ <p(j)K£'la og dirihdiKa dnb rag 

covyyoacpio -niSa rwi/ iroXEixdpX(^v K)) tGjv KaroTTTduiv 
dveXoiAevog rag aovyypaipStg rug icijxhag Trap £V(ppoi'a, 

Kh(piUav Kri na gikXeIv kij Tiii.6neihov fwKeiag, 

Kri SaixoreXeXv XvaiSdixu), Kri 6lov\icov Kad)iaoSu)U) %97pa)^£?a 
KOT rb ipaijuajxa rw 6ayuw. 

Svvdpxf^ apxovTog, jiavbg aXaXKO[j.£vi(i) F dpvwv, roXv- 
KXsLog raixiag ditEbomz tvSiaXv apx^i^ajuw ^ooKeli aTro rag 
aovyypa^S) to KaraXvirov kut to t/-a0£o-/^a tw J«|ua), 
avtXontvog Tdg aovyypacpibg Tag Kijxtvag ~dp cruxpiXov, Kri 
£v<ppova (pwKeag. K)) Trap Sicovvaiov KafiaoSwpo) xnp^via, 
Kn XvaihayLOV SauoTiXiog ve6a rwv TioXe-ixapx^v^ Kr) rCiv 



KaroTtracov. 



^VT£>€rEI>l>inOH 

"ApxovTog ev epxoixevb ^vvdpxw, ixzvbg 'AXaXKOjxevio), ev 
ie F (XuTir] MevoLTao ^ApxeXdu) jxELvbg Trpdru). 'OyLoXoyd 
Et;6a)Xu F iXaTirj, o Krj ttj iroXi ipxojJLCviwp. 'E7r££^/) 
KeKOfxiaTr] EiJfiwXos irdp rijg TidXiog rb 6dvtLov di:av kut 
rag bpLoXoyiag rag Tediaag ^vvdpxo) apxovTog, jxtivbg 
SciXovOiij), K)) ovT d^EiXtTfj avTuj ETC ovOev ndp Tav rrdXiv, 
dXX' d-nixc -ndvTa iTEpl navTog., Krj dirohEhdavOi rfj ttSXi Tb 
exovTEg Tag bfioXoyiag, eI jufv TTort ^Eboixhov p^^ptJvov 
Ei'SwXt) tTTL vojjiiag F eti uTrETTapa (iovEaai aovv 'iirirvg 6ia 
KaTirtg Ft KaTi -npo^dTvg covv rjyvg x^iXujg dpxl tw xpdvw 
b hiavTbg i hetu ^vvapxov apxovTa rpxaftEvivg airoypa- 
^Ecdrj 6i Ev6u)Xov KaT' ivtavTov ekucttov iriip tov Ta^iav 
Kt) TOV vdjxwv dv TUTE Kaxinara twv Trpo6dTu)v, K)] twv 
fiyiov, Kri TWV (iovCov^ kii t&v 'It:itiov, kii KdTiva uaajtaiiav 
&iKr] TO rrXElOog jxeI drcoypd<pEao wOe irXiova Tiov yEypay.- 

Hivwv EV Tfi aovyx'^pEiat t] OEKUTig ri to (viojxiov 

EyfiwXoi/ d({>EiXEi Xig twv tpxoixEviwv apyovpitt) 

TETTapdKOVTa EvSwXv KaO' EKaCTOV EViaVTOV, 

K^ t6kov (pEpETU) 6paxi^dg Tag fxvdg tKaaTug 

KUTa nElva TOV ki) EjXTrpaKTog ectw tov ipxo- 

/liviov Koi TU f|>7S." 

'Ev aXXoig AiOoig. 

"'Avo5c5pa (T^v^opov xaTps." NOKYES. "KaXXtVirov 
afx<pdptxog, Kal ciXXai.^' 'Ev ov^e ^Iq. ^Kiriypaffj iSov 
rdvov, ti TtvEviJia, ix 6e fij^els &7roypa^o/nev, ol iraXuiol 
vpoffiypa^ov. Kal rd f|^j. 



The following is the prospectus of a translation of 
Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master, Mar* 
marotouri, who wished to p'ublish it in England. 

EIAH'SIS TYnOrPA$IKH\ 

Upbg Toiig iv (piXoyEvsTg Kal ^tXAXjjvaff. 

"OS 01 Elg fiiSXla TtavTohaird ivTpv<pio(nv, ii^Evpovv 
■Kdaov Eivai Tb xp)7cr«/^ov Trig 'IcTopiag, 6i^ avTrjg yap 
E^EvpiaKETui r] irXeov ixEjxaKpvaixEvr] -naXaidTrig, Kal -Sfw- 
povvTai wf iv KaTdTTTfiO) ijdr}, Trpd^Eig KalStoiKrjffEig roXXtSv 
Kal Sia<p6p(ji)V 'E0i^c5v Kal Tevwv wv tiiv ixv/iixriv diEffwaaTO' 
Kal 6iaao)CEi ^ 'laTopiKt] Aujyrjaig tig aluJva Tbv anavTa. 

Mia TEToia ^KiricTrJixn Eivai EvandKTriTog, koI ev ravT(p 
wcpiXiixri, rj kpeIttov eIttcIv dvayKuia ' SiaTl Xolirbv f)[XE7^ 
jidvoi vd Tjjv vcTEpoxijizQa, ixii ij^EvpovTEg ovTE Tag dpxds 
TWV Upoyovoiv i^iag, ttoOev -6te Kal ttcSj EvpiBriaav Eig Tag 
vaTpihag fxag, ovts Ta tj9r], Ta KaTopOwfjiaTa Kal tyiv Siot'- 
K7jaLV TWV / "Av ipwTi'iawfji.EV Tovg ^AXXoyEVElg, rj^Evpovv 
vd, fxdg ~~Swaovv oxil^6vov laTopiKwg T))v dpx.riv Kal ttiv 
Trp6o6ov TWV Ttpoydvwv jxag, dXXd Kal ToiroypacpLKWg fjidg 
SeIx^'ovv Tag OicrEig twv TlaTo[6wv /xag, Kal oIoveI x^i-P'^~ 
yioyol yivoixEvoi jxe TOvg yEwypacpiKovg twv HivaKag, iJidg 
XEyovv, eSw Eivai a'i ^AOrjvai, iSw rj Siraprj?, eke7 al QfjBat, 
Tdaa cTdSia rj /xiXia dirEx^t. i) fjiia 'E-rrapx^a d-rrb ttiv 
dXXrjv. ToCroj ioKo86iJLr}ff£ Ti]v jxiav TioXiv, tKElvog Tfjv 
dXXr]v, Kal T^. UpoGiTL dv ipwT)'}(jwixEv avToiig Tovg _«>) 
'E.XXr]vag %£(paywyovj /uaj, irodcv kizapaKivridriaav vd 
i^EpEvvrjcrovv dpx«? Tdcrov iraXaiug, avvKocToXwg udg 
airoKoivovTai jiE avTovg Tovg X6yovg. " KaOwg b ek Y.kv- 
Biag ^Avdxapaig, dv 6ev iTrEpuipx^To Ta -KavEVcpoduvva 
EKElva KXifiaTu Trig 'EXXdSog, dv 8ev ludiooE^TO Td d^iw- 
IxaTa, Td rdr] Kal rovg No//ot)? twv 'EXA:^vwv, yiBeKe ixEivjf 
"ZKvBrig Kal to dvof-ia Kal Tb Ttpdyna ' ovtw Kal b fjixETEpog 
^luTpbg, av dtv IfidvOavE Ta tov 'iTtnoKpaTovg, 6ev iSvvaTo 
vd 7rpo%a)p?;(T>7 Elg Triv tex'^^v tov. "Av b h ijixiv No/jlo- 
OiTrjg Sep i^ETa^E tu tov J,6Xwvog,AvKovpyov, Kal liiTTaKov, 
6ev tbvvaTO vd pvQjxriCTr) Kal vd KaXiEpy>JGp Td Tjdrj twv 
'OjioyEvwv TOV ' dv b 'Fi'/Twp 6ev dirrivOi^ETO Tag Eixppa^Eiag; 
Kal Toiig xo-pi-^VTicnovg tov ArjfiocOEvovg, Sev EVEpyovcEV 
Eig Tdg if'vxdg twv aKpouTwv tov ' "Av b Niog 'Ava- 
XapcTLg, b Kvpiog 'A66ug BapdoXoiJ.a7og 8ev dvEyivwcKE ue 
lxEydXi]v E-ijxoviiv Kal dKt^iv Tovg tzXeov EyKpiTovg 1,vy- 
ypa(pE7g twv 'EXX^vwr, i^EpEvvwv avToiig Ka'd BdOog iiri 
TpiuKovTa Svw ETT], 6ev tjBeXev i^v(pdvr] tovttjv Trjv -rrEpl 
'KXXiivwv '[aTopiav tov, riTig U.Epi^y7]aig tov Nfov 
'Ava%ap(r£a)s 7r«p' avTov TrpoawvojiatrBr}, Kal Elg oXag rd? 
'EvpwTraiKag AiaXiKTovg ixETEyXwTricBr].^' Kal ev ivi 
Xoyw, ol NEWTEpoi, dv 6ev EizEpvav 6ia oSvyovg rovg 
Upoyovovg jxag, rjBzXav 'lawg irEpiipEpwvTai jxaTaiwg jiexol 
TOV vvv. AvTa 5ev Eivai A6yia EvBvaiaufxEvov did to 
(piXoysvEg TpaiKov, Eivai Si (biXaXriBovg TEp[xavov, oaTig 
EfLETdippacrE Tbv Neov ' Avdxap<Jiv dtrb tov TaXXiKov Elg rb 
FEpixaviKbv, 

"Av Xoiirbv Kal fiix£7g BeXoixev vd [XEBi^wpiEv rrjg yvwaEwg 
TWV Xafjnrpwv KaTopBwfjLdTwv birov EKajxav ol ^avjJiaaToi 
ekeIvol UpoTTaTopEg ri[xwv, dv ETnBvj.iwfji£V vd fidBwuEV Trjv 
TrpdoSov Kal av^ijaiv twv Eig Tag Tix^ag Kal ^'E.-mcTriixag 
Kal Elg kuBe dXXo EiSog jxaBt^aEwg, dv ex^oixev iTEpiipyEiav 
vd yvwpiawfxEv tt6Bev KaTuydj-iEBa, Kal bnoiovg Sav/xairTovs 
Kal jXEydXavg dvlpag, eI Kal vpoydvovg ))nwv, (pEv, fjntls 
6ev yvwpii^oixEv, eIs Kaipiv birov ol 'AXXoyem j ^avjidi^ovaiv 
avToiiS, Kal wg TzaTipag -navToiacovv naBijaEws aiSovTai, 
as avvSpdfxwixEv airavTEg upoBv^wg slg tj)»' ekSogiv toi^ 
■^avpLaaiov tovtov cvyypdfjiiJtaTog tov Neov 'Avaxdparewg. 

'HjXEig ovv ol v-oyEypaixi-iivoi SeXoixev ekteXecei npoBv- 
//(j)j t1)v fxETdcppaciiv TOV BiSXiov jxe tiiv KaTu Tb dvvaTov- 
fjixiv KaXi'jv (ppdaiv tTis vvv KaO^ fjixds buiXias, Kal ek66vt£S 
TovTo EiS TVTtov, SeXoixev TO KaXXw7ri(7£i fjiE Tovg FEwypa- 
^iKovs UivaKag /if d-Xas 'Pw/tamiJ Xi^Eig EyKExapayixi- 
vovg EiS iSiKufiag ypdi^fxaTa, -tpoctiBevtes oti dXXa 
'XP^<^iH-OV Kal dpixdSiov sis ri)v 'laTopiav. 

'OXov TO Gvyypajxixa SeXei yivEi Eh Tdfjiovg SwSsKa 
KaTu ^dixnciv Trig 'XtuXikTiS EK^ddEwg. 'H Tijxri bXov tov 
"^vyypdixfxaToi uvai (piop'tvia SEKni^ri Tijg BiEvvns Sid Tr/v 
rpoaOt'jKiiv TWV y£wypa<lnKCiv T:ivdKwv. 'O ^iXoyEvrig vv 
l.vvdpofiriTrig irpiiTEi va TrXripwcfr} Eig kuBe TSixov tpiopivt 
Eva Kal KapavTavia e'ikooi T^g BiEvvris, Kal tovto xoj^iS 
Kaixjxiav irpdSoaiv, dXX' EvBijg bitov ^eXei tw irapaSod^ h> 

To/iOS TVTTWIXSVOS Kul ^E/ifVoS. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



57 



^Ejipciiiivoi Koi Ev5a(ixov£s SiaSidioiTe 'EXX?7J/a)i^ Ilar^ej. 
T^j hixeripas aydi:r]s e^jjpTtjuivoi 

'Imdvvrjs M.apixapoTo6pr]s. 

ArinfjTOLOi Beviipris. 

"E-Kvpi^wv UpeSiTos. 
'Ev Tptsorfw, Tfj TtpuiTT} '0/crw6p(ov, 1799. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 
SL IIATE'PA MAE b -irov elaai eh tovs oipavovg, us 
ayLaaOfi to bvoyid cov. "'Aj eXOrj f) (iaaiXcia aov. "^Aj 
yvvT] rb ^iXriixd aov, Ka9u)s eh rbv ohpavov, er^rj Kai eh 
Tr\v yrjv. Td xpuyjxiiias to KaOrjixepivbv, 66g jias to arffiepov. 
Kat o-vyxcipvo'e i"«S tu xp^l l^<^S) KaOu)S Kai f/i£ts (7iiy%a)- 
povjxev tovs Kpeo(pei\iTas ixas- Kat yii\v fxas (pipeis eh 
ireipaa-nbv, dAX« iXevOipijjai fxas and Tbv ■novnpbv. "Oti 
iSiK^ffov eJvai >/ (SaacXeia, Se fj Svvajjiis, Kat 7) So^a, eh tovs 
al&vaS' 'Aju^i/. 

IN GREEK. 
IIA'TEP fjixdv h h Tots ovpavols, ayicK^QnTO) rd 8vo[id 
cov. ^EXOiru) fj PaaiXeia cov ' yevr/d/jTU) rd ^iXrjfjid cov^ 
d)j iv ovpavio, Kat fTrt Trjs yrji' Tov dpTuv f/piiov rbv 
iiriovciov 6bs ijixtv c/jixepov. Kat a<pes t]ix7v to. dcpeiXijixaTa 
fljxuii/, <j)s Kat fiixeis dcpienev to7s i^eiXfTais )^//wv. Kat 
lifl elceviyKTjs i'lfxas eh ireipacjxbv, dXXd pvaai fifids dicb 
Tov TTovrjpou. "On cov icTiv 1) ^aciXeia^ Kat fj divafxiS) 
Kat // od^a, eh tovs aiSivas- 'Ajxfjv 



CANTO III. 
1. 

In ^^ pride of place" here last the eagle flew. 

Stanza xviii. line 5. 
" Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means 
the highest pitch of flight. — See Macbeth, &c. 

" An Eagle towering in his pride of place 
Was by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed." 

2. 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens^ tyrant lord. 
Stanza xx. line 9. 
See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. 
— The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, 
by Mr. Denman. 

" Wilh myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c. 

3. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 

Stanza xxi. line 8. 
On the night previous to the action, it is said that a 
ball was given at Brussels. 

4,5. 
And Evan\ Donald's farne rings in each clansman^s ears. 
Stanza xxvi. line 9. 
Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
" gentle Lochiel" of the "forty-five." 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 

Stanza xxvii. line I. 
The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant 
of the " forest of Ardennes," famous in Boiardo's Or- 
lando, and immortal in Shakspeare's " As you like it." 
It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of suc- 
cessful defence by the Germans agamst the Roman 
encroachments. — I have ventured to adopt the name 
connected with nobler associations than those of mere 
slaughler. 

7. 
/ turrCd from all she brougM to tliose she could not bring. 
Stanza xxx. line 9, 
My guide from Mont St. Joan over the field seemed 
intelligent and accurate. The place where Major 
Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees 
(there was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) 
which stand a few yards Irom each other at a pathway's 
side. — Beneath these he died and was buried. The 
body has since been removed to En<;land. A small 
hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will pro- 
bably soon bo olfaced ; tho plough bus been upon it, 
and the grain is. 

II 



After pointing out the different spots where Picton 
and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, 
" here Major Howard lay ; I was near him when wound- 
ed." I told him my relationship, and he seemed then 
still more anxious to point out the particular spot and 
circumstances. The place is one of the most marked 
in the field from the peculiarity of the two trees above 
mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing 
it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, 
Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
action, though this may be mere imagination : I have 
viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, 
Leuctra, Chajronea, and Marathon ; and the field around 
Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little 
but a better cause, and that undefinable but impressive 
halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated 
spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except 
perhaps the last mentioned. 
8. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea^s shore. 

Stanza xxxiv. line 6. 
The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
were said to be fair without, and within ashes. — Vido 
Tacitus, Histor. 1. 6, 7. 

9. 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 
Stanza xU. fine last. 
The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ our 
annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind 
of his want of all community of feeling for or with them ; 
perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active 
cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well 
as individuals ; and the single expression which he is 
said to have used on returning to Paris after the Rus- 
sian winter had destroyed his army, rubbin" his hands 
over a fire, " This is pleasanter than Moscow," would 
probably aUenate more favour from his cause than the 
destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 
10. 
What want these outlaws conquerors should have. 
Stanza xlviii. line 6. 

" What wants that knave 
That a king should have ?" 

was King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm- 
strong and his followers in full accoutrements. — See tho 
Ballad. 

11. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels. 

Page 22, verse I. 

The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest 
summit of " the Seven Mountains," over the Rhine 
banks : it is in ruins, and connected with some singu- 
lar traditions : it is the first in view on the road from 
Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river ; on this 
bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another, called 
the Jew's castle, and a large cross commemorative of 
the murder of a chief by his brother: the number of 
castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on both 
sides is very great, and their situations remarkably 
beautiful. 

12. 

The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him u)ept.^ 
Stanza Ivii. line last. 

The monument of the youn" and lamented General 
Marceau (killed by a rifle-bail at Alterkirchen on the 
last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still 
renuiins as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required : his name was enough ; Franco 
adored, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him. 
— His funeral was attended by the generals and tietaeh- 
incnts from both armies. In the same grave General 
lloehe is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of 
the word ; but lliough he distinguished himself greatly 
in battle, hr li:id m)t the gooil fortune to die there : his 
dt-ath was iUlriidcd by suspicions of poison. 

A sej)arale luoinmient (not over his bodv, which is 
buried by Maretau's) is raised for him near Antlernach, 
opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits 



58 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on the 
Rhine. The shape and style are different from that 
of Marceau's, and the inscription more simple and 
pleasing. 

" The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 

" to its Commander in Chief 

" Hoche." 

This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 

among the first of France's earher generals before 

Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the 

destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

13. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter' d wall. 

Stanza Iviii. Ime 1. 
Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. " the broad stone of Honour," 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis' 
mantled and blown up by the French at the truce of 
Leoben. — It had been and could only be reduced by 
famine or treachery. It yielded to the former, aided 
by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of 
Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by compari- 
son, but the situation is commanding. General Marceau 
besieged it in vain for some time, and I slept in a room 
where I was shown a window at which he is said to 
have been standing observing the progress of the siege 
by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. 

14. 
Unsepulchred they roan^d^ and shrieked each wandering 
*■ ghost. 

Stanza bdii. line last. 
The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones 
diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion 
in the service of France, who anxiously effaced this 
record of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A 
few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by 
the Burgundians for ages, (all who passed that way 
removing ^ bone to their own country,) and the less 
justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postillions, who carried 
them off to sell for knife-handles, a purpose for which 
the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had 
rendered them in great request. Of these relics I 
ventured to bring away as much as may have made a 
quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if 
I had not, the next passer by might have perverted 
them to worse uses than the careful preservation which 
I intend for them. 

15. 
LeveWd Aventicum hath strew'd her subject lands. 

Stanza kv. line last. 
Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of 
Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

16. 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. 
Stanza Ixvi. line last. 
Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned 
to death as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph 
was discovered many years ago ; — it is thus — 
Julia Alpinula 
Hie jaceo 
Infelicis patris, infelix proles 
Dese Aventise Sacerdos ; 
Exorare patris necem non potui 
Male mori in fatis ille erat. 
Vixi annos xxiii. 
I know of no human composition so affecting as this, 
nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names 
and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we 
turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of 
conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused 
for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence 
it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on 
such intoxication. 

17. 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow. 

Stanza Ixvii. line 8. 
This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc, (June 3d, 
1816,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. 
(July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the 



distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere 
in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my 
boat ; the distance of these mountains from their mirror 
is 60 miles. 

18. 
By the blue rushing of the arrov>y Rhone. 

Stanza Ixxi. line 3. 

The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a 
depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, 
salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archi- 
pelago. 

19. 

Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 
Stanza Ixxix. line last. 

This refers to the account in his "Confessions" of 
his passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot, (the mistress 
of St. Lambert,) and his long walk every morning for 
the sake of the single kiss which was the common salu- 
tation of French acquaintance. — Rousseau's description 
of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as 
the most passionate, yet not impure description and 
expression of love that ever kindled into words ; which 
after all must be felt, from their very force, to be inade- 
quate to the delineation— a painting can give no suffi- 
cient idea of the ocean. 

20. 
Of earth-d'er gazing mount nins. 

Stanza xci. line 3. 

It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and 
impressive doctrines of the divine Pounder of Chris- 
tianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the 
Mount. 

To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human 
eloquence, — the most effectual and splended specimens 
were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes ad- 
dressed the public and popular assemblies. Cicero 
spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on 
the mind of both orator and hearers, may be con- 
ceived from the difference between what we read of 
the emotions then and there produced, and those we 
ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It 
is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigaeum and on the 
tumuli, or by the springs with Mount Ida above, and 
the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you ; and 
another to trim your taper over it in a snug library — 
this I know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the 
enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines 
(the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass 
nor to question) I should venture to ascribe it to the prac- 
tice of preaching in the Jields, and the unstudied and 
extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 

The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im- 
pressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
orisons and prayers wherever they may be at the stated 
hours — of course frequently in the open air, kneeling 
upon a light mat, (which they carry for the purpose of 
a bed or cushion as required :) the ceremony lasts some 
minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and 
only living in their supplication: nothing can disturb 
them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these 
men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of 
worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
persuasion under the sun ; including most of our own 
sectaries, and the Greek,the Catholic, the Armenian, the 
Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of 
the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish 
empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their 
belief and its rites : some of these I had a distant view 
of at Patras, and from what I could make out of them, 
they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and 
not very agreeable to a spectator. 
21. 

The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night. 
Stanza xcii. line 1. 

The thunder-storms to which these hnes refer oc- 
curred on the 13th of Juno, 1816, at midnight. I have 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



59 



seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari 
several more terrible, but none more beautiful, 

22. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought. 

Stanza xcLx. line 6. 

Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. « Ces 
montagnes sont si hautes qu'une demi-heure aprfes le 
soleil couche, Icurs sommets sont encore eclaires de 
ses rayons ; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches 
une belle couleur de rose qu'on appcrfoit de fort loin." 

This applies more particularly to the heights over 
Meillcrie. 

"J'allai h Vevay loger a la Clef, et pendant deux 
jours que j'y rcstai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette 
ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et 
qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de^ mon roman. 
Je dirois volontiers k ceux qui ont du gout et qui sont 
sensibles; allez a Vevai — visitez le pays, examihez les 
sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a 
pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, 
et pour un St. Preux ; mais ne les y cherchez pas." 
Les Confessions, livre iv. page 306, Lyons ed. 1796. 

In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of 
Geneva ; and as far as my own observations have led 
me, in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all 
the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his " Heloise," 
I can safely say, that in this there is no exaggeration. 
It would be difficuU. to see Clarens, (with the scenes 
around it, Vevay, C billon, Boveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, 
Eivan, and the entrances of the Rhone,) without being 
forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the per- 
sons and events with which it has been peopled. But 
this is not all : the feeling with which all around Clarens, 
and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of a 
still higher and moVe comprehensive order than the mere 
sympathy with individual passion ; it is a sense of the 
existence of love in its most extended and sublime ca- 
pacity, and of our own participation of its good and of 
Its glory : it is the great principle of the universe, which 
IS there more condensed, but not less manifested; 
and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we 
lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the 
whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same 
associations would not less have belonged to sucli scenes. 
He has added to the interest of his works by their adop- 
tion ; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the 
selection ; but they have done that for him which no 
human being could d» for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail 
from Meillerie (where vvc landed for some time) to St. 
Gingo during a lake storm, which added to the magnifi- 
cence of all around, altiiough occasionally accompanied 
by danger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. 
It was over tliis very part of the lake that Rousseau has 
driven the boat of St. Preux and Madtinie Wolmar to 
Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. 

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found tliat the 
wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some 
fine old chestnut-trees on the lower part of the moun- 
tains. 

On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. The 
hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed witli 
some small but bnauliful woods ; one of these was 
named the " Boscpiet de Julie," and it is remarkable 
that, though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness 
of the monks of St. Bernard, (to whom the land apper- 
tained,) that the ground might be enclosed into a 
vineyard for tlic miserable drones of an execrable 
superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the 
spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which 
consecrated and survived them. 

Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate ill the 
preservation of the "local habitations" he has given to 
"airv nothings." Tiic Prior of Great St. Bernard has 
cut iiown some of his woods for the sake of a few casks 
of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks 
of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The 
road is an excellent onoj but I cannot quite agree with 
a remark which I heard made, that ** La route vaut 
mieux quo les eouvcnirp." 



23. 
Lausanne I and Femey ! ye have been die abodes. 
Stanza cv. line 1. 
Voltaire and Gibbon. 

24. 
Had I notjiled my mind, which thus itsdf subdued. 
Stanza cxiii. line last. 



" If it be thus. 

For Banquo's issue liave IJiled my miiid 

25. 



Macbeth, 



O'er otliers' griefs that some shvcerdy grieve. 

Stanza cxiv. line 7. 
It is said by Rochefoucault that '* there is always 
something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not 
displeasing to them." 

NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
1. 

I stood in Venice on tlie Bridge of Sighs; 

A palace and a prison on each hand. 

Stanza i. lines 1 and 2. 
The communication between the ducal palace and 
the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered 
gallery, high above the water, and divided by a stone 
wall into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, 
called " pozzi," or v.elis, were sunk in the thick walls of 
the palace ; and the prisoner when taken out to die was 
conducted across the gallery to the other side, and 
being then led back into the other compartment, or cell, 
upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal 
through which the criminal was taken into this cell is 
now walled up ; but the passage is siill open, and is still 
known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi arc 
under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. 
They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of tlie 
French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up the 
deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, 
descend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, 
half-choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stories 
below the first range. If you are in want of consola- 
tion for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you 
may find it there; scarcely a ray of liirht glimmers into 
the narrow gallery which leads to tHe cells, and the 
places of confinement themselves are totally dark. A 
small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the 
passages, and served for the introduction of the pri- 
soner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the 
ground, was the only furniture. The conductors tell 
you that a light was not allowed. The cells are about 
five paces in length, two and a half in width, and seven 
feet in height. They are directly beneath one anotner, 
and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. 
Only one prisoner was found when the republicans 
descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said 
to have been confined sixteen years. But the inmates 
of the dungeons beneath had left traces of their repent- 
ance, or of"their des|>air, which are still visible, and may 
perhaps owe somethincj to recent ingenuity. Some of 
the detained appear to have offinded against, and others 
to have belonged to, the racred body, not only from 
their signatures, but from the churches and belfries 
whicii they have scratched upon the walls. The reader 
may not object to sec a specimen of the rerords 
prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly as they 
could be copied by more than one pencil, three of them 
are as follows : 

NGN TI FIDAR .KV .\r.CUNO PENSA TACI 
6K FUQIR VUOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE C LACCI 
II. PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
MA BE.N m VALOU TUG LA VERA PUOVA 

1G07. API 2. C3ENARO. Fill RE- 
TENTG P' LA DESTIEMMA p' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

lACOMO . ORITTI . 8CRI8BB. 
2. 
UN PARI.AR POCHO et 
NEQARE PRONTO et 

UN PENS VR AL FINE PUO DARE I.A VITA 
A WOI ALTRI ME8CHINI 

1006. 



60 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



EGO lOHN BAPTIST A AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARICS. 
3. 
DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 
DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDARO 10 
A 

TA H A NA 
V . I.A S . C . K . R . 

The copyist has followed, not corrected the solecisms ; 
some of which are however not quite so decided, since 
the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It 
only need be observed, that bestemmia and mangiar may 
be read in the first inscription, which was probably 
written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety 
committed at a funeral ; that Corlellarius is the name 
of a parish on terra firma, near the sea; and that the 
last initials evidently are put for Viva la santa Chiesa 
Kattolica Romana. 

2. 
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising vdth her tiara ofproiid towers. 

Stanza ii. hnes 1 and 2. 
An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, 
has made use of the above image, which would not be 
poetical were it not true. 

" Quo ft ut qui superne urbem coniempletur, turritam tellu- 
ris imaginem medio Oceanofguraiam se putet inspicere^'^ 
3. 
In Venice Tassd's echoes are no more. 

Stanza iii. line 1. 
The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate 
stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the 
independence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with 
the original on one column, and the Venetian variations 
on the other, as sung by the boatmen, were once com- 
mon, and are still to be found. The following extract 
will serve to show the difference between the Tuscan 
epic and the " Canta alia Barcariola." 

' ORIGINAL. 

Canto 1' arme pietose, e '1 capitano 
Che 'Igran Sepolcro liberb di Cristo. 

Molto egli oprb col senno, e con la mano 
Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto ; 

E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 
S' armb d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 

Che il Ciel gli di6 favore, e sotto a i Santi 

Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
E de Goffredo la immortal braura 

Che al fin 1' ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
Del nostro buon Gesii la Sepoliura 

De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
Missier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura : 

Dio 1' ha agiutd, e i compagni sparpagnai 

Tutti 'I gh' i ha messi insieme i didel Dai. 
Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe 
Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of whom 
was a carpenter, and the other a gondoher. The former 
placed himself at the prow, the latter at the stern of the 
boat. A little after leaving the quay of the Piazzetta, 
they began to sing, and continued their exercise until 
we arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst other 
essays, the death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida; 
and did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of the 
two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his compa- 
nion, told us that he could translate the original. He 
added, that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, 
but had not spirits {morbin was the v/ord he used) to 
learn any more, or to sing what he already knew: a 
man must have idle time on his hands to acquire, or to 
repeat, and, said the poor fellow, " look at my clothes 
and at me ; I am starving." This speech was more 



• Marci Antonii gabelli de VenetB Urbis situ narratio, edit.Tauiin. 
1527, Ub.i.fol. 202. 



affecting than his performance, which habit alone can 
make attractive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, 
and monotonous, and the gondolier behind assisted his 
voice by holding his hand to one side of his mouth. 
The carpenter used a quiet action, which he evidently 
endeavoured to restrain ; but was too much interested 
in his subject altogether to repress. From these men 
we learnt that singing is not confined to the gondoliers, 
and that, although the chant is seldom, if ever, voluntary, 
there are still several amongst the lower classes who 
are acquainted with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the performers 
to row and sing at the same time. Although the verses 
of the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is 
yet much music upon the Venetian canals ; and upon 
holydays, those strangers who are not near or informed 
enough to distinguish the words, may fancy that many 
of the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. 
The writer of some remarks which appeared in the 
Curiosities of Literature must excuse his being twice 
quoted ; for, with the exception of some phrases a little 
too ambitious and extravagant, he has furnished a very 
exact, as well as agreeable, description. 

"In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- 
sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant them 
with a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at pre- 
sent on the decline: — at least, after taking some pains, 
I could find no more than two persons who delivered 
to me in this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, 
that the late Mr. Berry once chanted to me a passage 
in Tasso in the manner, as he assured me, of the 
gondoliers. 

" There are always two concerned, who alternately 
sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually by 
Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it has properly 
no melodious movement, and is a sort of medium be- 
tween the canto fermo and the canto figurato ; it ap- 
proaches to the former by recitativical declamation, and 
to the latter by passages and course, by which one 
syllable is detained and embellished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one singer placed 
himself forwards, and the other aft, and thus proceeded 
to St. Georgio. One began the song: when he had 
ended his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so 
continued the song alternately. Throughout the whole 
of it, the same notes invariably returned, but, according 
to the subject matter of the strophe, they laid a gi-eater 
or a smaller stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes 
on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of 
the whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and 
screaming: they seemed, in the manner of all rude un- 
civilized men, to make the excellency of their singing in 
the force of their voice : one seemed desirous of con- 
quering the other by the strength of his lungs ; and so 
far from receiving dehght from this scene (shut up as I 
was in the box of the gondola,) I found myself in a very 
unpleasant situation. 

" My companion, to whom I communicated this cir- 
cumstance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of 
his countrymen, assured me that this singing was very 
delightful when heard at a distance. Accordingly we 
got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the 
gondola, while the other went to the distance of some 
hundred paces. They now began to sing against one 
another, and I kept walking up and down between them 
both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his 
part, I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one 
and to the other. 

"Here the scene was properly introduced. The 
strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met 
the ear from far,' and called forth the attention; the 
quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily re- 
quired to be sung in a lower tone, seemed hke plaintive 
strains succeeding the vociferations of emotion or of 
pain. The other, who hstened attentively, immediately 
began where the former left off, answering him in milder 
or more vehement notes, according as the purport of 
the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty 
buildings, the splendour of the moon, the deep shadows 
of the few gondolas that moved like spirits hither and 
thither, increased the striking peculiarity of the scene ; 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



61 



and amidst all these circumstances it was easy to con 
fess the character of this wonderful harmony. 

"It suits perfectly well witii an idle, solitary mariner, 
lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these 
canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, the tire- 
someness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by 
the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He 
often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends 
itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror, and as 
all is still around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in the 
midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rattling 
of carriages, no noise of foot passengers; a silent gon- 
dola glides now and then by him, of which the splashmgs 
of the oars are scarcely to be heard. 

"At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly 
unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately attach 
the two strangers : he becomes the responsive echo to 
the former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had 
heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate 
verse for verse ; though the song should last the whole 
night through, they entertain themselves without fatigue: 
the hearers, who are passing between the two, take 
part in the amusement. 

" This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoteness. It is 
plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is 
scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My companion, 
who otherwise was not a very delicately organized 
person, said quite unexpectedly : e singolare come quel 
canto intenerisce, e molto pit! quando lo cantano megho. 

" I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of 
islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns,* 

ftarticularly the women of the extreme districts of Ma- 
amocco and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works 
of Tasso to these and similar tunes. 

" They have the custom, when their husbands are 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings 
and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with 
great violence, till each of them can distinguish the 
responses of her own husband at a distance."! 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all 
classes of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of 
Italy. The city itself can occasionally furnish respect- 
able audiences for two and even three opera-houses at 
a time ; and there are few events in private life that do 
not call forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a 
physician or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman 
preach his maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an 
operation, would a harlequin announce his departure or 
his benefit, arc you to be congratulated on a marriage, 
or a birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked to furnish 
the same number of syllables, and the individual 
triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or party-coloured 
placards on half the corners of the capital. The last 
courtesy of a favourite "prima donna" brings down a 
shower of these poetical tributes from those upper re- 
gions, from which, in our theatres, nothing but cupids 
and snow-storms are accustomed to descend. There 
is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, which, in its 
common course, is varied with those surprises and 
changes so recommendable to fiction, but so different 
from the sober monotony of northern existence ; amuse- 
ments are raised into duties, duties are softened into 
amusements, and every object being considered as 
equally making a part of the business of life, is an- 
nounced and performed with the same earnest indiflrr- 
cnce and gay assiduity. The Venetian gazette constantly 
closes its columns with the following triple advertise- 
ment. 

Cliurade 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church 
of St. 



Theatres. 
St. Moses, opera. 



* Tliu wiitisr mcanl Lido, which U not a long row of iihiii<U, Iml ii long 
idnnd : /tV/us, tho ihore, 

t Curloiiilcs of I.lternliire, vol. ii, n. JSI, etill. 18J7 ; ami Apnomllx 
Kxix.loHlao!('« I.ll,.ofl'««,o. 



St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
St. Luke, repose. 



When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
their consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it 
worthy of a more respectable niche than between poetry 
and the play-house. 

4. 
Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 

Stanza x. line 5. 
The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the stran- 
gers who praised the memory of her son. 

5. 

St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 

Stand, 

Stanza xi. line 5. 

The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the Inva- 
lides but the gospel which supported the paw that is 
now on a level v;ith the other foot. The horses also 
are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, 
and are, as before, half hidden under the porch of St. 
Mark's church. 

Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been 
satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts of 
Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold 
Cicognara, would have given them a Roman extraction, 
and a pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. 
But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians 
the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindi- 
cated, at last and for ever, the pretension of his coun- 
trymen to this noble production.* Mr. Mustoxidi has 
not been left without a reply ; but, as yet, he has re- 
ceived no answer. It should seem that the horses are 
irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constan- 
tinople by Theodosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite 
play of the Italians, and has conferred reputation on 
more than one of their literary characters. One of the 
best specimens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable 
volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacci- 
audi. Several were prepared for the recovered horses. 
It is to be hoped the best was not selected, when the 
following words were ranged in gold letters above the 
cathedral porch. 

QtJATUOR * EQtrORUM ' SIGNA ' A * VENETIS * BV- 
ZANTIO ' CAPTA " AD ' TEMP * D ' MAR " A * R ' S " MCCIV * 
POSITA ■ QUjE • IIOSTILIS ' CUPIDITAS " A * MJDCCIIIC * 
AESTULERAT * FRANC * I " IMP * PACIS ' ORBI ' DAT^ * 
TROPHJEUM • A ' MDCCCXV " VICTOR ' REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be 
permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians 
in transporting the horses from Constantinople was at 
least equal to that of the French in carrying them to 
Paris, and that it would have been more prudent to 
have avoided all allusions to either robbery. An apos- 
tolic prince should, perhaps, have objected to affixing 
over tiie principal entrance of a metropolitan church an 
inscription having a reference to any other triumphs 
than those of religion. Nothing less than the pacifica- 
tion of the world can excuse such a solecism. 
6. 
Tlic Sualnan sued, and now the Austrian rcigns—- 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor hndt. 

Stanza xii. lines 1 and 2. 

Afier many vain efforts on the part of iho Italians 
entirely to tiirow off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make himsdf 
al)soluto master throughout the wliole of his Cisalpine 
dominions, the bloody struggles of four and twenty 
years were happily brought to a close in tho city of 
Venice. Tho articles of a treaty had been previously 
agreed upon between Pope Alexander IH. and Barlm- 
rossa, and the former having received a safe conduct, 
had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in conipany 
with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the con- 
suls of the Lombard leagu<«. There still remained, 
however, many points to ailjust, and for severni days 
tho pcaco was believed to bo impracticable. At (his 



• Sul nimUro cnviilli ililU Uimllirn di S. Marco in Vrnprin. I.r(ti>ra lU 
AniJri'u MiKluxiUi CurciirDo. railiia, \u'i Uctuiil c roniimg. . . . 1S10. 



62 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



2 



juncture it was suddenly reported that the Emperor had 
arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the capital. 
The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted upon 
immediately conducting him to the city. The Lombards 
took the alarm, and departed towards Treviso. The 
Pope himself was apprehensive of some disaster if 
Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, but vvas 
reassured by the prudence and address of Sebastian 
Ziani, the Doge. Several embassies passed between 
Chioza and the capital, until, at last, the Emperor re- 
laxing somewhat of his pretensions, "laid aside his 
leonine ferocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb."* 
On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1177, six 
Venetian galleys tranferred Frederic, in great pomp, 
from Chioza to' the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
Early the next morning the Pope, accompanied by the 
Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy, 
whom he had recalled from the main land, together with 
a great concourse of people, repaired from the patriar- 
chal palace to St. Mark's church, and solemnly absolved 
the Emperor and his partisans from the excommunica- 
tion pronounced against him. The Chancellor of the 
Empire, on the part of his master, renounced the anti- 

Eopes and their schismatic adherents. Immediately the 
►oge, with a great suite both of the clergy and laity, 
got on board the galleys, and waiting on Frederic, rowed 
him in mighty state from the Lido to the capital. The 
Emperor descended from the galley at the quay of the 
Piazzetta. The Doge, the patriarch, his bishops and 
clergy, and the people of Venice with their crosses and 
their standards, marched in solemn procession before 
him to the church of Saint Mark. Alexander was seated 
before the vestibule of the basilica, attended by his 
bishops and cardinals, by the patriarch of Aquileja, by 
the archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, all of them 
in state, and clothed in their church robes. Frederic 
approached — "moved by the Holy Spirit, venerating 
the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying aside 
his imperial dignity, and throwing off his mantle, he 
prostrated himself at full length at the feet of the Pope, 
Alexander, with tears in his eyes, raised him benig- 
nantly from the ground, kissed him, blessed him ; and 
immediately the Germans of the train sang, with a loud 
voice, ' We praise thee, O Lord.' The Emperor tlien 
taking the Pope by the right hand, led him to the 
church, and having received his benediction, returned 
to the ducal palace."| The ceremony of humiliation 
was repeated the next day. The Pope himselfj at the 
request of Frederic, said mass at St. Mark's. The Em- 
peror again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, taking 
a wand in his hand, officiated as verger, driving the 
laity from the choir, and preceding the pontiff to the 
altar. Alexander, after reciting the gospel, preached to 
the people. The Emperor put himself close to the 
pulpit in the attitude of listening; and the pontiff, 
touched by this mark of his attention, for he knew that 
Frederic did not understand a word he said, commanded 
the patriarch of Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse 
into the German tongue. The creed was then chanted. 
Frederic made his oblation and kissed the Pope's feet, 
and, mass being over, led him by the hand to his white 
horse. He held the stirrup, and would have led the 
horse's rein to the water side, had not the Pope ac- 
cepted of the inclination for the performance, and affec- 
tionately dismissed him with his benediction. Such is 
the substance of the account left by the archbishop of 
Salerno, who was present at the ceremony, and whose 
story is confirmed by every subsequent narration. It 
would be not worth so minute a record, were it not the 
triumph of liberty as well as of superstition. The states 
of Lombardy owed to it the confirmation of their privi- 
leges ; and Alexander had reason to thank the Almighty, 
who had enabled an infirm, unarmed old man, to subdue 
a terrible and potent sovereign.| 



* " Clnibus audilis, imperator, operante eo, qui corda principum sicut 
vult et quando vult humiliter iiiclinal, leonina feritate deposita, oviiiam 
mansuetudinem ioduit." Romualdi Salernitani Chrouicon. apud Script 
Ber. Ilal. Tom. VII. p. 229. 

t Ibid. p. 231. 

j See the above cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second sermon which 
Alexander preached, on tlie first day of August, before the Emperor, he 
compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. 



Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandoh I 

Tl^ octogenarian chief Byzantium's conquering foe. 

Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the 
highlander. Oh for one hour of Dundee ! Henry Dan- 
dolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty-five years 
of age. When he commanded the Venetians at the 
taking of Constantinople, he was consequently ninety- 
seven years old. At this age he annexed the fourth 
and a half of the whole empire of Romania,* for so the 
Roman empire was then called, to the title and to the 
territories of the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of 
this empire were preserved in the diplomas until the 
dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the 
above designation in the year 1357.t 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person: 
two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied to- 
gether, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their 
higher yards to the walls. The Doge was one of the 
first to rush into the city. Then was completed, said 
the Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythrcean sibyl. 
" A gathering together of the powerful shall be made 
amidst the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind leader; 
they shall beset the goat — they shall profane Byzantium 
— tney shall blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be 
dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until they have mea- 
sured out and run over fifty -four feet, nine inches, and a 
half."J 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having 
reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and 
was buried in the church of St, Sophia, at Constanti- 
nople. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name 
of the rebel apothecary who received the Doge's sword, 
and annihilated the ancient government, in 1796-7, was 
Dandolo. 

8. 
But is not DoricHs menace come to pass? 
Are they not bridled? 

Stanza xiii. lines 3 and 4. 

After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 
Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united 
armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 
Signer of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the 
utmost despair. An embassy was sent to the conquerors 
with a blank sheet of paper, praying them to prescribe 
what terms they pleased, and leave to Venice only her 
independence. The Prince of Padua was inclined to 
listen to these proposals, but the Genoese, who after 
the victory at Pola, had shouted " to Venice, to Venice, 
and long live St. George," determined to annihilate their 
rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief] re- 
turned this answer to the suppliants : " On God's faith, 
gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace from the 
Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, until 
we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses of 
yours, that are upon the porch of your evangelist St. 
Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you 
quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of your com- 
mune. As for these my brothers of Genoa, that you 
have brought with you to give up to us, I will not have 
them : take them back ; for, in a few days hence, I shall 
come and let them out of prison myself, both these and 
all the others."§ In fact, the Genoese did advance as 



* Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important cb, and has written Romani 
instead of Romanian. Decline and Fall, cap. Ixi. note 9. But the title 
acquired by Dandolo runs thus in the chronicle of his namesake, the Doge 
Andrew Dandolo. Ducali titulo addidit, " Quarlce jiartis et dimidia 
tolius imperii Romania;.'^ And. Dand. Chronicon. cap. iii. pars xxxvii. 
ap. .Script. Rer. Ttal. torn. xii. page 331. And the Romaniae is observed 
in the subsequent acts of the Doges. Indeed the continental possessions 
of the Greek empire in Europe were then generally known by the name 
of Romania, and that appellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as 
applied to Thrace. 

f See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid, page 498. Mr. 
Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, who says, " il 
gualtitoto si uso-fin al Doge Giovanni Dolfino." See Vite de' Duchi 
di Venezla. ap. Script. Rer. Ital. torn. xxii. 530. 641. 

J Piet potenlixim in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, eaco preeduce, 
Hircum ambigent, Byzantium prophanabunt, (tdificia denigrabvnt ; 
spoli.a dispergentur, J.'irciis novus balaJbit usgue dum hlY pedes et IX 
pollices, et semis prcemensurati discurrant." [Chronicon, ibid, pars 
ixxiv.l 

§" Allafidi Dio, Signori Veneziani,nonhaveretemaipacedalSig- 
nore di Padoua, ni dal nostro commune di Genova, se primieramente 
non mettemo le briglie a quelli vostri cavalH sfrenati, eke sono »u la 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



63 



far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital ; but 
their own danger and the pride of their enemies gave 
courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, 
and many individual sacrifices, all of them carefully re- 
corded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was put at 
the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese broke up 
from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza in October; 
but they again threatened Venice, which was reduced 
to extremities. At this time, the 1st of January, 1380, 
arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the 
Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians 
were now strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria 
was killed on the 22d of January by a stone bullet 195 
pounds weight, discharged from a bombard called the 
Trevisan. Chioza was then closely invested : 5000 
auxiliaries, among whom were some Englisn Condot- 
tieri, commanded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the 
Venetians. The Genqese, in their turn, prayed for 
conditions, but none were granted, until, at last, they 
surrendered at discretion ; and, on the 24th of June, 
1380, the Doge Contarini made his triumphal entry into 
Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, 
many smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammuni- 
tion and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the 
hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for the 
inexorable answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced 
their dominion to the city of Venice. An account of 
these transactions is found in a work called the War 
of Chioza, written by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in 
Venice at the time.* 



The " Planter of the Lion:' 

Stanza xiv. line 3. 

Plant the Lion — that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the 
standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word 
Pantaloon — ^Piantaleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 
10. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 

Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8. 

The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand 
souls. At the last census, taken two years ago, it was 
no more than about one hundred and three thousand, 
and it diminishes daily. The commerce and the oflicial 
employments, which were to be the unexhausted source 
of Venetian grandeur, have both expired. | Most of the 
patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually 
disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the 
demolition of seventy-two, during the last two years, 
expressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many 
remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks 
of the Brcnta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or 
are sinking in the general decay. Of the " gentiluomo 
Veneto," the name is still known, and that is all. He is 
but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and 
kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is queru- 
lous. Whatever may have been the vices of the repub- 
lic, and although the natural term of its existence may 
be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due 
course of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected 
from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the 
subjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution 
to rally round th^ standard of St. Mark, as when it was 
for the last time unfurled; and the cowardice and tlic 
treachery of the few patricians who recomm«>nded the 
fatal neutrality were confined to the persons of the 
traitors themselves. The present race cannot be 
thought to regret the loss of their aristocratical forms, 



Rcza del Voatro Evani^e.lisla S. Mnrro. Imhrcnnli ctiK gli hnvremo, 
vifaremo ttnre in buonapncc. K qiiKnta e la iiitemionc uot'.ra, e del 
nostro commune. Ifjueeli viiei fratelli Oeriovesi chc finvete rnennit 
convoi per doHfirci, non It voglio ; rimaneteftlt in dietro perchu to 
inlfmli) darjuia yochi giorni venirgli a riscuoler, dalle voalie pri- 
gioni, e loro e gli nltri.'' 

' " Chrunuca della guerru ill Chlraii,'' &c. Script. Ror. Ilnlic. torn. xv. 
pp. 699 tu 804. 

t " Noniiiillonim A nohililnlo ImmetiiiB iiint opi-s, luli-o ut vix ;c«limnrl 
poRHiiil : id (|ii(J<l (rlliui d ri'biis oritur, immlinoiiin, cuiiirnfrrio, iUi|iii) ill 
emolumciiliH, (|U«! Hi'imli. p'rclpiiiiit, qiim ti.\iic iil) cmuniii (liiiliiriin 
i'uro crvditur." — Sec ile rrinciputibu* lialiie, Tructutus, vUlt. 1631. 



and too despotic government ; they think only on their 
vanished independence. They pine av.ay at the re- 
membrance, and on this subject suspend for a moment 
their gay good humour. Venice may be said in the 
words of the Scripture, " to die daily ;" and so general 
and so apparent is the decline, as to become painful to 
a stranger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole nation 
expiring as it were before his eyes. So artificial a 
creation, having lost that principle which called it into 
life and supported its existence, must fall to pieces at 
once, and sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhor- 
rence of slavery which drove the Venetians to the sea, 
has, since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd of 
dependents, and not present the humiliating spectacle 
of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their 
liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires 
to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances ; but 
many peculiarities of costume and manner have by 
degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride common 
to all Italians who have been masters, have not been 
persuaded to parade their insignifi.cance. That splen- 
dour which was a proof and a portion of their power, 
they would not degrade into the trappings of their sub- 
jection. They retired from the space which they had 
occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens ; their 
continuance in which would have been a symptom of 
acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered by the 
common misfortune. Those who remained in the de- 
graded capital might be said rather to haunt the scenes 
of their departed power, than to live in them. The 
reflection, "who and what enthrals," will hardly bear a 
comment from one who is, nationally, the friend and 
the ally of the conqueror. It may, however, be allowed 
to say thus much, that to those who wish to recover 
their independence, any masters must be an object of 
detestation ; and it may be safely foretold that this 
unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected 
before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her 
choked canals. 

11. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. 

Stanza xvi. lino 3. 

The story is told in Plutarch's life of Nicias. 
12. 
And Otway, Radcli^e, Schiller, Shahspcare^s art. 
Stanza xviii. line 5. 

Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; ihe Ghost- 
seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Otliello. 
13. 
Bui from their nature will the tanncn grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rochs. 

Stanza xx. lines 1 and 2. 

Tannen is the plural oitanne, a species of fir peculiar 
to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, 
where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourisliment can be 
found. On these spots it grows to a greater height 
than any other mountain tree. 

14. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her oer half the lovely heaven. 

Stanza xwiii. lines 1 and 2. 
The above description may seem fanlaslical or ex- 
aggerated to those who have never seen un Oriental or 
an Ilaliaii ssky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient 
dcliiuatiun of an August evening (the eighteenth) as 
contemjtlated in one of many rides along the banks of 
the Brcnta near La Mira. 

15. 
IVateiing the tree which bears his ladys name 
Jt^ilh his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

Stanza xxx. lines 8 ami 9. 
Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scot* hnian, wo 
now know as little of Laura as ever.+ The <liscoverie8 
of the Abbe de Sade, his triumph.^, his sneers, can no 



* See an Illttorir*! and Critivul ICiioy on l)ie Life «i>d Cbanicler of 



64 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



longer instruct or amuse.* We must not, however, 
think that these memoirs are as much a romance as 
Behsarius or the Incas, although we are told so by Dr. 
Beattie, a great name, but a little authority.! His 
" labour" has not been in vain, notwithstanding his 
" love" has, like most other passions, made him ridicu- 
lous.J The hypothesis which overpowered the strug- 
gling Italians, and carried along less interested critics 
in its current, is run out. We have another proof that 
we can be never sure that the paradox, the most singular, 
and therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
air, will not give place to the re-established ancient 
prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. 
The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, 
may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la 
Bastie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- 
thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the 
parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of 
the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to 
the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. 
If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was 
written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited 
within the space of twelve hours : and these deliberate 
duties were performed round the carcass of one who 
died of the plague,, and was hurried to the grave on the 
day of her death. These documents, therefore, are too 
decisive: they prove not the fact, but the forgery. 
Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsi- 
fication. The Abbe cites both as incontestably true ; 
the consequent deduction is inevitable — they are both 
evidently false. § 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
haughty virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife 
who honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre 
of an honest French passion, and played off for one and 
twenty years her little machinery of alternate favours 
and refusals]] upon the first poet of the age. It was, 
indeed, rather too unfair that a female should be made 
responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a mis- 
interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian. IT 
It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of 
Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness which he 
prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely 
not of the mind,** and something so very real as a 
marriage project, with one who has been idly called a 
shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least six 
places of his own sonnets, jt The love of Petrarch was 
neither platonic nor poetical ; and if in one passage of 
his works he calls it " amore veementeissimo ma unico 
ed onesto," he confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it 
was guilty and perverse, that it absorbed him quite and 
mastered his heart.JJ 



Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the Abbfe de 
Sade : the first appeared about the year 1784 ; the other is inserted in the 
fourth volume of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and 
both have been incorporated into a work, published, under the first title, 
by Ballantyne in 1810. 

* Mfemoires pour la Vie di Pfetrarque. 

t Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, t. ii. p. 106. 

J Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs "a labour of love,^' (see Decline 
and Fall, cap. Ixx. note 1.) and followed him with confidence and delight. 
The compiler of a very voluminous work must take much ci-iticism upon 
trust ; Mr. Gibbon has done so, though not as readily as some other 
authors. 

§ The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. Horace Wal- 
pole. See his letter to WTiarton in 1763. 

Ii " Par ce petit manage, cette alternative de faveurs et de rigueurs bien 
mfenagee, une femme tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et uu ans, le 
plus grand poete de son siicle, sans faire la moindre breche a son bon- 
neur.-' M6m. pour la Vie de Pfetrarque, Prfeface aux Francois. The 
Italian editor of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord 
Woodhouselee, renders the " femme tendre et sage," raffmata civetta." 
Riflessioni intorno a madonna Laura, p. 231, vol. iii. ed. 1811. 

11 In a dialogue with St. Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura as 

having a body exhausted with repeated ptubs. The old editors read and 

punted vertiirbalionibus ; but Mr. Capperonier, librarian to the French 

king in 1762, who saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation 

that " on lit et qu'on doit lire, parlubus exhaustum." De Sade joined 

the names of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with Mr. Capperonier, and in 

the whole discussion on this ptubs, showed himself a downright literary 

rogue. See Riflessioni, &c. p. 267. Thomas Aquinas is called in to 

settle wliether Petrarch's mistress was a clutste maid or a continent wife. 

•' " Pigmalion, quanto lodar ti del 

Dell' imagine tua, se mille volte 

N' avesti quel ch' i' sol una vorrei." 

Sonetlc 58, ouando giunsc a Simon V alto concetto. 
Le Rime, &c. par. i. pag. I8D, edit. Ven. 1756. 

tt See Riflessioni, &c. p. 291. 

%X " Q.uella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto mi occupava e mi 
regnavanel cuore." 



In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for 
the culpability of his wishes ; for the Abbe de Sade 
himself, who certainly would not have been scrupulously 
delicate if he could have proved his descent from Pe- 
trarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stout defence 
of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the 
poet, we have no security for the innocence, except 
perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us 
in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his for- 
tieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost all 
recollection and image of any " irregularity."-'^ But the 
birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earher 
than his thirty-ninth year ; and either the memory or 
the morality of the poet must have failed him, when he 
forgot or was guilty of this slip.'] The weakest argu- 
ment for the purity of this love has been drawn from the 
permanence of eflecls, which survived the object of his 
passion. The reflection of Mr. de la Bastie, that virtue 
alone is capable of making impressions which death 
cannot efface, is one of those which every body ap- 
plauds, and every body finds not to be true, the moment 
he examines his own breast or the records of human 
feeling. J Such apophthegms can do nothing for Pe- 
trarch or for the cause of morality, except with the very 
weak and the very young. He that has made even a 
little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage cannot be 
edified with any thing but truth. What is called vindi- 
cating the honour of an individual or a nation, is the 
most fiitile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing ; 
although it will always meet with more applause than 
that sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious 
desire of reducing a great man to the common standard 
of humanity. It is, after all, not unhkely, that our his- 
torian was right in retaining his favourite hypothetic 
salvo, which secures the author, although it scarcely 
saves the honour of the stiU unknown mistress of Pe- 
trarch. § 

16. 
Tliey keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. 

Stanza xxxi. line 1. 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return 
from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at 
Rome, in the year 1370, and. with the e.xception of his 
celebrated visit to Venice, in company with Francesco 
Novello da Carrara, he appears to have passed the four 
last years of his life between that charming solitude and 
Padua. For four months previous to his death he was 
in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of 
July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in his 
library chair with his head resting upon a book. The 
chair is still shown among the precious relics of Arqua^ 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been- 
attached to every thing relative to this great man from 
the moment of his death to the present hour, have, it 
may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the 
Shaksperian memorials of Stratford upon Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pronuncia- 
tion, although the analogy of the English language has 
been observed in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua,, 
and about three miles on the right of the high road to Ro- 
vigo, in the bosom of the Euganean hills. After a walk of 
twenty minutes across a flat well-wooded meadow, you 
come to a httle blue lake, clear, but fathomless, and ta 
the foot of a succession of acclivities and hills, clothed 
with vmeyards and orchards, rich with fir and pome- 
granate trees, and every sunny fruit shrub. From the 
banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, and the 
church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft where 
two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly enclose 
the village. The houses are scattered at intervals on 
the steep sides of these summ.its ; and that of the poet 
is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two descentSj 



I 



* Azion dishonesta are his words. 

t " A qiiesta confessione cosi sincera diede forse occasione una nuova 
caduta ch' ei fece." Tiraboschi, Storia, &c. torn. v. lib. iv. par. ii. pag. 
492. 

X" Tl ra'i/ a gue la vertu settle qui soil capable de faire des impres- 
sions que la mort n'efface pas." M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, in 
the Memoires de I'Academie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres for 1740 
and 1751. See also Riflessioni, &c.p. 295. 

And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable, he enjoyed, 

and might boast of enjoying, the nymph of poetry." Decline and Fall, 

1 cap. Ixx. p. 327. vol. xii. oct. Perhaps the if is here meant for aLfiougft. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



65 



and commanding a view not only of the glowing gardens 
in the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, 
above whose low woods of mulberry and willow, thick- 
ened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall single 
cypresses, and the spires of towns, are seen in the dis- 
tance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po and the 
shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these volcanic 
hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner 
than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he 
cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red 
marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, 
and preserved from an association with meaner tombs. 
It stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon over- 
shadowed by four lately planted laurels. Petrarch's 
Fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs 
and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little 
below the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest 
season, with that soft water which was the ancient 
wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more attrac- 
tive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets 
and wasps. No other coincidence could assimilate the 
tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions 
of centuries have spared these sequestered valleys, 
and the only violence which has been offered to the 
ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, but vene- 
ration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus 
of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a 
Florentine through a rent which is still visible. The 
injury is not forgotten, but has served to identify the 

Eoet with the country where he was born, but where 
e would not live. A peasant boy of Arqua being asked 
who Petrarch was, replied, "that the people of the par- 
sonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
he was a Florentine." 

Mr. Forsyth* was not quite correct in saying that 
Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he had once 

I quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through 
Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his 
return in the year 1350, and remained there long 
enough to form some acquaintance with its most distin- 
guished inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed 
of the aversion of the poet for his native country, was 
eager to point out this trivial error in our accomplished 
traveller, whom he knew and respected for an extraor- 
dinary capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, 
joined to that engaging simplicity of manners which has 
been so frequently recognised as the surest, though it is 
certainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. 
Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously 
traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged is 
shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order 
to decide the ancient controversy between their city and 
the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried 
when seven months old, and remained until his seventh 
year, have designated by a long inscription the spot 
where their great fellow-citizen was born. A tablet 
has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. 
Agatha, at the cathedral,! because he was archdeacon 
of that society, and was only snatched from his intended 
sepulture in their church by a. foreign death. Another 
tablet with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on 
account of his having passed the autumn of 1368 in that 
city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political con- 
dition which has for ages precluded the Italians from 



Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 95, note, 2d edit. 

tD.O. M. 

Frniicisco PetrarchR! 

Parmcnsi Arcliidiacono. 

Parenlibus prsEclaris(;cneru perantii^no 

EthireR ChrisiianJC scriptnri eixmio 

RomnniB linguae restltiitori 

KtniBCUB principl 

Africae ob carmen hfic in urlie pcrftctiim regibus accito 

S. P. tl. R. iaiiien donata. 

TiwiU Viri 

Juveniliiim jiivciiiH si-niliiim sejicx 

.Stiidi(>«j;<siiniiii 

Comeg Kii'olaua ('aiionicuK Ciro^piarui 

Marmorca proxirna aia uxcilnta. 

Ibiqiie coiifliio 

Divie Janunria; cruento corpore 

H. M. P. 

Stifl'cdiim 

Bed infra merilnrn Francisci mipiilchro 

Summu liac iii mile cflVrri inandantk 

Si rarmm occnmlieret 

£xlera murte lieu nobiB crept!. 



the criticism of the living, has concentrated their atten- 
tion to the illustration of the dead. 
17. 
Or, it may be, with demons. 

Stanza xxxiv. line 1. 
The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons 
as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- 
ness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our 
unsullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child 
to complete soUtude. 

18. 

In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
And Boiieau, whose rash envy, &c. 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 6 and 7. 
Perhaps the couplet in which Boiieau depreciates 
Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to 
justify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse. 

A Malerbe a Racan, prfefere Theophile, 

Et le clinquant du Tasse a. tout Tor de Virgile. 

Sat. ix. vers. 176. 
The biographer Serassi,* out of tenderness to the 
reputation either of the Itahan or the French poet, is 
eager to observe that the satirist recanted or explained 
avv'ay this censure, and subsequently allowed the author 
of the Jerusalem to be a " genius, sublime, vast, and 
happily born for the higher flights of poetry." To this 
we will add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, 
when we examine the whole anecdote as reported by 
Olivet. I The sentence pronounced against him by 
Bohoursl is recorded only to the confusion of the critic, 
whose palinodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, 
and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition 
which the Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan 
academy, who degraded Tasso from all competition 
with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of 
such opposition must also in some measure be laid to 
the charge of Alfonso, and the court of Ferrara. For 
Leonard Salviati, the principal and nearly the sole 
origin of this attack, was, there can be no doubt,§ in- 
fluenced by a hope to acquire the favour of the House 
of Este : an object which he thought attainable by 
exalting the reputation of a native poet at the expense of 
a rival, then a prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts 
of Salviati must serve to show the cotemporary opinion 
as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and will 
fill up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant 
jailer. II In fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not dis- 
appointed in the reception given to his criticism ; he 
was called to the courtof Ferrara, where having endea- 
voured to heighten his claims to favour, by panegyrics 
on the family of his sovercign,ir he was in turn 
abandoned, and expired in neglected poverty. The 
opposition of the Cruscans was brought to a close in six 
years after the commencement of the controversy ; and 
if the academy owed its first renown to having almost 
opened with such a parodox,** it is probable that, on 
the other hand, the care of his reputation alleviated 
rather than aggravated the imprisonment of the injiu-ed 
poet. The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employ- 
ment for many of his solitary hours, and the captive 
could have been but little embarrassed to reply to ac- 



♦ r,a Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. p. 284. torn. ii. edit. Bergamo, 1790. 

t Histoire de l'Acail6inie Pranqoise, depuis 1652 jusqii' 1700, par I'abbe 
d'Olivet, p. tSlj edit. Amsterdam, 1730. "Mais, ensuite, venunl A 
I'usage qu'ila fait de ses talens, Tanrois montr6qiielo bonsensn'esi pna 
toiijoiirsce qui domine cbez lui,''^p. 182. Uoi lean said lie had not chaiigeil 
bis opinion : " J'cii ai si pen cbaiiRO, dit-il," .^ c. p. 181 . 

:) l.H tiiiinidre dc liien peiiser (bins les onvrngesde I'espril, sec. dial. p. 
8P, 6ilit. ll)i)3 PliilaiilbcKis lor Tasso, and says, in the oiiuet, " do loiii 
lishcuix csprits quo ritalic a porlis, le Tasse est pi-iil-6lie roliii qm 
ptiiHi' le iiliis luibliiiicni." Hut Uoboiirs Bcoms to spiak in Kiidoxns, 
will) cloKi'g will, tbe al'siii'il iMniiuirinin : " I- aites vatoiro lo Tasse tttiil 
qu'il voiis plaii-a, je lii'm tiens |..,iir nioi d ViiKile," • e. Iliiil. p. 102. 

§1. a Vila, .0. fill. iii. p. i-o, ti.ni. ii. "1 be Knyliali lend.r niav see an 
acioiint ul ibc opjiosilion of Hits Cruscu to Tasso, in Dr. Ulack, l.ifc, &c. 
cap. xvii. vol.il. 

II For liM tber, and, U is hoped, derisive proof, that Tasso was neither 
nuiie nor Iihn ibnil n prisoner of staid, the readei is refei ivd to " Hit- 
torirtit Illiistrnliom of the IVth Cattlo of < hilde Harold," pag. 6, 
and liillowinD. 

II t)ra/.ioni fuiubri . . . dellr lodi di Pon Liilai Cardinal il'KsH . . . 
delle lodi di Ponno Alfonso . I' list e. See I,n Vila lib. iii. p. 117. 

'* It was founded in IfiSi, and the Cnisran answer le Pclleiiliio* 
Carajfu or tpica poetia was publislicU in XQSi. 



66 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



cusations, where, amongst other dehnquencies, he was 
charged with invidiously omitling, in his comparison 
between France and Italy, to make any mention of the 
cupola of St. Maria del Fiore at Florence.* The late 
biographer of Ariosto seems as if willing to renew the 
controversy by doubling the interpretation of Tasso's 
self-estimationj related hi Serassi's hfe of the poet. 
But Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry at rest,J by 
showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a 
question of comparison, but of preference. 
19. 
The lightning rent from Ariostd's bust 
The iron croum oflaureVs mimick'd leaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 1 and 2. 
Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, 
which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, and 
a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event has 
been recorded by a writer of the last century. § The 
transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6th of June, 1801, 
was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- 
lived Italian Republic ; and to consecrate the memory 
of the ceremony, the once famous fallen Inirepidi were 
revived and reformed into the Ariostean academy. 
The large public place through which the procession 
paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto 
Square. The author of the Orlando is jealously claim 
ed as the Homer, not of Italy, but JFerrara.|| The 
mother of Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in 
which he was born is carefully distinguished by a tablet 
with these words : " Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il 
giorno 8 di Settembre delV anno 1474." But the Ferra- 
rese make light of the accident by which their poet was 
born abroad, and claim him exclusively for their own. 
They possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, and 
his inkstand, and his autographs. 

" Hie illius arma 

Hie currus fuit " 

The house where he lived, the room where he died, are 
designated by his own replaced memorial,lF and by a 
recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of 
their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from 
a cause which their apologists mysteriously hintls not 
unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and 
chmate to a Boeotian incapacity for all spiritual produc- 
tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the 
detraction, and this supplement to Barotti's Memoirs 
of the illustrious Ferrarese has been considered a tri- 
umphant reply to the " Quadro Storico Statistico dell' 
Alta Italia.^' 

20. 

For the true laurel-vxrealh which Glory weaves 

Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5. 
The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel,** and the white 
vine,tt were amongst the most approved preservatives 
against lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus 
Caesar the second,^ and Tiberius never failed to wear 
a wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thunder- 
storm. §§ These superstitions may be received without 
a sneer in a country where the magical properties of 
the hazel twig have not lost all their credit ; and per- 



t La Vita rti M. L. Arioslo, seritta dail' Abate Girolamo Baroffakl! 
Gmmor^, &c. Ferrara, 1807, lib. iii. p. 26Q. See Hi.toricaTniusrraS 

I Storia della Lett. &c. lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. p. 1220, sect 4 

§ Ml raccontarono que' monaci, eh' essendo caduto un fulmine nella 

E;r °/-<,^ Bmncom, vol. iii. p. 176. ed. Milano, 1802 ™tTera at 
n51°L^^ll"^° ®f,4'n"' ArcfiBiocritico, sull' i„dole di un fulmine caduto h> 



Dresda I'anno 1759. 

II " Appassionato ammiratore ed 
■• The 



invitto apolo^sta dell' Omero Ferra- 



II "P'lryasedaptamihi, sed nuUiobnoxia.sednon 

»onUda,parta meosedlamena>redonius " 

Nat*. Hlsflib^'li'^XTv"""' '' '^""^' '^'"'- "- f-'-t"-- ^ 
tt Columella, lib. x. 
tX Sueton. in Vit. August, cap. »c. 
S§ Suelou. in Vit. Tiberii, cap. Ixix. 



haps the reader may not be much surprised to find that 
a commentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself 
gravely to disprove the imputed virtues of ihe crown of 
Tiberius, by mentioning that a few years before he v.rote, 
a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome.* 
21. 
Know that the ligliirdng sanctifies below. 

Stanza xli. line 8. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held 
sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved 
by a puteal, or altar, resembling the mouth of a well, 
with a little chapel covering the cavity supposed to be 
made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons 
struck dead were thought to be incorruptible ;t and a 
stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the 
man so distinguished by heaven. J 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white 
garment, and buried where they fell. The superstition 
was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the 
Lombards believed in the omens furnished by lightning, 
and a Christian priest confesses that, by a" diabolical 
skill in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, 
duke of Turin, an event which came to pass, and gave 
him a queen and a crown. § There was, however, 
something equivocal in this sign, which the ancient in- 
habitants' of Rome did not always consider propitious; 
and as the fears are likely to last longer than the con- 
solations of superstition, it is not strange that the Ro- 
mans of the age of Leo X. should have been so much 
terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to require the 
exhortations of a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on 
thunder and lightning to prove the omen favourable ; be- 
ginning with the flash which struck the walls of Velilrge, 
and including that which played upon a gate at Florence, 
and foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens. || 
22. 
Italia ! oh Italia ! &c. 

Stanza xlii. line L 

The two stanzas, XLII. and XLIII., are, with the 
exception of a line or two, a translation of the famous 
sonnet of Filicaja: 

" Italia, Italia, tu cui feo la sorte." 

23. 
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind. 

Stanza .xliv. lines 1 and 2. 
The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero 
on the death of his daughter describes as it then was, 
and now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both 
by sea and land, in difi'erent journeys and voyages. 

"On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from 
JEgma. towards Megara, I began to contemplate the 
prospect of the countries around me : ^gina was be- 
hind, Megara before me ; Pirsus on the right, Corinth 
on the left ; all which towns, once famous and flourish- 
ing, now lie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon 
this sight, I could not but think presently within myself, 
Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret ancl vex ourselves 
if any of our friends happen to die or to be killed, whose 
life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many noble 
cities lie here exposed before me in one view. "If 
24. 
And we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form. 

Stanza .xlvi. Unes 7 and 8. 
It is Poggio who, looking from the Capitoline hill 
upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation. 



' Notes, p. 409. edit. Lugd. Bp.t. 1667. 

t Vid. J. C. Bullen.eer, de Terres Motu et Fnlminib. lib. v. cap. xi. 

I 'Ovfti? KC(MvvujOils i-Ti/iog 1<tti, 60ev Kal tbc -^eds Tilxarai. Plut. 
Sympos. vid. J. (.". Bullenj. ut sup. 

§Pauli Diaconi, de Gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. xiv. fo. 15. edit 
Taiirin. 1527. 

II I. P. Valerian! de fulminum significationibus declamatio, ap. Grer. 
Aiitiq. Rom. torn. v. p. 533. Tlie declamation is addressed to Julian of 
Medicis. 

IT Dr. Middleton— History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, Met. Tii. p. 
371. vol. ii. '^ 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



67 



«Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, mstar 
gigantei cadaveris corrupt! atque undique exesi.* 
25. 
There^ too, the Goddess loves in stone. 

Stanza xlix. line 1. 
The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the 
object with the description proves not only the correct- 
ness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of thought, 
and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination of 
the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be 
deduced from another hint in the same episode of 
Musidora ; for Thomson's notion of the privileges of 
favoured love must have been either very primitive, or 
rather deficient in delicacy, when he made his grateful 
nymph inform her discreet Damon that in some happier 
moment he might, perhaps, be the companion of her 
bath : 

" The lime may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the Life 
of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine 
gallery without a word on the Whettcr. It seems 
strange that the character of that disputed statue should 
not be entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one 
who has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the 
Basilica of St. Paul without the walls, at Rome, where 
the whole group of the fable of Marsyas is seen in 
tolerable preservation ; and the Scythian slave whetting 
the knife is represented exactly in the same position as 
this celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked; 
but it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to sup- 
pose the knife in thie hand of the Florentine statue an 
mstrument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi 
supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Julius 
CtEsar. Winkelmann, illustrating a has relief of the 
same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
and his authority might have been thought conclusive, 
even if the resemblance did not strike the most careless 
observer.! 

Among the bronzes of the same princely collection 
in siill to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- 
mented upon by Mr. Gibbon. J Our historian found 
some difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- 
tion : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has 
been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- 
for 



cognised to be a forgery. 



26. 



His eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek. 

Stanza li. lines 6 and 7. 



27. 
In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie. 

Stanza liv. line \. 
This name will recall the memory, not only of those 
whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the 
centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her 
whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, 
and whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. 
CoRiNNA is no more ; and with her should expire the 
fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too dazzling 
or too dark a cloud round the march of genius, and 
forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. We 
have her picture embellished or distorted, as friendship 
or detraction has held the pencil: the impartial portrait 
was hardly to be expected from a contemporary. Tlic 
immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, be 
far from affording a just estimate of her singular capa- 
city. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and the hope 
of associated fame, which blunted the edge of censure, 
must cease to exist. — The dead have no sex ; tiiey can 
surprise by no new miracles ; they can confer no privi- 



• Dn rortiiiiB! varielnle urbU UomiB, et il« ruiiiU ejuidum dt'scr 
ft]). Siillcn^re, Thcanur. torn. i. p. liUI. 

t Sec Monim. Ant. ined. iiar. i. cii|i. xvii. n. xliii, img. SO ; iiml 
delli ArtI, >vc. lib. xl. cap. I. torn. il. pag. SH. not. U. 

J Nomina geniesqiie Aiiilqu* IirUb, p. 204,odit. otl. 



lege ; Corinna has ceased to be a woman — she is only 
an author : and it may be foreseen that many will repay 
themselves for former complaisance, by a severity to 
which the extravagance of previous praises may per- 
haps give the colour of truth. The latest posterity, for 
to the latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will 
have to pronounce upon her various productions ; and 
the longer the vista through which they are seen, the 
more accurately minute will be the object, the more 
certain the justice, of the decision. She will enter into 
that existence in which the great writers of all ages and 
nations are, as it were, associated in a world of their 
own, and, from that superior sphere, shed their eternal 
influence for the control and consolation of mankind. 
But the individual will gradually disappear as the author 
is more distinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those 
whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospi- 
tality, attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, 
should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, al- 
though they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more 
frequently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of 
private life. Some one should be found to portray the 
unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer 
relationships, the performance of whose duties is rather 
discovered among the interior secrets, than seen in 
the outward management, of family intercourse ; and 
which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine affec- 
tion to qualify for the eye of an indifferent spectator. 
Some one should be found, not to celebrate, but to 
describe, the amiable mistress of an open maasion, the 
centre of a society, ever varied, and always pleased, the 
creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts 
of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation 
to those a.'-ound her. The mother tenderly affectionate 
and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, 
but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, 
cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, and 
[)rotected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most 
where she was known the best ; and, to the sorrows of 
very many friends and more dependents, maybe offered 
the disinterested regret of a stranger, who, amid the 
sublimcr scenes of tlie Leman lake, received his chief 
satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities 
of the incomparable Corinna. 

28. 

Here repose 
Angela's, Alfieri 's hones. 

Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7. 
Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Italians, 
without waiting fur the hundred years, consider him as 
"a poet good in law.'' — His memory is the more dear 
to them because he is the bard of freedom ; and because, 
as such, his tragedies can receive no countenance from 
any of their sovereigns. They are but very seldom, and 
but very few of them, allowed to be acted. It was ob- 
served by Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions 
and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
theatre.* In the auiunm of 1816, a celebrated impro- 
visatore exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of 
Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for the 
subjects of his poetry was received by a very numerous 
audience, for the most part in silence, or with laugliter; 
but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, 
exclaimed, " The apotheosis of Victor Alfieri," the whole 
theatre burst into a shout, and the applause was con- 
tinued for some moments. The lot did not fall on 
Allieri ; and the Signer Sgricci had to pour forth his 
extemporary cominon-places on the bombardment of 
Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to aerident 
(luite so much as miglit be thought from a fust view of 
the ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to 



* The fierexpivusion of tlicirlidm-at stMilinieiiti survived their liberties. 
Tilius, the frieiul of Aiilnnv, |ircsiMilotl ihoin with «iime» in ihe theatre of 
Piiinpey . They did iml siillVr ihi- brilliiincv ol tlie 8|>i'rlncle to elVnce from 
ihi-ir memory liiHt iho niKii who furnished (hem with the enierdiinment 
hiid mur(h>red the »on ol Poniiioy ; they droi-e him from the theatre with 
Cornell. The monil sense of H |>i)|inliu'e, s|ioninnroiialy ex pressed, i» never 
wron;;. Kven the soUIuts of the tiiiimvh-n Joined in the exerrution oftha 
ri(i7en«,hy shootInK round the chiii lots of l.epidiiM iind rhmcus, whohad 
pnmcrihed their brothers, l)e Oennam* mm rfe Qallis duo Iriumphnnt 
Vtmmilrt ; n suvini; worth a reconl, were it nothinK hut n gooil pun. [C. 
V.dl.PaterculilllHl.lib. ii.cnp.l xxix. nag. 78,clit. tlwvir. 1639. Ibkl. 
lib.ll. cup. IxxvU.] 



68 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



to look at the papers beforehand, but in case of any 
prudential afterthought, steps in to correct the blind- 
ness of chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri was 
received with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because 
it was conjectured there would be no opportunity of 
carrying it into effect. 

29. 
Here Machiavellh earth returned to whence it rose. 
Stanza liv. line 9. 
The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscriptions, 
whicli so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure 
before us is an actual depository, or a cenotaph, or a 
simple memorial not of death but Ufa, has given to the 
tomb of Machiavelli no information as to the place or 
time of the birth or death, the age or parentage, of the 
historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR EL03IVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name should 
not have been put above the sentence which ailades 
to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices %vhich 
have passed the name of Machia-velli into an ep'thet 
proverbial of iniquity exist no longer at Florence. His 
memory was persecuted as his life had been for an at- 
tachment to liberty incornpaiible with the new system 
of despotisni, vhicli succeeded the fall Oi" the free 

fovernments of Itily. He was put to the torture for 
eing a " libertine" that is, for wishing to restore the 
republic of Florence ; and such are the undying eiTorts 
of those who are interested in the perversion not only 
of the nature of actions, but the meaning of words, that 
what was once patriotism, has by degrees come to sig- 
nify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the old 
meaning of " liberality," which is now another v/ord for 
treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the 
author of the Prince, as being a pander to tyranny ; 
and to think that the Inquisition would condemn his work 
for such a delinquency. The fact is that Machiavelli, 
as is usual with these against whom no crime can be 
proved, was suspected of and charged v.-itll atheism ; 
and the first and last most violent opposers of the Prince 
were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the Inquisi- 
tion " benchfe fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise, and 
the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine re- 
public as no better than a fool. The father Possevin 
was proved never to have read the book, and the father 
Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- 
ever, that such critics must have objected not to the 
slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency 
of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests 
of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The 
Jesuits are re-established in Italy, and the last chapter 
of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- 
tion, from those who are employed once more in 
moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to 
receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
bears for title, "Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai 
Barbari," and concludes with a libertine excitement to 
the future redemption of Italy. ^^ JVon si deve adunque 
lasciar passare questa occasione, acciocchl la Italia vegga 
dopo tanlo tempo apparire un suo redentore. IVe posso 
esprimere con qual amore ei fusse ricevuto in tutte quelle 
provincie, che hannopatito per queste illuvioni esterne, con 
qual sete di vendetta^ con che or.linaia fede, con che lacrime. 
Quali porte se li serrerebeno ? Quali popoli li negherebbeno 
la obbedienza ? Quale Italiano li negherebbe Possequio ? 

AD OQNUSO PUZZA ^UESTO BARBARO DOMINIC."* 
30. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar. 

Stanza Ivii. line 1. 

Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He 

fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, 

and once prior of the republic. When the party of 

Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 



11 1 iiui^i^jc ui iii^iyuiui<iiit.iiiuveiii, «.u. cun la preiazione e le note isto- 
Hche e pol-tiche di Mr. Amelot de la Houssaye e 1' esame e confutazione 
deit' opera .... Qownopoli 1789. 



absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII., and was 
condemned to two years' banishment, and to a line of 
8000 Ure ; on the non-paymeni of which he was further 
punished by the sequestration of all his property. The 
republic, however, was not content with this satisfac- 
tion, for in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Flo- 
rence a sentence in which Danle is the eleventh of a 
list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt aUve ; 
Talis perver.iens ignc comburatur sic quod moriatur. The 
pretext for this judgment was a proof of unfair barter, 
extortion-3, and illicit gains. Baracteriarum iniquarum, 
extorsionurr^ et illiciiorum lucrorum* and with such an 
accusation it is not strange that Dante should have 
always protested his innocence, and the injustice of his 
fellow-citizens. His appeal to Florence was accom- 
panied by another to the Emperor Henry ; and the 
dea*h of that sovereign in 1313, was the signal for a 
sentence of -.rrev ocable banishment. He had before 
lingered near Tuscany with hopes of recall ; then tra- 
velled into the north of Italy, where Verona had to boast 
of his longest residence ; and he nnally settled at Ra- 
venna^ which was his ordinary but not constant abode 
until his death. The refusal of the Venetians to grant 
him a public audience, on tiie part of Guide Novello da 
Polenta, his protector, is said to have been the principal 
cause of this event, which happened in 1321. He was 
buried ("in sacra minorum aede") at Ravenna, in a 
handsome tomb, which was erected by Guide, restored 
by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, prsetor for that republic 
which had refused to hear him, again restored by Car- 
dinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a more magnificent 
sepulchre, constructed in 1780, at the expense of the 
Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence or 
misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a defeated 
party, and, as his least favourable biographers allege 
against him, too great a freedom of speech and haughti- 
ness of manner. But the next age paid honours almost 
divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in vain 
and frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned 
his image in a church,t and his picture is still one of 
the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, they 
raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, not being 
able to dispute about his own birth, contended for that 
of his great poem, and the Florentines thought it for 
their honour to prove that he had finished the seventh 
Canto before they drove him from his native city. 
Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed a pro- 
fessorial chair for the expounding of his verses, and 
Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. 
The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, and 
the commentators, if they performed but httle service 
to hterature, augmented the veneration which beheld 
a sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic 
muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered to 
have been distinguished above those of ordinary men : 
the author of the Decameron, his earhest biographer, 
relates, that his mother was warned in a dream of the 
importance of her pregnancy: and it was found, by 
others, that at ten years of age he had manifested his 
precocious passion for that wisdom or theology, which, 
under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had 
been recognised as a mere mortal production, and at 
the distance of two centuries, when criticism and 
competition had sobered the judgment of Italians, 
Dante was seriously declared superior to Homer ;| 
and though the preference appeared to some casuists 
" an heretical blasphemy worthy of the flames," the 
contest was vigorously mamtained for nearly fifty 
years. In later times it was made a question which of 
the Lords of Verona could boast of having patronized 
him,§ and the jealous skepticism of one writer would 
not allow Ravenna the undoubted possession of his 
bones. Even the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to 



II 



II 



* Sioria della Lett. Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par. 2. p. 448. Tiraboschi Is 
incorrect : tlie dates of the three decrees against Dauce are A. D. 1302, 
1314, and 1316. 

t So relates Fi'cino, but some think his coronation onlyan allegory. Sea 
Storia, &c. ut sup. p. 453. 

J By Varchi in his Ercolano. The controversy continued from 1570 to 
1616. See SXoria, &c. torn. vii. lib. iii. par. iii. p. 1280. 

§Gio. Jacopo Dionisi Canonico di Verona. Serie di Aneddoti, n. 3, 
See Storia, &c. torn. v. lib. i. par. i, p. 84, 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



69 



believe that the poet had foreseen and foretold one of 
the discoveries of Galileo. — Like the great originals of 
other nations, his popularity has not always maintained 
the same level. The last age seemed inclined to under- 
value him as a model and a study ; and Bettinelli one 
day rebuked his pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh 
and obsolete extravagances of the Commedia. The 
present generation, having recovered from the Gallic 
idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient 
worship, and the Danteggiare of the northern Italians 
is thought even indiscreet by the more moderate 
Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative to 
the life and writings of this great poet which has not as 
yet been collected even by the Italians; but the cele- 
brated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect, and 
it is not to be regretted that this national work has 
been reserved for one so devoted to his country and the 
cause of truth. 

31. 
Like Scipioy buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed, &c. 

Stanza Ivii lines 2, 3, and 4. 
The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was not 
buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to voluntary 
banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and 
the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Patria, 
having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, 
an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly 
lived there.* 

In cosi angiista e solitaria villa 

Era '1 grand' uomo die d'Africa s'appella 

Perche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla.t 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar 
to republics ; and it seems to be forgotten that for one 
instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred 
examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a 
people have often repented — a monarch seldom or never. 
Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, a short 
story may show the difference between even an aristo- 
cracy and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Porto- 
longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the 
Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The 
Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme 
tribunal was content with the sentence of imprisonment. 
Whilst Pisani was suftering this unmerited disgrace, 
Ghioza, in the vicinity of the capif al,J was by the assist- 
ance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into the hands 
of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that disaster, 
the great bell of St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and 
the people and the soldiery of the galleys were sum- 
moned to the repulse of the approaching enemy ; but 
they protested they would not move a step, unless 
Pisani were liberated and placed at their head. The 
great council was instantly assembled ; the prisoner 
was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Conla- 
rini, informed him of the demands of the people and the 
necessities of the state, whose only hope of safety was 
reposed on his efiorts, and who implored him to forget 
the indignities he had endured in her service. " I have 
submitted," replied the magnanimous republican, " I 
have submitted to your deliberations without complaint ; 
I have supported patiently the pains of imprisouinent, 
for they were inflicted at your command : this is no 
time to inquire whether I deserved tlu-rn — the good of 
the republic may have seemed to require it, and that 
which the re|)ublic resolves is always resolved wisely. 
Behold me ready to lay down my life for the preserva- 
tion of my country." Pisani was api>ointed generalis- 
simo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with those of 
Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered the ascend- 
ency over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to their 



• Vi(nmLili'rnlcKiUincdc«ideriourliiii. SccT. I^lv. lli«l. lib, xxxvili 
f,ivy rcpiirl* tlial loino lald ho wai buried at Liternum, otheri al Ronif 
ib.cnp. Iv. 

f TrionrodoUnCMlUA. 

t Sue note 8, page 6!2. 



citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with 
the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
not an individual object: and, notwithstanding the 
boasted equality before the laws, which an ancient Greek 
writer* considered the great distinctive mark between 
his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights 
of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal 
scope of the old democracies. The world may have 
not yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Re- 
publics, in which the distinction between the liberty of 
former states, and. the signification attached to that 
word by the happier constitution of England, is ingeni- 
ously developed. The Itahans, however, when they 
had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh upon 
those times of turbulence, when every citizen might 
rise to a share of sovereign power, and have never been 
taught fully to appreciate the repose of a monarchy. 
Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria II. Duke of 
Rovere proposed the question, " which was preferable, 
the republic or the principality — the perfect and not 
durable, or the less perfect and not so liable to change," 
replied, " that our happiness is to be measured by its 
quality, not by its duration ; and that he preferred to 
live for one day like a man, than for a hundred years 
like a brute, a stock, or a stone." This was thought, 
and called, a magnificent answer, down to the last days 
of Italian servitude."}" 

32. 
And iiie crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brovj supremely wore 
Upon afar and foreign soil had grown. 

Stanza Ivii. lines 6, 7, and 8. 

The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe- 
trarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke the 
decree which confiscated the property of his father, who 
had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. His 
crown did not dazzle them ; but when in the next year 
they were in want of his assistance in the formation of 
their university, they repented of their injustice, and 
Boccaccio, was sent to Padua to entreat the laureate 
to conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native 
country, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 
enjoy with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all 
classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the option 
of the book and the science he might condescend to 
expound: they called him the glory of his country, who 
was dear, and would be dearer to them ; and they added, 
that if there was any thing unpleasing in their letter, 
he ought to return among them, were it only to cor- 
rect their style. J Petrarch seemed at first to listen to 
the flattery and to the entreaties of his friend, but he did 
not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 
33. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust. 

Stanza Iviii. lines 1 and 2. 

Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. IVlichacl 
and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Val- 
delsa, which was by some supposed the place of his 
birth. There he passed the latter part of liis life in a 
course of laborious study, which shortened his existence ; 
and there might his ashes have been secure, if not of 
honour, at least of repose. But the " hyarna bigots" of 
Certaldo tore u\) the tombstone of Boccaccio, and eject- 
ed it from the holy precincts of St. Michael and St. 
James. The occasion, and, it may l)e hoped, the excuse, 
of this ejectment was the making of a new floor for tho 
church; but the fact is, that the tombstone was taken 
up and thrown nsiiio at the bottom of the building. 
Ignorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would 
be paiiifiil to relate such an exception to the devotion 
of the Italians lor their great names, could it not bo 
accompanied by a trait more honourably confornuiblo 



• Tlip fircrk ImRKlrd ilml lie was tO'ov(i^o$. St'B the Intt chnplorof the 
fir»f book (>r IbiMivdiiiii of HnllcnnmM>u. 

&c. 



t " K intnriin fi//(i mngnijlrti rhpn»ln,' 
llb.lil.piiK. N9. toni.ii.edii.U. Hcr^nnu). 

J " Aci'inKili innollrr, »e rl u Irrlto nncoT 
tnl ttia Africa . , . Mf tl nvvinii* triiicoiitrurr iirl nrntixi "lib' rn»« rhc U 
(linplurciR, ci^ilfbh' t'«iii>ri> iin nliro inotivo nd Miiiidirc I clMiderJ dcda tua 
palrio." Storiadilln Lett. Hul. torn. v. pur. I. lib. I. png. 79. 



Ser«i«i Vita del Ti 
• refoHnrll, a fompirf I'lmmor- 



70 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



to the general character of the nation. The principal 

Serson of the district, the last branch of the house of 
ledicis, afforded that protection to the memory of the 
insulted dead which her best ancestors had dispensed 
upon all cotemporary merit. The Marchioness Lenzoni 
rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio from the neglect in 
which it had sometime lain, and found for it an honour- 
able elevation in her own mansion. She has done 
more : the house in which the poet lived has been as 
little respected as his tomb, and is falhng to ruin over 
the head of one indifferent to the name of its former 
tenant. It consists of two or three httle chambers, and 
a low tower, on which Cosmo II. affixed an inscription. 
This house she has taken measures to purchase, and 
proposes to devote to it that care and consideration 
which are attached to the cradle and to the roof of 
genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of 
Boccaccio ; but the man who exhausted his little 
patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was 
among the first, if not the first, to allure the science 
and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; — who 
not only invented a new style, but founded, or certainly 
fixed, a new language 5 who, besides the esteem of every 
polite court of Europe, was thought worthy of employ- 
ment by the predominant repubhc of his own country, 
. and, what is more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who 
lived the life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who 
died in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might 
have found more consideration than he has met Vv'ith 
from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late English 
traveller, who strikes off his portrait as an odious, con- 
temptible, licentious writer, whose impure remains 
should be suffered to rot without a record.* That 
English traveller, unfortunately for those who have to 
deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is beyond all 
criticism ; but the mortality which did not protect Boc- 
caccio from Mr. Eustace, must not defend Mr. Eustace 
from the impartial judgment of his successors. — Death 
may canonize his virtues, not his errors ; and it may 
be modestly pronounced that he transgressed, not only 
as an author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade 
of Boccaccio in company with that of Aretine, amidst 
the sepulchres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it 
with indignity. As far as respects 

" II flagellode' Principi, 
II divin Pietro Aretiiio,'' 

it is of little import what censure is passed upon a 
coxcomb who owes his present existence to the above 
burlesque character given to him by the poet whose 
amber has preserved many other grubs and worms : 
but to classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to 
excommunicate his very ashes, must of itself make us 
doubt of the qualification of the classical tourist for 
writing upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any other litera- 
ture; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate an 
author merely for that particular topic, but subjection 
to a professional prejudice must render him an unsafe 
director on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice 
may be made what is vulgarly called " a case of con- 
science," and this poor excuse is all that can be offered 
for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical 
Tour. It would have answered the purpose to confine 
the censure to the novels of Boccaccio, and gratitude 
to that source which supplied the muse of Dryden with 
her last and most harmonious numbers might perhaps 
have restricted that censure to the objectionable quah- 
ties of the hundred tales. At any rate the repentance 
of Boccaccio might have arrested his exhumation, and 
it should have been recollected and told, that in his 



old age he wrote a letter entreating his friend to dis- 
courage the reading of the Decameron, for the sake of 
modesty, and for the sake of the author, who would not 
have an apologist always at hand to state in his excuse 
that he wrote it when young, and at the command of 
his superiors.* It is neither the licentiousness of the 
writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, which 
have given to the Decameron alone, of all the works of 
Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The establishment 
of a new and dehghtful dialect conferred an immortality 
on the works in which it was first fixed. The sonnets 
of Petrarch were, for the same reason, fated to survive 
his self-admired Africa, the '■^favourite of kings." The 
invariable traits of nature and feeling with which the 
novels, as well as the verses, abound, have doubtless 
been the chief source of the foreign celebrity of both 
authors ; but Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to be 
estimated by that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded 
in no other light than as the lover of Laura. Even, 
however, had the father of the Tuscan prose been 
known only as the author of the Decameron, a consi- 
derate writer would have been cautious to pronounce a 
sentence irreconcilable with the unerring voice of many 
ages and nations. An irrevocable value has never 
been stamped upon any work solely recommended by 
impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, 
which began at a very early period, was the choice of 
his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well as the 
courts ; but the princes only laughed at the gallant ad- 
ventures so unjustly charged upon queen Theodelinda, 
whilst the priesthood cried shame upon the debauches 
drawn from the convent and the hermitage ; and most 
probably for the opposite reason, namely, that the pic- 
ture was faithful to the life. Two of the novels are 
allowed to be facts usefully turned into tales, to deride 
the canonization of rogues and laymen. Ser Ciappel- 
letto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by 
the decent Muratori.t The great Arnaud, as he is 
quoted in Bayle, states, that a new edition of the novels 
was proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in 
omitting the vv ords " monk" and " nun," and tacking the 
immorahties to other names. The literary history of 
Italy particularizes no such edition ; but it was not long 
before the whole of Europe had but one opinion of the 
Decameron ; and the absolution of the author seems to 
have been a point settled at least a hundred years ago : 
" On se feroit siffler si I'on pretendoit convaincre Boc- 
cace de n'avoir pas ete honnete homme, puis qu'il a fait 
le Decameron." So said one of the best men, and per- 
haps the best critic, that ever lived — the very martyr 
to impartiahty.J But as this information, that in the 
beginning of the last century one ^vould have been 
hooted at for pretending that Boccaccio was not a good 
man, may seem to come from one of those enemies who 
arc to be suspected, even when they make us a present 
of truth, a more acceptable contrast with the proscrip- 
tion of the body, soul, and muse of Boccaccio may be 
found in a few words from the virtuous, the patriotic 
cotemporary, who thought one of the tales of this impure 
writer worthy a Latin version from his own pen. " / 
have remarked elsewhere," says Petrarch, writing to 
Boccaccio, " that the book itself has been worried by cer- 
tain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff" and voice. 
Nor was I astonished, for I have had proof of the vigour 
of your mind, and I know you have fallen on that unac- 
commodaling incapable race of mortals who, whatever they 
either like not, or knouj not, or cannot do, are sure to 
reprehend in others ; and on those occasions only put on a 
show of learning and eloquence, but otherwise are eidirely 
dumb.^'^ 



• Classical Tour, cap. ix. vol. ii. p. 355. edit. 3<1. " Of Boccaccio, tlie 
modern Pctrniiius, we say nothing ; the abuse of genius is more odious 
and more contemptible tlian its absence ; and it imports little wliere the 
impure remains of a licentious author are consigned to their kindred dust. 
For the same reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the tomb of the 
malignant Aretino." 

This dubious phrase is hardly enough to save the tourist from the sus- 
picion of another blunder respecting the burial-place of Aretine, whose 
tomb was in the church of St. Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the 
famous cor)troversy of which some notice is taken in Bayle. Now the 
•words of Mr. Eustace would lead us to think the tomb was at Florence 
oral least was to be somewhere recognised. Whether the inscription so 
much disputed was ever written on the tomb cannot now be decided, for 
oil memorial of this author has disappeared from the church of St. Luke. 



* " Non enim ubique est, qui In excusationem meam consurgens dicat, 
iuvenis scripsit, et majoris coactus imperio." The letter was addressed 
to Maghinard of Cavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom of Sicily. 8ee Tira- 
boschi, Storia, &:c. lorn. v. par. ii. lib. iii. pag. 525. ed. Yen. 1795. 

t Dissertazioni sopra le anlicliitd Italiane. Diss. Iviii. p. 253. torn. iii. 
edit. Milan, 1751. 

J Eclnircjssement, &c. &c. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in the Supplement 
to Bayle's Dictionary. 

§ " Animadverii alicubi librum ipsiim canum dentibus lacessilura, tuo 
tamen baculo egregi^ tuftquc voce dcfensam. Nee miratus sum : nam et 
vires ingenii tui novi, et scio expertus esses hominum genus insolena et 
ignavum, qui quicquid ipsi vcl nolunt vel nesciunl, vel non possunt, in 
aliis reprehcndunt ; ad hoc unum docti el arguli, sed elingues ad reliqua." 
. . . Epist. Joan. Boccatio. 0pp. torn. i. p. 5-10. edit . Basil. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



71 



It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not 
resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who 
did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose 
the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 
Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the sixteenth 
century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the lomb of the 
Laureate, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio to 
the equal honours of Dante and cf Petrarch. 
34. 
What is her pyramid of precious stones? 

Stanza Ix. Une 1 . 
Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo and 
expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only at 
the source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the 
virtuous republicans of the family that we visit the 
church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, 
unfinished chapel in that church, designed for the mau- 
soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns 
and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of 
contempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, 
whilst the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father 
of his Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici.* 
It was very natural for Corinnaj to suppose that the 
statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de' 
depositi was intended for his great namesake; but the 
magnificent Lorenzo is only tne sharer of a coffin half 
hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tus- 
cany dates from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of tne 
sepulchral peace which succeeded to the establishment 
of the reigning families in Italy, our own Sidney has 
given us a glowing, but a faithful picture. " Notwith- 
standing all the seditions of Florence, and other cities of 
Tuscany, the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, 
Neri and Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued 
populous, strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space 
of less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable 
reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed nine 
parts in ten of the people of that province. Among 
other things it is remarkable, that when Philip the 
Second of Spain gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, 
his embassador then at Rome sent him word, that he 
had given away more than 650,000 subjects; and it 
not believed there are now 20,000 souls inhalsiting that 
city and territory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and 
other towns, that were then good and populous, are in 
the hke proportion diminished, and Florence more than 
any. When that city had been long troubled with sedi- 
tions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperous 
they still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII. 
of France, being admitted as a friend with his whole 
army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of Na- 
ples, thought to master them, the people, taking arms, 
struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to depart 
upon such conditions as they thought fit to impose. 
Machiavel reports, that in that time Florence alone, 
with the Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that 
city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, bring 
together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas now that 
city, with all the others in that province, arc brought to 
such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and 
baseness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of 
their ov/n prince, nor defend him or themselves if they 
were assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are 
dispersed or destroyed, and the best famihes sent to 
seek habitations in Venice, Genoa, Rome, Naples, and 
Lucca. This is not the effect of war or pestilence ; 
they enjoy a perfect peace, and suffer no other plague 
than the government they are under. "| From the 
usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, wo look 
in vain for any of those unmixed qualities which should 
raise a patriot to the command of liis fellow-citizens. 
The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo, 
had oneratcd so entire a change in the Tuscan character, 
that the candid Florentines, in excuse for some imper- 
fections in the philanthropic system of Leopold, arc 
obliged to confess that tlie sovereign was the only liberal 



man in his dominions. Yet that excellent prince him- 
self had no other notion of a national assembly, than of 
a body to represent the wants and wishes, not the will, 
of the people. 

35. 
An earthquake reeCd unheededly away. 

Stanza Ixiii. hne 5. 

"And such vjas their mutual animosity, so intent were 
they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which overthrew 
in great part many of the cities of Italy, which turned the 
course of rapid streams, poured back the sea upon the 
rivers, and tore down the very mountains, was not felt by 
one of the combatants."* Such is the description of 
Livy. It may be doubted whether modern tactics 
would admit of such an abstraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mis- 
taken. The traveller from the village under Cortona 
to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, 
has for the first two or three miles, around him, but 
more particularly to the right, that flat land which 
Hannibal laid waste in order to induce the Consul 
Flaminius to move from Arezzo. On his left, and in 
front of him, is a ridge of hills bending down towards 
the lake of Thrasimene, called by Livy "montes Cor- 
tonenses," and now named the Gualandra. These hills 
he approaches at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries 
pretend to have been so denominated from the bones 
found there: but there have been no bones found there, 
and the battle was fought on the other side of the hill. 
From Ossaja the road begins to rise a httle, but does 
not pass into the roots of the mountains until the sixty- 
seventh milestone from Florence. The ascent thence 
is not steep but perpetual, and continues for twenty 
minutes. The lake is soon seen below on the right, 
with Borghetto, a round tower close upon the water j 
and the undulating hills partially covered with wood, 
among which the road winds, sink by degrees into the 
marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road, down 
to the right amidst these woody hillocks, Hannibal 
placed his horse,! i" the jaws of or rather above the 
pass, which was between the lake and the present road, 
and most probably close to Borghetto, just under the 
lowest of the " tumuh."| On a summit to the left, above 
the road, is an old circular ruin which the peasants call 
" the Tower of Hannibal the Carthagenian." Arrived 
at the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 
view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he 
descends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale 
enclosed to the left and in front and behind him by the 
Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than 
a semicircle, and running down at each end to tne lake, 
which obliques to the right and forms the chord of this 
mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from 
the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so completely 
enclosed unless to one who is fairly within the hills. 
It then, indeed, appears " a place made as it were on 
purpose for a snare," locuj insidiis natus. " Borghetto 
IS then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass close to 
the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet 
at the opposite turn of the mountains than through the 
little townofPassignano, which is pushed into the water 
by the foot of a high rocky acclivity."^ There is a 
woody eminence branching down from the mountains 
into the upper end of the plain nearer to the side of 
Passignano, and on this stands a white village called 
Torre. Polybius seems to allude to this eminence as 
the one on which Hannibal encamped and drew out his 
heavy-armed Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous 
posit ion. II From this spot ho dcsjjatched his Balearic 



* r;o«mini MeilicM, necreto P\iblico. Filler Pntri*. 

t Coriiiiie, llv. xviii. cttp. ill. vol. ill. imKe 218. 

J OiUJovfiiiiinnit, clmp. II. «ccl. xxvl. pug. 208. .flit. n.")!. Slilii 
togoUiiT Willi Locke tiiid Hooilley, onu ol' Mr. llumu's " detpici 
wrllem. 



" Tnntvisquc fuil nritor nnimoriim, mleo intriiliii piignie tuiiniii, vit 
eiiin terrm inotiiinqiM iniiltnrnm iirliitini Itnliir initsiins piirtrs |iroatrnvit, 
iivoi-titquc ciii'811 i'ii|ii(li> uiiiiiiM, mnrc Itumiiiiliui iiwcxit, montrs Inp'U 
Itigeiili proruil, iivmo piigiuiiiliiim acnserit." . . . Tit. Llv. lib. xxii.cap. 
xll. 

t " KquiloB nil ipiiaa ruurcs •altiii lumvilis i\])te tcpditil'iis locnt." T. 
Livil.lll. xxii.iup. Iv. 

1 " t'bi innxiiiii' iiimitrs CnrtoiiciiictThrntiincmi* ■uliit." Ibid. 

I " Imic fnlli't njnin'KiiiiI.'* Iliiil. 

II TdvnivKaTiX irpAamnov Tti(; nopt(ac \A<}iov ivrd^ KaTt\rif>tTo »tnl 
Tofj At/Ji'as, (cal TO<'s" ''|3»)(ias, ixiuv in' dvrod KaTtarpitTntii'ivoi. 
Iljil. lib. lit. cnp. S3. Tbe iiicomn'iu Pol>bi>i»i« imt •opo'ilv rir.>iici!i»- 
iibU> Willi pri'ifiU nppciiiHmvs n» tliiit In Livy : he li»lK« ot IiilU lo Uio 
right uiid left o\ the pnw otid vnll.y ; bul wbiii rinmliiiii* liiilrml he had 
Ibti Inks at the right of both. 



\\ 



72 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



and light-armed troops round through the Gualandra 
heights to the right, so as to arrive unseen and form an 
ambush among the broken acchvities which the road 
now passes, and to be ready to act upon the left flank 
and above the enemy, whilst the horse shut up the pass 
behind. Flaminius came to the lake near Borghetto at 
sunset ; and, without sending any spies before him, 
marched through the pass the next morning before the 
day had quite broken, so that he perceived nothing of 
the horse and light troops above and about him, and 
saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on 
the hill of Torre.* The consul began to draw out his 
army in the flat, and in the mean time the horse in 
ambush occupied the pass behind him at Borghetto. 
Thus the Romans were completely inclosed, having 
the lake on the right, the main army on the hill of Torre 
in front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed 
on their left flank, and being prevented from receding 
by the cavalry, who, tlie farther they advanced, stopped 
up all the outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the 
lake now spread itself over the army of the consul, but 
the high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different 
corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for 
the order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and 
moved down from his post on the height. At the same 
moment all his troops on the eminences behind and in 
the flank of Flaminius, rushed forvvards as it were with 
one accord into the plain. The Romans, who were 
forming their array in the mist, suddenly heard the 
shouts of the enemy among them, on every side, and 
before they could fall into their ranks, or draw their 
swords, or see by whom they were attacked, felt at 
once that they were surrounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua- 
landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of 
these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and 
this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The 
second, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called 
"the bloody rivulet," and the peasants point out an open 
spot to the left between the " Sanguinetto" and the hills, 
which, they say, was the principal scene of slaughter. 
The other part of the plain is covered with thick set 
olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere quite level 
except near the edge of the lake. It is, indeed, most 
probable, that the battle was fought near this end of the 
valley, for the six thousand Romans, who, at the begin 
ning of the action, broke through the enemy, escaped to 
the summit of an eminence which must have been in 
this quarter, otherwise they would have had to traverse 
the whole plain and to pierce through the main army 
of Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but 
the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general 
dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon 
the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, 
but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto and the passes 
of the Gualandra, were strewed with dead. Near some 
old walls on a bleak ridge to the left above the rivulet 
many human bones have been repeatedly found, and 
this has confirmed the pretensions and the name of the 
"stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
some painter is the usual genius of the place, and the 
foreign Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with 
her native Virgil. | To the south we hear of Roman 
names. Near Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to 
the fame of an enemy, and Hannibal the Carthaginian 
is the only ancient name remembered on the banks of 
the Perugian lake. Flaminius is unknown ; but the 
postillions on that road have been taught to show the 
very spot where II Console Romano was slain. Of all 
who fought and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the 
historian himself has, besides the generals and Mahar- 
bal, preserved indeed only a single name. You over- 
take the Carthaginian again on the same road to Rome. 
The antiquary, that is, the hostler, of the posthouse at 
Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the victorious 



* " A tergo et eiiper caput decepere insidiiP." T. Liv. &c. 

t About the middle of the Xllth centui-y the coiiiB of JMaiit\ia bore oii 
finoside the image and tigure of Virgil. Zecca d'llalia, pi. xvii. i. 6. . . 
Voyage dans le &lilanaU, &c. par. A. Z. Millin. torn. ii. pag. 294. Paris, 
1817. 



enemy, and shows you the gate still called Porta di 
Annibale. It is hardly worth while to remark that a 
French travel writer, well known by the name of the 
President Deputy, saw Thrasimene m the lake of Bol- 
sena, which lay conveniently on his way from Sienna 
to Rome. 

36. 
But thou, ClUumnus. 

Stanza Ixvi. line I. 
No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and Spoleto, 
and no site, or scenery even in Italy, is more worthy 
a description. For an account of the dilapidation of 
this temple, the reader is referred to Historical Illustra- 
tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
37. 
Charming the eye ■mill dread, — a matchless cataract. 
Stanza Ixxi. line 9. 
I saw the " Cascata del marmore" of Terni twice, at 
different periods ; once from the summit of the precipice, 
and again from the valley below. The lower view is 
far to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one 
only ; but in any point of view, either from above or 
below, it is w^orth all the cascades and torrents of 
Switzerland put together ; the Staubach, Reichenbach, 
Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, &c. are rills in compara- 
tive appearance. Of the fall of Schaff hausen I cannot 
speak, not yet having seen it. 

38. 
An iris sits amidst the infernal surge. 

Stanza Lxxii. Une 3. 
Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of iris 
the reader may have seen a short account in a note to 
Manfred. The fall looks so much hke "the hell of 
waters'' that Addison thought the descent alluded to by 
the gulf in which Alecto plunged into the infernal re- 
gions. It is singular enough that two of the finest cas- 
cades in Europe should be artificial — this of the Velino, 
and the one at Tivoh. The traveller is strongly recom- 
mended to trace the Velino. at least as high as the little 
lake called Pie' di Lup. The Reatine territory was 
the Italian Tempe,* and the ancient naturalist, among 
other beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows 
of the lake Velinus.t A scholar of great name has 
devoted a treatise to this district alone. J 
39. 
The thundering lauwine. 

Stanza Ixxiii. line 5. 
In the greaterpart of Switzerland the avaleuiches are 
known by the name of lauwine. 

40. 

/ abhorr''d 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The driWd dull lesson, forced down ward by word. 
Stanza Ixxv. lines 6, 7, and 8. 
These stanzas may probably remind the reader of 
Ensign Northerton's remarks: "D — n Homo," &c. 
but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. 
I wish to express that we become tired of the task be- 
fore we can comprehend the beauty ; that we learn by 
rote before we can get by heart ; that the freshness is 
worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage 
deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, 
at an age when we can neither feel nor understand the 
power of compositions which it requires an acquaintance 
with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to 
reason upon. For the same reason we never can be 
aware of the fulness of >some of the finest passages of 
Shakspeare, ("To be, or not to be," for instance,) from 
the habit of having them hammered into us at eight 
years old, as an exercise not of mind but of memory : 
so that when we are old enough to enjoy them, the tast© 



* " Reatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunl." Cicer. epist. ad Attic. XT, 
lib.lv. 

1 " In eodem lacu nullo non die apparere arcus." Plin. Hist, Nat. 
lib. ii. cap. Ixii. 

X Aid. Manut. de Rentina urbe agroque, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur, torn. 
i.p.773. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



73 



is gone, and the appetite palled. In some parts of the 
Continent, young persons are taught fronwnore common 
authors, and do not read the best classics till their 
maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point from 
any pique or aversion towards the place of my education. 
I was not a slow, though an idle boy ; and I believe no 
one could, or can be more attached to Harrow than I 
have always been, and wilh reason ; — a part of the time 
passed there was the happiest of my life; and my pre- 
ceptor (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best and 
worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I 
have remembered but too well, though too late — when 
I have erred, and whose counsels I nave but followed 
when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 
record of my feehngs towards him should reach his 
eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him 
but with gratitude and veneration — of one who v/ould 
more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more 
closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any 
honour upon his instructor. 
41. 
The Scipios^ tomb contains no ashes now. 

Stanza Ixxix. line 5. 
For a comment on this and the two following stanzas, 
the reader may consult Historical Illustrations of the 
Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
42. 
The trebly hundred triumphs. 

Stanza Ixxxii. hne 2. 
Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the num- 
ber of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius ; and 
Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writers. 
43. 
Oh thouy whose chariot roWd on Fortune's ivheel, &c. 
Stanza Ixxxiii. line 1. 
Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life 
of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him 
as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. 
The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire 
may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have 
satisfied the Romans, who if they liad not respected 
must have destroyed him. There could be no mean, 
no division of opinion; they must have all thought, like 
Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love 
of glory, and that what had been mistaken for pride was 
a real grandeur of soul.* 

44. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 

SUnva. Ixxxvi. line 4. 
On the third of September, Cromwell gained the vic- 
tory of Dunbar ; a year afterwards he obtained " his 
crowning mercy" of Worcester ; and a few years after, 
on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most 
fortunate for him, died. 

45. 
And thou^ dread statue ! still exittent in 
The austerestform ofjiaked majesty. 

Stanza Ixxwii. lines 1 and 2. 
The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it 
in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca,| and it may be 
added to his mention of it that Pope Julius Hi. gave 
the contending owners five hundred crowns for the 
Btatuc; and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, 
who had prevented the judgment of Solomon from being 
executed upon the image. In a more civilized age this 
statue was exposed to an actual operation: for the 
French who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coli- 
eenm resolved that their Catsar should fall at the haso 
of that Pompey, which was suppf)sed to have b(<'n 
sprinkled wilh the bUod of the original dictator. Tin- 
nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 



* " Seigneur, vout chanfcrz toutpi mrs i(16c« dp la fiicmi <t'>nt ]e voim 
voii nRlf. Jo croyoiiquc voiib nvicz di- rninliilion, tmiin luicmi imioiii- 
pour la Rlolrc : ]e voyoU blen quo volrt- fttur fitiiil liiuile ; nhii« |c ii<> »oini- 
^oniioii |)n»qii'ellefiitpr«nde."— Dlalomjo de Hyllael d'Kiirrni"*. 

t Mcmorle, imm. Ivli. pag. 9. ni). Montfuucoii, Ui«rliim IluUcum. 
li 



the amphitheatre, and to faciUtateits transport suffered 
the temporary amputation of its right arm. The re- 
publican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 
restoration : but their accusers do not believe that the 
integrity of the statue would have protected it. The 
love of finding every coincidence has discovered the 
true Caesarian ichor in a stain near the right knee : but 
colder criticism has rejected not only the blood but the 
portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather to the 
first of the emperors than to the last of the republican 
masters of Rome. Winkelmann* is loath to allow an 
heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani 
Agrippa, a colemporary almost, is heroic; and naked 
Roman figures were only very rare, not absolutely for- 
bidden. I'he face accords much better with the '■^homi- 
nem integrum et casium et gravem,''''\ than with any of 
the busts of Augustus, and is too stern for him who was 
beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods of his life. The 
pretended likeness to Alexander the Great cannot be 
discerned, but the traits resemble the medal of Pom- 
pey.| The objectionable globe may not have been an 
ill-applied flattery to him who found Asia Minor the 
boundary, and left it the centre of the Roman empire. 
It seems^ that Winkelmann has made a mistake in think- 
ing that no proof of the identity of this statue, with that 
which received the bloody sacrifice, can be derived from 
the spot where it was discovered. § Flaminius Vacca 
says sotto una cantina, and this cantina is known to have 
been in the Vicolo de' Leutari near the Cancellaria, a 
posiiion corresponding exactly to that of the Janus be- 
fore the basilica of Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus 
transferred the statue after the curia was either burnt 
or taken down.|| Part of the Pompeian shade, H the 
portico, existed in the beginning of the XVth century, 
and the atrium was still called Salrum. So says Blon- 
dus.** At all events, so imposing is the stern majesty 
of the statue, and so memorat)le is the story, that the play 
of the imagination leaves no room for the exercise of 
the judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates 
on the spectator with an effect not less powerful than 
truth. 

46. 
And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 

Stanza Ixxxviii. line 1. 
Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded most 
probably with images of the foster-mother of her founder: 
but there were two she-wolves of whom history makes 
particular mention. One of these, of brass in ancient 
work, was seen by Dionysiusjt at the temple of Romulus, 
under the Palatine, and is universally believed to be 
that mentioned by tlie Latin historian, as having been 
made from the money collected by a fine on usurers, 
and as standing under the Ruminal fig-tree.tf The 
other was that which Cicero§§ has celebrated both in 
prose and verse, and which the historian Dion also re- 
cords as having suffered the same accident as is alluded 
to by the orator. |||| The question agitated by the anti- 



* Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. ix. cap. 1. pag. 521,322. tom.ii. 
t Cicer. Epist. ad Atticum, xi. 6. 
i Published by Causeiis in liis Museum RomRnum. 
^ Sloriu delle Arti, &c. Ibid. 

II Suetoii. in vit. August, cap. 31, and in vit. C. J. Cffsar. cap. P8. 
Appian aava i( was burnt duwn. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetoniui, pog. 

H " Tu modo Pompeia lenta apatiare sub umbra." 

Ovid. Ar. Aman. 
•• Roma iiiitaurata, lib. ii. fo, 31. 

It Xd\Ktri nontfiara TraAaifts lpYa(r(a^. Antiq. Rom. lib. 1. 
l\ " Ad ficiim Uiiminnlom simutncia infantium conditoniin urbis sub 
ubcribuB lupe posuerunt." Liv. Hist. lib. x. cap. Ixix. This waa in Ibn 



U. C.ASi, 



■ ■^.-^^. 



§^ " Turn aiaiun Niitia;, turn iiimulnrra Dcorum, Romulu«que et R«- 
miiacum altricc bcllua vl fulminia ictia coiicidminl." De Uivinnt. 11. 
'U). " TartuaoBt ille cllnm qui liniic urbem condidit Romulua.Qurm inau. 
rn(uii\ in C'uijitolio pnrvum mque lacloiitcm, uberibua lupinia Uiliianlem 
I'uisHu mviiuiiiaUB." Int'uliliji. iii. 8. 

" llir ailveatria ernt Ronuini nominia allrix 
Martin, qun; pnrvos Miivurtis ariuiiie imtoa 
TMieiiliusp-avidia vilali rorc rik'tbut 
Q,wt turn cum purrla tiammnto rulniinia icdi 
Concldit, ulqui- avuUu pi'dum vt'kliKin liquil." 

De Couaidalu, lib. ii. (lib. i. >!c 1 liviiuit. cap. li.> 
nil 'F.v' ydp T<5 KnntfToXKf) dvi'pK'i'TK ri itoXSol <fri» Kijxmvav 
(rvv«;^iuvii)OT)(rai', icai (t>dX/iara aXXa rt, Kal Cid^ tv\ #ciovo« liJpv^- 
<i<ov, liKuiv rt T»j Xv/caivni; <Tvv rt rfi "Pm/iy) koI <Ti<v tC> 'PiuuvX^ 
Itfpv/iivij <rr«irij. Dion, lliat. lib. xxxvil. pnu. 37. idil. Hob. Steph. 
LWH. lie Ronaon to mcnlioii thni Uip Wttri-a of the columna on which the 
luwa wera written were liqucllrd and become d/tvi^pii. Ati that lh« 



74 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 






cjuaries is, whether the wolf now in the conservators' 
palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or that of Cicero, 
or whether it is neither one nor the other. The earlier 
writers differ as much as the n>oderns : Lucius Faunus* 
says, that it is the one alluded to by both, which is im- 
possible, and also by Virgil, which may be. Fulvius 
Ursinusj calls it the wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus J 
talks of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To him 
Rycquius tremblingly assents. § Nardini is inclined to 
suppose it may be one of the many wolves preserved in 
ancient Rome ; but of the two rather bends to the Cice- 
ronian statue. !| MontfauconH mentions it as a point 
without doubt. Of the latter writers the decisive Win- 
kelmann** proclaims it as having been found at the 
church of Saint Theodore, where, or near where, was 
the temple of Romulus, and consequently makes it the 
wolf of Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, 
who, however, only says that it was placed, not found, 
at the Ficus Ruminalis, by the Comitium, by which he 
does not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theo- 
dore. Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and 
Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 

Flarainius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says 
he had heard the wolf with the twins was foundjl near 
the arch of Septimius Sever us. The commentator on 
Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that learned 
person, and is incensed at Nardini for not having 
remarked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf struck 
with lightning in the Capitol, makes use of the past 
tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Nardini does not 
positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by 
Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not per- 
haps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate 
himself is obliged to own that there are marks very like 
the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the present 
wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf seen by 
Dionysius might have been also struck by lightning, or 
otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems to 
particularize the Romulus and the Remus, especially 
the first, which his audience remembered to have been 
in the Capitol, as being struck with lightning. Li his 
verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and 
that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Cicero 
does not say that the wolf was consumed ; and Dion 
only mentions that it fell down, without alluding as the 
Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, or the 
firmness with which it had been fixed. The whole 
strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs upon 
the past tense ; which, however, may be somewhat 
diminished by remarking that the phrase only shows 



Romans did was to erect a large statue to Jupiter, looking towards the 
earn : no mention is afterwards made of ttie wolf. This happened in A 
IJ. C. 689. The Abate Fea, in noticing this passage of Dion (Storia delle 
Arti, &c. torn. i. pag. 202. note x.) says, Non ostante, aggiunge Dione, 
che fosse benfermata (the wolf,) by which it is clear the Abate translated 
the Xylandro-Leunclavian version, which puts gunxnvis stabilita for the 
original i{ pv /livr) , a word that does not mean ben fermata, but only 
raised, as may be distinctly seen from another passage of the same Dion : 
'HjSovXjjOn ii.tv ovv 6' Aypiffffaj (cat tov Avyovo'Tov ivravSa logijo-ai. 
Hist. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agrippa "wished to raise a statue o( 
Augustus in the Pantheon." 

* " lu eadem porticu jenea lupa, cujus uberil)us Romulus ac Remus 
lactantes inhiant, conspicitur : de liac Cicero et Virgilius semper intel- 
lexere. Livius hoc signum ab JEdilibus ex pecuniis quihus mulctati 
essent fccneratores, positum innuit. Antea in Comitiis ad Ficum Rumi- 
nalem, quo loco pueri fuerant expositi locatum pro certo est." Luc. Fauni 
Af. Autiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii.cap.vii. ap. Sallengre, tom.i. p. 217. In his 
XVIIih chapter he repeals that tlie statues were there, but not that they 
were found there. 

I t Ap. Nardini Roma Vetut, lib. v. cap. iv. 

JMarlianiUrb. Rom. topograph, lib. ii. cap.ix. He mentions another 
wolf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap. xxi. 

§ "Non degunt qui banc Ipsam esse putent, quam adpinximus, quiE i 
eomitio in Basilicam Lateranum, cum nonnuUis aliis antiquitatum reli 
quiis, aique hinc in Capitolium postea relata sit, quamvis Marlianus anii- 
duam Capitolinam esse maluit d Tullio descriplam, cui ut in re nimis 
dubia, trepidd adsentimur." Just. Rvcquii de Capit. Roman. Comm. 
cap. xxiv. pag. 250. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1696. 

II Nardini Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 

M "Lupa hodieque In capitoliuis prostrat adibus, cum vestigio fulminis 
quo ictam narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn. i. p. 174. 

• • Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. iii. cap. iii. § ii. note 10. Winkelmann has 
made a strange blunder in the note, by saying the Ciceronian wolf was 
not in the Capitol, and that Dion was wrong in saying so. 

tt " Inlesi dire, che I'Ercolo di bronzo, che oggi si trova nella sala di 
Campidoglio, fu trovalo nel foro Rommio ajtpresso I'arco di Settimio : e 
vi fu trovata anche la lupa di bronzo che allata Romolo e Remo, e std 
nella Loggia de conservatori." Flam. Vacca, Memorie, num. iii. pag. 
>. ap. Montfaucon, Diur. Ital. torn. i. 



that the statue was not then standing in its former posi- 
tion. Winkelmann has observed, that the present 
twins are modern ; and it is equally clear that there 
are marks of gilding on the wolf which might therefore 
be supposed to make part of the ancient group. It is 
known that the sacred images of the Capitol were not 
destroyed when injured by time or accident, but were 
put into certain under-ground depositaries called /aDi»-| 
scB* [t may be thought possible that the wolf ha^ 
been so deposited, and had been replaced in some con- 
spicuous situation when the Capitol was rebuilt b} 
Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentionhig his authorityJ 
tells that it was transferred from the Comitium to the 
Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it wi 
found near the arch of Severus, it may have been on€ 
of tiie images which Orosiusf says was thrown down in' 
the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the city. That 
it is of very high antiquity the workmanship is a decisive 
proof; and that circumstance induced Winkelmann to 
believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf^ 
however, may have been of the same early date as that 
at the temple of Romulus. LactantiusJ asserts that in 
his time the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is known 
that the Lupercaha held out to a very late period§ after 
every other observance of the ancient superstition had 
totally expired. This may account for the preservation 
of the ancient image longer than the other early sym- 
bols of Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that the 
wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of that 
symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lactantius. 
The early Christian writers are not to be trusted in the 
charges which they make against the Pagans. Euse- 
bius accused the Romans to their faces of worshipping 
Simon Magus, and raising a statue to him in the island 
of the Tybey. The Romans had probably never heard 
of such a person before, who came, however, to play a 
considerable, though scandalous part in the church 
history, and has left several tokens of his aerial combat 
with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding that an in- 
scription found in this very island of the Tyber showed 
the Simon Llagusof Eusebius to be a certain indigenal 
god, called Setno Sangus or Fidius.|| 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had 
been abandoned, it was thought expedient to humour 
the habits of the good matrons of the city by sending 
them with their sick infants to the church of Saint Theo- 
dore, as they had before carried them to the temple of 
Romulus. IT The practice is continued to this day; and 
the site of the above church seems to be thereby iden- 
tified with that of the temple : so that if ihe wolf had 
been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there 
would be no doubt of the present statue being that seen 
by Dionysius.** But Faunus, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only talking 
of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny ; and even 
if he had been remarking where it was found, would 
not have alluded to the church of Saint Theodore, but 



I 



* I>uc. Faun. ibid. 

t See note to stanza LXXX. in Historical Illustrations. 

J" Romuli nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecta divinis, ct ferrera si 
animal ipsum fuisset, cuius figuram gerit." Lactaiit. de Falsa Religione 
lib. 1. cap. 20. pag. 101 . edit, varior. 1660 ; that is to say, ht would 
rather adore a wolf than a prostitute. His commentator has observed 
that the opinion of Livy concerning Laurentia being figured in this wolf 
was not vuiiversal. Strabo thought so. Rycquius is wrong in saying thai 
Lactantius mentions the wolf was in the Capitol. 

§To A.D. 496. " Q,uis credere possit," says Baronius [Ann. Eccles. 
tom. viii. p. 602. in an. 496.,] "viguisse adhuc Romse ad Gelassii tem- 
pera, quae fuere ante exordia urbis allata in Italiam Lupercalia?" Gela- 
sius wrote a letter which occupies four folio pages to Andromachus the 
senator, and others, to show that the rites should be given up. 

II Eusebius has these words : icoi ivdptdvTi rrop' i>ixZv ibj S-tds rtrC- 
injTai, iv TtD T^/Stpi norajha iitra^ij tCov Svo ytipvp&v, s;^;ttiv in-i- 
ypa0ijv 'Pmiia'iKrjv ravrijv Zlfiuivi Ciu) ZayKTia. Eccles. Hist. lib. 
ii. cap. xiii. p. 40. Justin Martyr had told the story before ; but Baronius 
himself was obliged to detect this fable. See Nardini Roma Vet. lib. vii. 
cap. xii. 

IT " In essa gli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de' giuochi Lu- 
percali islituiti in onore di Romolo, introdussero I'uso di portarvi Bam- 
bini oppressi da infermitiiocculte, acci6si liberino per I'intercessione di 
questo Santo, come di continue si sperimenta." Rionexii. Ripa accu- 
rata e succincta descrizione, &c. di Roma Moderna dell' Ab. Ridolf. 
Venuti, 1766. , 

*' Nardini, lib. v. cap. 11. convicts Pomponius Lxtus crassi erroris, 
in putting the Ruminal fig-tree at the church of Saint Theodore : but as 
Livy says the wolf was at the Ficus Ruminalis. and Dionysius at the tem- 
ple of Romulus, he is obliged (cap. iv.) to own that the'two were close 
together, as well as the Lupercal care, shaded, at it were, by the fig-tree. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



75 



to a very different place, near which it was then thought 
the Ficus Ruminalis had been, and also the Comitium ; 
that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria 
Liberatrice, at the corner of the Palatine looking on 
the Forum. 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was 
actually dug up,* and perhaps, on the whole, the marks 
of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argument 
in faveur of its being the Ciceronian wolf than any that 
can be adduced for the contrary opinion. At any rate, 
it is reasonably selected in the text of the poem as one 
of the most interesting relics of the ancient city,"f and 
is certainly the figure, if not the very animal to which 
Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses : 

"Geminoshuic ubera circum 
Ludere pendentes pucros, et lambere matrem 
Impavidos : illam (ereli cervice reflexam 
Mulcere alternos, et corpora fiugere liugu&.J 

47. 
For the Romaics mind 
Was modeWd in a less terrestrial trumld. 

Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 

It is possible to be a very great man and to be still 
very inferior to Julius Caesar, the most complete cha- 
racter, so Lord Bacon thouglit, of all antiquity. Nature 
seems incapable of such extraordinary combinations as 
composed his versatile capacity, which was the wonder 
even of the Romans themselves. The first general — 
the only triumphant politician — inferior to none in elo- 
quence — comparable to any in the attainments of wis- 
dom, in an age made up of the greatest commanders, 
statesmen, orators, and philosophers that ever appeared 
in the world — an author who composed a perfect spe- 
cimen of military annals in his travelling carriage — at 
one time in a controversy with Cato, at another writing 
a treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good say- 
ings — fighting§ and making love at the same moment, 
and willmg to abandon both his empire and his mistress 
for a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. Such did 
Julius CaGsar appear to his cotemporarics and fo those 
of the subsequent ages, who were the most inclined to 
deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his sur- 
passing glory, or with his magnanimous, his amiable 
qualities, as to forget the decision of his impartial coun- 
trymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN. |i 
48. 
JVliatfrom this barren being do we reap 7 
Our senses narrow, and our reason fraii. 

Stanza xciii. lines 1 and 2. 
" . . . . omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, nihil 



* "Ad comitium fic\ia olim Ruminalis perminabal, sub qua liipa; ru- 
mam, hoc est, mammam, docente Varrone, siixerant olim Roiniihis et 
RemiiB ; jaon procul a teniplo hodie D. MariiE Liburatricis appellate ubi 
/or«(in invcnla iiobilis ilia ii.'iii;a «latua Inpa; geminos piieruios lactaiilis, 
qiiam Iiodic in ■capitolio videmue." Olai Borrichii Antiqua Urbis Ro- 
mann; Faciea caj). x. See also cap. xii. IJorricbius wrote after Nardiiii 
in 1687. Ap. <jira;v. Ainiq. Rom. toni. iv- p. 1522. 

t Donafus, lib. xi. cap. 18. gives a medal representing on one side the 
•wolf in the same iiosilion as that in the Capitol ; (iiid in the reverse the 
wolf with the head not reverted. It is of the time of Antoninus Pius. 

J Ma. viii.631. See— Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from Rome, who 
inclines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the subject. 

§ lu hii tenth book, Lucan shows him spriuklcd with the bloud of Flmr- 
■alia in the arms of Cleopatra, 

Sanguine Thessalicn; cladis perfusus adulter 
Admisil Vencrcm curis, et miscuil armis. 

After feasting with liis mistress, he eils up all night to converse with 
4hc A)gyptiau sages, anti tells Achorcus, 

Spes sit mihi certa vidcndi 
Niliacoi fontes, helium civile relinquam. 
" Sic vclut in tuta eecnri pace trahebant 
Noctis iter medium." 
Immediately afterwards, ho is fif^hting again and defending every 
position. 

" Sed adost defensor nblqiie 
Cteaar ct boi adllui gladiis, hos ignibus arret 
• . . . . cp^ca noctecarlnis 
Insilult Cresar semper feliciter usus 
PriBcipiti cursu bellorum el temi)ore rapto." 
II "Jure cmsus exi»timetnr," says Suetonius, after a fair estimnllon 
of his ctuirHcter, and mnking use of a ))hrasu which was a formula In 
Livy'g time. "Melium Jure ca-sum pr'in\iutiavit, eliam si rognl crlmine 
Insnns fuerit :" [lib. iv. cap. 48.1 and wliirh was continued .In thn legal 
ludgmeuls pronounred in Justlflable houiiiides, surh as kiUin? house- 
breakers. Nee Suelon. iu Vlt. C. J. Ca'sar, with the commentary of 
Pitiscus, ii.lHI. 



percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos sensus ; 
imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vita; ; in profundo 
veritatem demersam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia 
teneri ; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tenebris 
circumfusa esse dixerunt,"* The eighteen hundred 
years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have 
not removed any of the imperfections of humanity ; and 
the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, without 
injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a poem written 
yesterday, 

49. 
There is a stern round tower of other days. 

Stanza xcix. line I. 
Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo 
di Bove, in the Appian Way. See — Historical Illustra- 
tions of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 

50. 

Prophetic of tlie doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early death. 

Stanza cii. lines 5 and 6. 
'Ov 01 &Eol ^iXovaiVf anoOvri<TK£i viog. 
Td yap Savelv oIk alaxpov, aXA' atuxP^S Saveiv. 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetse Gnoraici, 
p. 231, edit. 1784. 

51. 

BeJiold the Imperial Mount ! His tims the mighty falls. 
Stanza cvii. line 9. 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
formed of crumbled brickwork. Nothing has been told, 
nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a 
Roman antiquary. See — Historical Illustrations, page 
206. 

62. 
There is the moral of all human tales : 
^Tis but the same rehearsal oftliepast, 
First Freedom, and then Glory, &c. 

Stanza cviii. lines 1, 2, and 3. 
The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his 
cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- 
sage : "From their railleries of this kind, on the barba- 
rity and misery of our island, one cannot help reflecting 
on the surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; how 
Rome, once the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, 
empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, 
and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as avcII as to 
the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition and reli- 
gious imposture : while this remote country, anciently 
the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, is become 
the happy seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; flourishing 
in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; yet running 
perhaps the same course which Rome itself had run 
before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; from wealth 
to luxury; from luxury to an impatience of disci|)line, 
and corruption of morals : till, by a total degeneracy and 
loss of virtue, being grown ripe for destruction, it fall a 
prey at last to some hardy oppressor, and, witJi the loss 
of liberty, losing every thing that is valuable, sinks 
gradually again into its original barbarism."t 
53. 
And apostolic xtaivcs clinib 
2'o crush the imperial urn, whose ashes sicpt sublime. 

Stanza ex. lines 8 and 9. 
The column of Trajan is surmoiuited by St. Peter; 
that of Aurclius by St. Paul. See — Historical Illustra- 
tions of the IVth Canto, &c. 
54. 
Still we Traja7i's name ailorc. 

Stanza cxi. line 9. 
Trajan was proverbially the best of tiio Roman 



• Academ. 1. 13. 

t The Ilislorv of the Life of M. Tnllius Cicero, sect. vl. vol. ii. p. IM. 
The contrast lias been reversed in u late extnioiHlinnry Instance. A 
gentleman was thrown into prison at Paris ; rftoris were iti*d»' foi liia 
release. The French minister continued to detain h'.m, under lltr pretext 
that he was not an Knglishmnn, but onlv a Roiimn. See " InterMtlng 
Facts relating to .loachini Mural," pag. l39. 



76 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



princes ;* and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one 
possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this 
emperor. "When he mounted the throne," sa)fs the 
historian Dion,! " he was strong in body, he was vigor- 
ous in mind; age had impaired none of his faculties; 
he was altogether free from envy and from detraction ; 
he honoured all the good, and he advanced them ; and 
on this account they could not be the objects of his 
fear, or of his hate ; he never listened to informers ; he 
gave not way to his anger; he abstained equally from 
unfair exactions and unjust punishments ; he had rather 
be loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign; he 
was affable with his people, respectful to the senate, 
and universally beloved by both ; he inspired none with 
dread but the enemies of his country." 
55. 
Rienzi, last of Romans. 

Stanza cxiv. line 5. 
The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to 
the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited 
manuscripts relative to this unhappy hero will be seen 
in the Illustrations of the IVth Canto. 



56. 
Egerial sioeet creation of some heart 
TVkich found no moHal resting-place so fair 
As iluns ideal breast. 

Stanza cxv. lines 1, 2, and 3. 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
incline us to beheve in the claims of the Egerian grotto. J 
He assures us that he saw an inscription in the pave- 
ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeria, 
dedicated to the nymphs. The inscription is not there 
at this day ; but Montfaucon quotes two lines§ of Ovid 
from a stone in the Villa Ginstiniani, which he seems 
to think had been brought from the same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented in 
summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by 
the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality 
to the fountain which trickles from an orifice at the 
bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the httle pools, 
creeps down the matted grass into the brook below. 
The brook is the Ovidian Almo, whose name and 
qualities are lost in the modern Aquataccio. The valley 
itself is called Valle di CatTarelii, from the dukes of that 
name who made over their fountain to the Pallavicini, 
with sixty rubbia of adjoining land. 

There can be Uttle doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
Umbritius, notwithstanding the generauty of his com- 
mentators have supposed the descent of the satirist and 
his friend to have been into the Arician grove, where 
the nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was more 
peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, 
fifteen miles distant, would be too considerable, unless 
we v/ere to believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, 
who makes that gate travel from its present station. 



• " Hujus tantum memorias delatum est, ut, usque ad nostram ffitatem 
nou aliler in Senatu principibus acclamatur, nisi, FELICIOR . 
AVGVSTO . MELIOR . TRAJANO." Eutrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. 
lib. viii. cap. v. 

t T0 T£ ydp<rw/iartspptt)TO Kai ttj xpvxi} tjicfia^ev, o>s 

fiTjB' irrd yjjpojf djiSXiivto-Sai .... Kal ovt' i(pSovti ovtc KaOrjpzt. rivd, 
iWd. Kal nd'vv Tzavras roig dyaOoij irCfia Kal ijitydXyvs- Kal Cid 
TOVTO ovrc. l<j>o6tXT6 riva airuv, ovrt ifilcst. . . diaCoXat^ re rjKwra 
iKicrrcve, Kal bpy^ tjKio-Ta HovXovto- tmv ri xov/^drwy rCiv 
dWrnroioiV H(ra Kal (p6vuiv tCov ddlKcov dT£^,v^TO . . . '. ^iXov fitvd s t£ 
oi)V Ik' ahroli lidXXov 7] TifjLwficvog sxaige, Kal tio rt 5-i)\i(a fitr' 
inttiKua^crvvtylvtin, Kal rfi yi)Qov<Tia a-tfivnopcTruis iiiiCXai- dyaTr- 
rds niv ndcri.- (j)o6iQds Ci iirjiivl, ttXtjv TcoXenlois-ciiv. Hist. Rom lib 
Ixviii. cap. vi. el vii. torn. ii. p. 1123, 1124, edit. Hamb. 1750. 

t " Poco lontaiio dal detto luo?osi scende ad un casoletlo, del qualen 
e sono Padroni li Cafarelli, che con qjesto nome e chiamalo it iuo?o ; vi 
d una fontana sotto una gran volta antica, che al presente si gode, e li 
Romani vi vanno I'estate a ricrearsi ; ncl pavimento di essa fonle si le'-'e 
In un epitaffio essere quella la fonte di Egeria, dedioata alle niiife°°e 
questa, dice I'epilaftio, essere la medesima fonte in cui fu convertita." 
Meinorie, &c. ap. Nardini, pag. 13. He does not give the inscription. 

§ " In villa Justiniana exlat ingens lapis quadratus solidus in quo 
•culpta hac duo Ovidii carmina sunt : 

iEgeria est qus prjebel aquas dea gmla Pamcenia 
ilia Numa conjunx consiliumque fuit. 
Cliii lapis videtur ex eodcm Es-erise fonle, aul ejus vicinia isthuc compor- 
Ulus." Diarium Italic, d, 153. 



where he pretends it was during the reign of the kings, 
as far as the Arician grove, and then makes it recede 
to its old site with the shrinking city.* The tufo, or 
puraice, which the poet prefers to marble, is the sub- 
stance composing the banlt in which the grotto is sunk. 

The modern topographerst find in the grotto the 
statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, and 
a late traveller! has discovered that the cave is restored 
to that simplicity which the poet regretted had been 
exchanged for injudicious ornament. But the headless 
statue is palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has 
none of the attributes ascribed to it at present visible. 
The nine Muses could hardly have stood in six niches ; _ 
and Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual m 
cave.§ Nothing can be collected from the satirist but ■ 
that somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations 
with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a 
sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the 
Muses ; and that from this spot there was a descent 
into the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial 
caves. It is clear that the statues of the Muses mad« 
no part of the decoration which the satirist thought 
misplaced in these caves ; for he expressly assigns other 
fanes (delubra) to these divinities above "the valley, and 
moreover tells us that they had been ejected to make 
room for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called I 
that of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the | 
Muses, and Nardini|| places them in a poplar grove, ■ 
which was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, that 
the 'cave now shown may be one of the "artificial 
caverns," of which, indeed, there is another a little way 
higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but 
a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invention, 
grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian to 
these nymphea in general, and which might send us to 
look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of the 
Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- 
lation by his acquaintance with Pope : he carefully 
preserves the correct plural — 

" Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian gTots ; oh, how unlike tJie true I" 

The valley abounds with springs, 1[ and over these 
springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- 
bouring groves, Egeria presided: hence she was said 
to suj)ply them with water ; and she was the nymph of 
the grottos through which the fountains were taught to 
flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
Egerian valley have received names at will, which have 
been changed at will. Venuti** owns he can see no 
traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and 
Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The 
mutatorium of Caracalla's circus, the temple of Honour 
and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the 
temple of tlie god Rediculus, are the antiquaries' 
despair. 

The cii-cus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that 
emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse 
shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to represent 
the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of that 
place of exercise. The soil has been but little raised, 
if we may judge from the small cellular structure at 
the end of the Spina, which was probably the chapel 
of the god Comus. This cell is half beneath the soil, 



* DeMagnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Greev. Ant. Rom. tom. iv. p. 1507. 
t Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' agro Romano, corretto dall' 
Abate Venuti, in Roma, 1750. They believe in the gi-otto and nymph, 
" Simulacro di questo fonte, essendovi sculpiie le acque a pie di es»o." 
J Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217. vol. ii. 
§ " Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, 
Hie ubi nocturnffi Numa constiluebat amicaj. 
Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
Judxis quorum cophinum foenamque supellex. 
Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est 
Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva C/'amoenis. 
In vallem Egeria; descendimus, et speluncas 
Dissimiles veris : quanlo priEstantius esset 
Numen aqua, viridi si margine clauderel undas 
Herba, nee ingenuum violarent marmora tophum." 

Sat.III. 
II Lib. iii. cap. iii. 

IT "Undiquee solo aquae scaturiunt." Nardini, lib. iii. cap. iii, 
^* Echinard, &c. Cic. cit. p. 297, 298, 



I 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



77 



as it must have been in the circus itself, for Dionysius* 
could not be persuaded to believe that this divinity was 
the Roman Neptune, because his altar was under 
ground. 

57. 
Yet let us ponder boldly. 

Stanza cxxvii. line 1. 
"At all events," says the author of the Academical 
Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate of my 
own speculations, that philosophy will regain that 
estimation which it ought to possess. The free and 
philosophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of 
admiration to the world. This was the proud distinc- 
tion of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all 
iheir glory. Shall we then forget the manly and dignified 
sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language 
of the mother or the nurse about our good old preju- 
dices ? This is not the way to defend the cause of 
truth. It was not thus that our fathers maintained it 
in the brilhant periods of our history. Prejudice may 
be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of 
time while reason slumbers in the citadel ; but if the 
latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect 
a standard for herself Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, 
support each other: he who will not reason is a bigot; 
he who cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a 
slave." Preface, p. xiv, xv. vol. i. 1803. 

68. 

Cheat Nemesis! 
HcrCf where the ancient paid thee Ivomage long. 

Stanza cxxxiL hues 2 and 3. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warning 
received in a dream,| counterfeited, once a year, the 
beggar, sitting before the gate of his palace with his 
hand hollowed and stretched out for charity. A statue 
formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be 
now at Paris, represents the Emperor in that posture 
of supplication. The object of this self degradation was 
the appeasementof Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on 
good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors 
were also reminded by certain symbols attached to 
their cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and 
the crolalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of 
the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above 
statue pass for that of Bclisarius: and until the criti- 
cism of WinkelmannJ had rectified the mistake, one 
fiction was called in to support another. It was the 
same fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that 
made Amasis king of Egypt warn his friend Polycrates 
of Samos, that the gods loved those whose lives were 
chequered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was 
supposed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent; 
that is for those whose caution rendered them accessi- 
ble only to mere accidents : and her first altar was 
raised on the banks of the Phrygian ^sepus by Adras- 
tus, probably the prince of that name who killed the son 
of CrcDsus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called 
Adrastea.§ 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august : there 
was a temple to her in the Palatine under the name of 
Rhamnusia:|| so great indeed was the propensity of 
the ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to 
believe in the divinity of Fortune, that in the same 
Palatine there was a temple to the Fortune of the day.U 
This is the last superstition which retains its hold over 
the human heart; and from concentrating in one object 
the credulity so natural to man, has always appeared 
strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of 
belief. The antiquaries have supposed this goddess to 



• Atiliii. Uom. lit), ii. cnp. xxxi. 

I Siicioii. in Vit. Aiifiinti, cap. 91, Caionbnn, in Uip iiotp, rofi>rn to 
Pliitiirch'ii I.lvpn of CHmillim iinil ^^mllitjc Pniilim niicl hIso Io liiii npofili- 
lhcc;ini, for ilie f.lianicler of tliig tieily . The liollowwi liiiiid »b» rcckoiii><l 
llii' Inm (li-Kicp of (Icunuliilioii ; and wlicn (In- (It-nd liody of (lie prn-frcl 
Hufiniiii w:iii lioriie nboiil iuli-inmpli by llie i)Coplc, tliu indignity wa« in- 
criiiiaed liy iiiillin); liis lintid in lliat position. 

} Nloiiii ilullc Aril, Slc. lib. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p. 422. Visronll cnlli 
thestnliic, liowuvpr, n Cylitlo. Il i« given in tlic Mum'O rio-Clenu'Ml. 
torn. i. pur. 40. The Abnlii I'ca (Spiceoiione dei Uunii. Storiu, &c. loni. 
ill. p. 513.) cnliillaChriilppui. 

5 Diet, de Bnyle, article Adrustc a. 
It iieniimrratod by the rcKionnry Victor. 

II Forlnnin bujiiipe diei. Cicero mciitionn lirr, de Legib. lib, ii. 



be synonymous with Fortune and with Fate ;* but it 

was in her vindictive quality that she was worshipped 

under the name of Nemesis. 

59. 

/ see before me the Gladiator lie. 

Stanza cxl. line 1. 

Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
image be a laquearian gladiator, which in spite of 
Winkelmann's criticism has been stoutly maintained,f 
or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary 
positively asserted, | or whether it is to be thought a 
Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the 
opinion of his Italian editor,§ it must assuredly seem a 
copy of that masterpiece of Ctesilaus which represented 
" a wounded man dying who perfectly expressed what 
there remained of life in him."|f MontfauconH and Maf- 
fei+* thought it the identical statue ; but that statue was 
of bronze. The gladiator was once in the villa Ludo- 
vizi, and was bought by Clement XII. The right arm 
is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo.|| 
60. 

He.^ their sire, 
Bidcher'^d to make a Roman holiday. 

Stanza cxli. hnes 6 and 7. 

Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- 
tary ; and were supplied from several conditions : from 
slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; from bar- 
barian captives either taken in war, and, after being 
led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized 
and condemned as rebels ; also from free citizens, some 
fighting for hire {auctorati^) others from a depraved 
ambition : at last even knights and senators were exhi- 
bited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally 
the first inventor. IJ In the end, dwarfs, and even 
women, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. 
Of these the most to be pitied undoubtedly were the 
barbarian captives ; and to this species a Christian 
writer§§ justly applies the epithet " innocent^" to distin- 
guish them from the professional gladiators. Aurelian 
and Claudius supphed great numbers of these unfortu- 
nate victims ; the one after his triumph, and the other 
on the pretext of a rebellion. || || No war, says Lipsius,irir 
was ever so destructive to the human race as these 
sports. In spite of the laws of Constantino and Constans, 
gladiatorial shows survived the old established religion 
more than seventy years; but they owed their final 



extinction to the courage of a Christian. In the 



year 



404, on the kalends of January, they were exhibitinj 
the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before the usu£d 
immense concourse of people. Almachius or Telema- 
chus, an eastern monk, who had travelled to Rome 
intent on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst of the 
arena, and endeavoured to separate the combatants. 



* DEAE NEMESI 

SIVE FOKTUNAK 

PISTORIVS 

RVGIANVS 

V. C. LEOAT. 

LEG. XIII. O. 

CORD. 

See Qnesliones Romanie, &e. ap. Gra:v. .Anliq. Roman, torn. v. p. 942. 

.See nlso Murntori, Nov. Tbcs.inr. Insciip. Vet. lorn. i. p. RS, 80, wbera 

there nre throe Latin and one Greek iiwcription to Nemesis, and othen 

to Fiile. 

:; Uy the Abate Bracci,di«iertn7.ionp supra unclipeo votivo, ttc. Preface, 
png. 7. who accounts for the cord round the neck, but not for the horn, 
which it docs not appear the eladialora themselves ever used. Note A, 
•Slot ill delle .\rti, lom. ii. p. 206. 

J Kither Polifonles, herald of Laiua, killed by CEdipus ; or Cepreai, 
herald of Rurilheus, killed by the Athenians when he endeavourefi to drag 
the lleraclidiE from the altar of mercy, and in whose honour they insti- 
tuted annual gonips, continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anihemi}. 
criliis, the Athenian herald, killed by the MeRnrenses, who never recoT- 
eied the imi>iuty . See Storia delle Arli, &c. torn. ii. p. 203, 204, 205, 206, 
207. lib. ix. cap. ii. 

§ Sioria,&c. tom.ii.p.207. Not. (A.) 

II " Vulneratum drflcientem fecit in quo poasit intelligi quantum reitat 
animal" Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. xxxiv. cup. 

II Antiq. torn, iii, par. 2. tab. 153. 

•* Race. Slat. tab. 64. 

tt Mus. Capitol, torn. iii. p. 154. odil. 1755. 

J J JuliuiOaar.who ro*e hy the full of the aristocracy, brought Puriui 
r.epllnus and A. Cnlenus upon th«t arena. 

^ Tertullian, " certo quideni el iiinocentcs Klndintores in ludum ranl- 
nn't.et voluiitalis putilico) hostlm fiaut." Just. Li|>s. Saturn. Sermon. 
lib. 11. can, iii. 

III! Vopiscus.in vll. Aun-I. and In Til. Claud, ibid, 

VII " Credo im6sclo nullum helium lantnin cliidum vaillticmque gvnerl 
huninno intulisie, quarn hos ad voluptutem ludos." Just, l.lfw. Ibid, lib. 
■ cap, lil. 



78 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



The preetor Alypius, a person incredibly attached to 
these games,* gave instant orders to the gladiators to 
slay him ; and Telemachus gained the crown of mar 
tyrdom, and the title of saint, which surely has never 
either before or since been awarded for a more noble 
exploit. Honorius immediately abolished the shows, 
which were never afterwards revived. The story is 
told by Theodore"!" and Cassiodorus,J and seems wor- 
thy of credit notwithstanding its place in the Roman 
martyrology.§ Besides the torrents of blood which 
flowe'd at the funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus, 
the forums, and other public places, gladiators were in 
troduced at feasts, and lore each other to pieces amidst 
the supper tables, to the great delight and applause of 
the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to suppose 
the loss of courage, and the evident degeneracy of man 
kind, to be nearly connected with the abolition of these 
bloody spectacles. II 

61. 
Here, where the Roman milUorCs blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. 

When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, 
'he has it" "hoc habet," or "habet." The wounded 
combatant dropped his weapon, and advancing to the 
edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had 
fought well, the people saved him ; if otherwise, or as 
they happened to be inclined, they turned down their 
thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so 
savage that they were impatient if a combat lasted 
longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The 
emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished : 
and it is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, 
that he sent those who supplicated him for hfe, in a 
spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in other 
words, handed them over to be slain. A similar cere- 
mony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The 
magistrate presides ; and after the horsemen and picca- 
dores have fought the bull, the matadore steps forward 
and bows to him for permission to kill the animal. If 
the bull has done his duty by killing two or three horses, 
or a man, which last is rare, the people interfere with 
shouts, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the 
animal is saved. The wounds and death of the horses 
are accompanied with the loudest acclamations, and 
many gestures of delight, especially from the female 
portion of the audience, including those of the gentlest 
blood. Every thing depends on habit. The author of 
Childe Harold, the writer of this note, and one or two 
other Englishmen, who have certainly in other days 
borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, during the 
summer of 1809, in the governor's box at the great am- 
phitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite to Cadiz. The 
death of one or two horses completely satisfied their 
curiosity, A gentleman present, observing them shud- 
der and look pale, noticed that unusual reception of so 
delightful a sport to some young ladies, who stared 
and smiled, and continued their applauses as another 
horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three 
horses off his own horns. He was saved by acclamations, 
which were redoubled when it was known he belonged 
to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with see- 
ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to 
look at a horse galloping round an arena with his 
bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the 
spectacle and the spectators with horror and diso-ust. 
62. 
JJke laurels on ilie hold first Ccesais head. 

Stanza cxliv. line 6. 

Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particu- 



* Aiigvisliiiiig (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) "Alypium suum gladiatori spoc- 
taciili inhiala incredibiliter abreptum," scribit. ib. lib. 1. cap. xii. 
t Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 

I Cassiod, Tripartita, 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

4 Baroniiis, ad. ann. et in noiis ad Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jan. See— 
Maniiigoni delle memorie sacre e profane dell' Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 25. 
edit. 1746. 

II " ttuod? non tu Lipsi momentum allqiiod habiiisse censes ad virlu- 
t«m? Magnum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videamus. Oppidiim 
ecce unum alterumve captnm, direptiim est ; lumultns circa nos, uon in 
nobis : et lamen concidimus et turbamiu-. Uhi robur, ubi tot per annos 
mediiala sapientiffi sludia ? ubi ille animus qui possil dicere, sj /rac/i<s 
iUabalur orbiaV &c. ibid lib. ii. cap. xxv. The prototype of Mr. 
Windham's panegyric on bull-baiting. 






larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which ena- 
bled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. 
He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror 
of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger 
at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
should we without the help of the historian. 
63. 
While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand. 

Stanza cxlv. line 1. 

This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman 

Empire ; and a notice on the CoUseum may be seen in 

the Historical Illustrations to thelVth Canto of Childe 

Harold. _ 

64. I 

spared and blest by time. ■ 

Stanza cxlvi. line 3. 
" Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 
which was necessary to preserve the aperture above 
though exposed to repeated fires, though sometime 
flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, n 
monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as 
this rotunda. It passed with little alteration from the 
Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient 
were its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael 
Angelo, ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced 
their design as a model in the Catholic church." 

Forsyth's Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 137. sec. edit. 
65. 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busUs around them close. 
Stanza cxlvii. lines 8 and 9. i 
The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the' 
busts of modem great, or, at least, distinguished, men.' 
The flood of light which once fell through the large orb 
above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on a 
numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of 
whom have been almost deified by the veneration of 
their countrymen. 

66. 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. 

Stanza cxlviii. line 1. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the story 
of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the traveller 
by the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now 
shown at the cnurch of St. Nicholas in carcere. The 
difficulties attending the full belief of the tale are stated 
in Historical Illustrations, &c. 
67. 
Turn to the Mole, which Hadrian rear''d on high. 
Stanza clii. line 1. 
The castle of St. Angelo. See — Historical Illustra- 
tions. 

68. 

Stanza cliii. 
This and the six ne.\t stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the com- 
parative length of this basilica, and the other great 
churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, 
and the classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. pag. 125. 
et seq. chap. iv. 

69. 

the strange fate 
JVhich tumbles vnghtiest sovereig-ns. 

Stanza ckxi. lines 6 and 7. 
Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart ; 'Charles V. a jiermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt 
in means and glory ;' Cromwell of anxiety; and, "the 
greatest is behind," Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these 
sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 
of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 
70. 
Lo, Ncmi '. naveWd in ilie woody Mils. 

Stanza cl.xxiii. line 1. 
The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed the 
temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinc- 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



79 



tive appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an even- 
ing's ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. 
71. 
And afar 
The Tiber mnds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast, &c. &c. 

Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which 
has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the 
prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited 
stanza ; the Mediterranean ; the whole scene of the 
latter half of the ^neid, and the coast from beyond the 
mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circaeum and the 
Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at 
the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lu- 
cien Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the actual 
site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. 
At present it has lost something of its credit, except for 
the Domenichinos. Nine monks of the Greek order 
live there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's sum- 
mer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is on the 
summit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich re- 
mains of Tusculum have been found there, besides 
seventy-two statues of different merit and preservation, 
and seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
embosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustica. 
There are several circumstances which tend to esta- 
blish the identity of this valley with the '' Ustica" of 
Horace ; and it seems possible that the mosaic pave- 
ment which the peasants uncover by throwing up the 
earth of a vineyard may belong to his"^ villa. Rustica is 
pronounced short, not according to our stress upon — 
" Usticce cubantis." — It is more rational to think that 
we are wrong than that the inhabitants of this secluded 
valley have changed their tone in this word. The addi- 
tion of the consonant prefixed is nothing : yet it is neces- 
sary to be aware that Rustica may be a modern name 
which the peasants may have caught from the antiqua- 
ries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll 
covered with chestnut trees. A stream runs down the 
valley, and although it is not true, as said in the guide 
books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a 
village on a rock at the head of the valley which is so 
denominated, and which may have taken its name from 
the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a 
peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing 300. 
On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into 
Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the villa^ 
is a town called Vicovaro, another favourable coinci- 
dence with the Vuria of the poet. At the end of the 
valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, crowned 
with a little town called Bardela. At the foot of this 
hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed 
in a wide sandy bed bofore it reaches the Anio. Nothing 
can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether 
in a metaphorical or direct sense : 

" Me qiioticns reficit gelidus Digentia rivu», 
Uuem Mixnciela bibil riigosiis Irigore pagus." 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it 
reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like 
a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an 
hour's walk from the vineyard where the i)avcmcnt is 
shown, does seem to be the sight of the fari<i of Varuna, 
and an inscription found there tells that this temple of 
the Sabine Victory was repaired by Ve.<!pasian.* With 
these helps, and a position corresponduig exactly to 
every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, 
we may feci tolerably secure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campa- 



nile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended 
Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain 
Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed 
land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Ban- 
dusia rises. 

" . . . . tu frigus amabile 
Fessis vomere tauris 
Praebes, et pecori vago." 

The peasants show another spring near the mosaic 
pavement which they call " Oradina,^ and which flows 
down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence 
trickles over into the Digentia. 

But we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring" 
by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange 
that any one should have thought Bandusia a fountain 
of the Digentia — Horace has not let drop a word of it; 
and this immortal spring has in fact been discovered in 
possession of the holders of many good things in Italy, 
the monks. It was attached to the church of St. Ger- 
vais and Protais near Venusia, where it was most likely to 
be found.* We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller 
in finding the occasional pine still pendent on the poetic 
villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but there 
are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mistook, 
for the tree in the ode.j The truth is, that the pine is 
now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and 
it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy acclivi- 
ties of the valley of Rustica. Horace probahly had one 
of them in the orchard close above his farm, imme- 
diately overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights 
at some distance from his abode. The tourist may have 
easily supposed himself to have seen this pine figured 
in the above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees 
Avhich throw such a bloom over his description of the 
royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been since 
displaced, were assuredly only acacias and other com- 
mon garden shrubs, J The extreme disappointment 
experienced by choosing the Classical Tourist as a 
guide in Italy must be allowed to find vent in a few 
observations, which, it is asserted without fear of con- 
tradiction, will be confirmed by every one who has 
selected the same conductor through the same country. 
This author is in fact one of the most inaccurate, unsa- 
sfactory writers that have in our times attained a 
temporary reputation, and is very seldom to be trusted 
even when he speaks of objects which he must be pre- 
sumed to have seen. His errors, from the simple 
exaggeration to the downright misstatement, are so 
frequent as to induce a suspicion that he had either 
never visited the spots described, or had trusted to the 
fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical Tour 
has every characteristic of a mere compilation of former 
notices, strung together upon a very slender thread of 
personal observation, and swelled out by those deco- 
rations which are so easily supiilied by a systematic 
adoption of all the common places of piaise, applied to 
every thing, and therefore signify ing nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- 
brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, and 
such may experience some salutary excitement in 
ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. 
It must be said, however, that polish and weight arc 
apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst tho 
pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge 
round (itonc. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there 
w.is no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. 
The love of virtue and of lihertv, which must have dis- 
tinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages of 
Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recommen- 
datory eitlirr in an author or his productions, is very 
conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these 
generous qualities are the foliiige of such a perforinance, 
and may be spread about it so prominently, and pro- 



* IMP. C;ESAR VESPASIANVS 

PONTIFEX MAXIMVS. Tnin. 

POTEST, CENSOR. JKUEM 

VlOTOni*:. VETVSTATK II.I.AHSAM. 

BVA. IMPENSA. HESTITVIT. 



* .'iee— Hi»torirnl llI\utralioii« of ilic Fomlli Cniito, p. 4J. 

ISi-e — C'lnsaicnl 'four, &c. clinp. vii.p.'i'iO. vul. ii. 
" ITiut.T our wiihlows, niul li iriliTiins on (lie bomh, Is Ihr roT.-xl f»r. 
itfii, liviil out ill pnrtirics, niul wiillis ulimli-il by rowi of orniige trtM." 
ClttMiciil Tour, Sic. ibixp. xi. vol. ii.ocl. 365. 



80 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



fusely as to embarrass those who wish to see and find 
the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 
exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work 
something more and better than a book of travels, but 
they have not made it a book of travels ; and this ob- 
servation applies more especially to that enticing method 
of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introduction 
of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the 
rising generation, and terrify it into decency by the dis- 
play of all the excesses of the revolution. An animosity 
against atheists and regicides in general, and French- 
men specifically, may be honourable, and may be useful 
as a record ; but that antidote should either be aduii- 
nistered in any work rather than a tour, or, at least 
should be served up apart, and not so mixed with the 
whole mass of information and reflection, as to give a 
bitterness to every page : for who would choose to have 
the antipathies of any man, however just, for his travel- 
ling companions? A tourist, unless he aspires to the 
credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes 
which may take place in the country which he describes ; 
but his reader may very fairly esteem all his political 
portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the 
moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if 
they obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, 
or governors, is meant to be here oflTered ; but it is 
stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change ope- 
rated, either by the address of the late imperial system, 
or by the disappointment of every expectation by those 
who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so 
considerable, and is so apjiarent, as not only to put Mr. 
Eustace's antigallican philippics entirely out of date, 
but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency 
and candour of the author himself. A remarkable ex- 
ample may be found in the instance of Bologna, over 
whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, 
the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and 
revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. 
Burke. Now Bologna is at this moment, and has been 
for some yearsj notorious amongst the states of Italy 



for its attachment to revolutionary principles, and was 
almost the only city which made any demonstrations in 
favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change may, 
however, have been made since Mr. Eustace visited 
this country ; but the traveller whom he has thrilled 
with horror at the projected stripping of the copper from 
the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find 
that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or any 
other plunderers, the cupola being covered with lead.* 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had 
not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, 
it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, 
that however it may adorn his library, it will be of httle 
or no service to him in his carriage ; and if the judg- 
ment of ihose critics had hitherto been suspended, no 
attempt would have been made to anticipate their deci- 
sion. As it is, those who stand in the relation of pos- 
terity to Mr. Eustace may be permitted to appeal from 
cotemporary praises, and are perhaps more likely to be 
just in proportion as the causes of love and hatred are 
the farther removed. This appeal had, in some mea- 
sure, been made before the above remarks were written ; 
for one of the most respectable of the Florentine pub- 
lishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated inqui- 
ries of those on their journey southwards to reprint a 
cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the con- 
curring advice of returning travellers, induced to aban- 
don his design, although lie had already arranged his 
types and paper, and had struck off one or two of the 
first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like 
Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the 
Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend 
the same discreet silence to their humble partisans. 



* " What then, will be the aslonishment, or rather the horror, of my 

reader, when I inform him the French committee turned 

its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to esti- 
mate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the inside of 
the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on tha 
outside." Chap. iv. p. 130. vol. ii. The story about the Jews is posi- 
tively denied at Rome. 



THE GIAOUR; 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



Oue fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes— 
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hatlj no balm, and affliction no sting. 

Moore. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESa. 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, 

RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Tale which these disjomted fragments present, is 
founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
East than formerly; either because the ladies are 
more circumspect than in the "olden time;" or be- 
cause tlie Christians have better fortune, or less en- 
terprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time 
the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
Venice, and soon after the Amaouts were beaten 
back from the Morca, which they had ravaged for 
some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The 
desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plun- 
der of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enter- 
prise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during 
which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unpa- 
ralleled even in the armals of the faithful. 



THE GIAOUR. 



No breath of air to break tlie wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb ' which, gleaming o'er tlie cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff. 
High o'er the land he saved in vain : 
When shall such hero live again ? 
**♦ + *♦ 

Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far CJoIontia's height, 
Make glad the heart thai hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling. Ocean's check 
Reflects tlio tints of many a peak 



Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from tlie trees. 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafls the odours there ! 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale. 
Sultana of the nightingale,^ 

The maid for whom his melody. 
His thousand songs are heard on high. 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: 
His queen, tlie garden queen, his rose^ 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows. 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there. 
And many a shade that love might share, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest 
That holds die pirate for a guest; 
Whose bark in shelteruig cove below 
liurks for the passing peaceful prow 
Till the gay mariner's guitar^ 
Is heard, and seen the evening star 
Then stealing witli the muffled oar, 
Far shaded by the rocky shore. 
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
And turn to groans his roundelay. 
Strange — that whore Nature lov'd to trace 
As if for gods, a dwelling-place, 
And every charm and grace hath niix'd 
WitJiin the paradise she fix'tl, 
There man, enamour'd of ilistress, 
Should mar it into wilderness, 
Anil trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
That tasks not one laborious hour; 
Nor claims the culture of his hiuui 
To bloom along the fairy liuid, 



82 



THE GIAOUR. 



But springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside 

There passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapme wildly reign 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd. 

And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 
Ere the first day of death is fled, 
The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the hnes where beauty lingers,) 
And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that's there. 
The fix'd, yet tender traits that streEik 
The languor of the placid cheek, 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
Where cold obstruction's apathy * 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 
Yes, but for these, and these alone, 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 
The first, last look by death reveal'd ! * 
Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
'T is Greece, but Uving Greece no more ! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death, 
That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished 
earth! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was freedom's home or glory's grave! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be. 
That this is all remains of thee? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave. 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
^ Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
/ The embers of their former fires ; 
/ And he who in the strife expires 
I Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That tyranny shall quake to hear. 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame 
They too will rather die than shame: 
For freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son. 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 



While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
'T were long to tell, and sad to trace, 
Each step from splendour to disgrace; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell; 
Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 

What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time. 
No theme on which the muse might soar. 
High as thine owti in days of yore, 

When man was worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred. 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave. 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, ® 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes; 
Without even savage virtue blest. 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighbouring ports they wait 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
In vain might liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke. 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows I bewail. 
Yet this will be a mournful tale. 
And they who listen may believe. 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 

******* 

Far, dark, along the blue-sea glancing, 
The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
And, fearful for his Ught caique. 
He shuns the near, but doubtful creek: 
Though worn and weary with his toil. 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil,. 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an eastern night. 

*#«**♦* 

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foam that streaks the courser's side 
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide ; 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest^ 
There 's none watliin his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour I* 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
Though young and pale, tliat sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
As meteor-like thou glidest by, 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 



THE GIAOUR. 



83 



On — on he hastened, and he drew 


Which in itself can comprehend 


My gaze of wonder as he flew : 


Wo without name, or hope, or end. 


Though hke a demon of the night 


The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 


He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, 


And did he fly or fall alone ? 


His aspect and his air impress'd 


Wo to that hour he came or went ! 


A troubled memory on my breast, 


The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 


And long upon my startled ear 


To turn a palace to a tomb : 


Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 


He came, he went, like the simoom,'** 


He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep. 


That harbinger of fate and gloom, 


That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 


Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 


He winds around ; he hurries by ; 


The very cypress droops to death — 


The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 


Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 


For well I ween unwelcome he 


The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 


Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 


The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 


And not a star but shines too bright 


No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 


On him who takes such timeless flight. 


The lonely spider's thin gray pall 


He wound along ; but, ere he pass'd, 


Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 


One glance he snatch'd, as if his last. 


The bat builds in his haram bower ; 


A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 


And in the fortress of his power 


A moment breathed him from his speed, 


The owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 


A moment on his stirrup stood — 


The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 


Why looks he o'er the olive-wood ? 


With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; 


The crescent glimmers on the hill, 


For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 


The mosque's high lamps are quivering still : 


Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread, 


Though too remote for sound to wake 


'T was sweet of yore to see it play, 


In echoes of the far tophaike,^ 


And chase the sultriness of day. 


The flashes of each joyous peal 


As, springing high, the silver dew 


Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 


In whirls fantastically flew. 


To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 


And flung luxiu-ious coolness round 


To-night the Bairam feast's begun; 


The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 


To-night — but who and what art thou, 


'T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 


Ctf foreign garb and fearful brow ? 


To view the wave of watery light, 


And what are these to thine or thee, 


And hear its melody by night. 


That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 


And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 


He stood — some dread was on his face, 


Around the verge of that cascade ; 


Soon hatred settled in its place 


And oft upon his mother's breast 


It rose not with the reddening flush 


That sound had harmonized his rest; 


Of transient anger's darkening blush, 


And oft had Hassan's youth along 


But pale as marble o'er the tomb. 


Its baiik been soothed by beauty's song ; 


Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 


And softer seemed each melting tone 


His brow was bent, his eye was glazed. 


Of music mingled with its own. 


He raised liis arm, and fiercely raised, 


But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 


And sternly shook his hand on high, 


Along the brink at twilight's close : 


As doubting to return or fly : 


The stream that fill'd that font is fled— 


Impatient of his flight delay'd, 


The blood t'lat warm'd his heart is shed ! 


Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 


And here no more shall human voice 


Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade ; 


Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; 


That sound had burst his waking dream, 


The last sad note that swell'd the gale 


As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 


Was woman's wildest funeral wuil: 


The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 


Th(tt qticnch'd in silence, all is still, 


Away, away, for life he rides ; 


But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill: 


Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,' 


Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 


Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 


No hand shall close its clasp again. 


The rock is doubled, and the shore 


On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 


Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 


The rudest stops of fellow man — 


The crag is won, no more is seen 


So here the very voice of grief 


His Christian crest and haughty mien. 


Might wake an echo like relief; 


'T was but an instant he rcstrain'd 


At least 't would say, ^ all are not gone ; 


That fiery barb so sternly rein'd : 


" There fingers life, though but in one — " 


'T was but a moment that he stood, 


For many a gilded chamber 's there, 


Then sped as if by death pursued ; 


Which solitude might well forbear; 


But in that instant o'er his soul 


Within that dome as yet decay 


Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 


Hatli slowly work'd her cankermg way— 


And gather in that drop of time 


But gloom is gathered o'er tiie gate 


A life of pain, an age of crime. 


Nor there the fiiiir's self will wait ; 


O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 


Nor there will wandering dervise stay 


Such moment pours the grief of years 


For bounty cheers not his delay; 


Wliat felt he then, at once opprest 


Nor there will weary stranger halt 


By all that most distracts the breast ? 


To bless the sacred "bread and salt."" 


That pause, which pondor'd o'er his fufc, 


Alike must wealth and poverty 


Oh, who its dreary length .shall <lale ! 


Pass heedless and nnlieeded bv, 


Though in time's record nearly nought, 


For courte.«4y and i)ily died 


It was eternity to thought ! 


With Hassan on Uie mountam side. 


For infinite as boundless space 


His roof, that refugw unto men, 


The thought that conscionco must embrace, 


Is desolation's hungry don. 



84 



THE GIAOUR. 



The guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labour, 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! ^^ 
****** 



I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
More near — each turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed ataghan ; " 
The foremost of the band is seen, 
An emir by his garb of green : ^'^ 
«Ho! who art thou?— this low salam »* 
RepUes of Moslem faith I am. 
The burden ye so gently bear, 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that 's scatter'd by ; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The charmell'd waters dark and deep. 
Rest from your task — so— bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run 
Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow. 

That one of " 

****** 

SuUen it plung'd, and slowly sank. 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
That chequer'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight : 
And adl its hidden secrets sleep, 
Knovm but to genii of the deep. 
Which, trembling in their coral caves 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 



As rising on its purple wing 
The insect-queen ^® of eastern spring. 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour. 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So beauty lures the full-grovpn child, 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
Wo waits the insect and the maid 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
From infant's play, and man's caprice : 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Hath lost its charm by being caught. 
For every touch that wooed its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'T is left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before ? 
Or beauty, bhghted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bower ? 
No ! gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 



And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own, 
And every wo a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 



The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, ^ 

Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, 
Till, inly search 'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain. 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul expire. 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; ^^ 
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath. 
Around it flame, within it death ! 
***** 

Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs. 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth LeUa there no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away, 
When Rhamazan's '^ last sun was set, 
And, flashing from each minaret, 
MilHons of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
'T was then she went as to the bath, 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage, 
In likeness of a Georgian page. 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him vdth the faitliless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserv'd a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell. 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
But others say, that on that night, 
By pale Phingari's '^ trembling Ught, 
The Giaour upon his jet black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore. 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

****** 

Her eyes dark charm 't were vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. ^° 
Yea, soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 
By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
Though on Al-Sirat's ^i arch I stood, 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
With paradise within my view, 
And all his houris beckoning through. 



THE GIAOUR. 



86 



Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 

And keep that portion of his creed ^^ 

Which saith that woman is but dust, 

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 

On her might muftis gaze, and own 

That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 

On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

The young pomegranate's ^^ blossoms strew 

Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 

Her hair in hyacinthine ^4 flow. 

When left to roll its folds below. 

As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all. 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! ^^ 

As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stem Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
***** 

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train. 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man. 
With arquebuss and ataglian ; 
The chief before, as dock'd for war. 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood. 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Fame's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle boro 
Were those that once a pasha wore. 
Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
Even robbers tremble to behold. 
'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
More (rue than her who loft liis side ; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower. 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
****** 

The sun's last rays are on the hill. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear. 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 't were vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may ho rest where none can sec, 
In crowds a slave, in dcserls free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
*♦* + *+* 

The foremost Tartar 's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengtliening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the mounlain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet tho thirsty beak, 
And theirs may bo a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt thorn down ore morrow's liglU ; 



Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare. 
Save shrubs that spring to perish Uiere : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray, 
By time, or mountam hghtning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
** + * + * + 

They reach the grove of pine at last : 
" Bismillah ! ^s now the peril 's past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain. 
And there we 11 prick our steeds amain :" 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant. 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
And there await the coming shock. 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stem Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Then curl'd his very beard 2' with ire. 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I 've scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
And now tlie foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! ^^ 
In fuller sight, more near and near. 
The lately ambush'd foes appear. 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
*' 'T is he ! 't is he ! I know him now ; 
I kiiow him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye ^^ 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know liim by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith. 
It shall not save him from the death 
'T is he ! well met in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour !" 

As rolls tho river into ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As tho sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gloaming, 
Beats back tlio current many a rood, 
In curling f mm and mingling floml, 
While eddying whirl, and brealung wave. 
Roused by tho blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clofdi, 
Tho lightnings of ihu waters flash 



86 



THE GIAOUR. 



In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong. 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 

And pealing wide or ringing near 

Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The death-shot hissing from afar ; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war. 

Reverberate along that vale. 

More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press. 
To seize and share the dear caress 5 
But love itself could never pant 
For all that beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervour hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes. 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold 
Friends meet to part ; love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
******* 

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 

Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 

Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 

Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 

His turban far behind him roll'd. 

And cleft in twain its firmest fold 5 

His flowing robe by falchion torn, 

And crimson as those clouds of morn 

That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 

The day shall have a stormy end ,• 

A stain on every bush that bore 

A fragment of his palampore, ^° 

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 

His back to earth, his face to heaven, 

Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 

Yet lowering on his enemy. 

As if the hour that seal'd his fate 

Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 

And o'er him bends that foe with brow 

As dark as his that bled below. — 

* * * * * * * 

" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 
He call'd on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? 
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done. 
And now I go — but go alone." 
****** 
****** 

The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 
His mother look'd from her lattice high. 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 
"'T is twihght — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
"Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 



Nor shrink they from the summer lieat; 

Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? 

Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 

Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 

Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 

And warily the steep descends, 

And now within the valley bends ; 

And he bears the gift at his saddlebow — 

How could I deem his courser slow? 

Right well my largess shall repay 

His welcome speed, and weary way." 

The Tartar Ughted at the gate. 

But scarce upheld his fainting weight 

His swarthy visage spake distress. 

But this might be from weariness ; 

His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 

But these might be from his courser's side ; 

He drew the token from his vest — 

Angel of Death ! 't is Hassan's cloven crest 

His calpac^^ rent — his caftan red — 

" Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed : 

Me, not from mercy, did they spare. 

But this empurpled pledge to bear. 

Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt : 

Wo to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 

****** 

A turban '^ carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Zvlecca bent the knee ; 
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine. 
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of " Alia Hu !" '' 
Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood. 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite, 
And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave,'* 
And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
+ * * * * * 

But thou, false infidel ! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's^^ scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' '"^ throne ; 
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as vampire''' sent. 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire. 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall. 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 



THE GIAOUR. 



87 



Shall bless thee with a fatlier's name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with tliine own best blood shall drip'^ 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard Up ; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 



" How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 

His features I have scann'd before 
In mine own land: 'tis many a year. 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain,' 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death were stamp'd upon his brow," 

" 'T is twice three years at summer-tide 
Since first among our freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer, 
Nor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cell alone. 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost. 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race. 
But only Christian in his face : 
I' d judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made. 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine. 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favour bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay. 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying. 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been known to stand. 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb 
Invisible to all but him, 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 
***** =t 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
The flash of that dilating eye 
Revuala too much of linu>s gone by ; 
Though varying, indistinct ils hue. 
Oft will ilia glance tho gjj/.cr ruo 



For in it lurks that nameless spell 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable. 

A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 

That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 

And hke the bird whose pinions quake, 

But cannot fly the gazing snake. 

Will others quail beneath his look, 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 

From him the half-afl^righted friar 

"VSTien met alone would fain retire, 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendeth he, 

And when he doth 't is sad to see 

That he but mocks at misery. 

How that pale lip wiU curl and quiver ! 

Then fix once more as if for ever 5 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 

But sadder still it were to trace 

What once were feelings in that face : 

Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 

But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 

And there are hues not always faded, 

Which speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded : 

The common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 

The close observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : 

Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain. 

Which grief could change, and guilt could stain, 

It was no vulgar tenement 

To which such loft;y gifts were lent, 

And still with little less than dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent. 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

" His floating robe around him folding. 

Slow sweeps he tlirough the column'd aisle ; 

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 

But when the anthem shakes the choir, 

And kneel the monks, his steps retire 

By yonder lone and wavering torch 

His aspect glares within the porch ; 

There will he pause till all is done — 

And hear the prayer, but utter none. 

See — by the half-illumined wall 

His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 

That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 

As if the Gorgon there had bound 

The sablcst of tlie serpent-braid 

That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 

For he declines the convent oath, 

And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, 

But wears our garb in all beside ; 

And, not from piety but pride. 

Gives wealth to walls that never heard 

Of his one holy vow nor word. 

1^0 I — mark ye, as tho harmony 

Peals louder praises to tho sky, 

That livid cheek, that stony air 

Of mix'd dofianoe aiul (h'spair! 

Saint Francis, keep him from tho shrino! 

Else may wc dread tlio wraih divino 

Made manifest by awful sign. 



88 



THE GIAOUR. 



If ever evil angel bore 

The form of mortal, such he vpore : 

By all my hope of sms forgiven, 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !" 

To love the softest hearts are prone, 
But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
Too timid in his woes to share, 
Too meek to meet, or brave despair; 
And sterner hearts alone may feel 
The wound that time can never heal. 
The rugged metal of the mine 
Must burn before its surface shine. 
But plunged within the furnace-flame, 
It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 
'T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 
A breastplate for thine hour of need, 
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
But if a dagger's form it bear. 
Let those who shape its edge beware ! 
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art. 
Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 
From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
And what they make it, must remain. 
But break — ^before it bend again. 
+ + + * + + 



If solitude succeed to griefj 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 'twere wo alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
'It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of then* clay .' 
It is as if the desert-bird,^^ 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream. 
Nor mourns a Ufe to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void. 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by duU decay ; — 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 

****** 

Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 
To bid the sins of others cease, 

Thyself vnthout a crime or care, 
Save transient ills that all must bear. 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroU'd, 
Such as thy penitents unfold, 
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 



My days, though few, have pass'd below 

In much of joy, but more of wo; 

Yet still in hours of love or strife, 

I' ve 'scaped the weariness of life : 

Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 

I loathed the languor of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate, 

No more with hope or pride elate, 

I' d rather be the thing that crawls 

Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 

Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 

Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 

Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 

For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. 

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be stiU, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirits shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it — not for honour's boast ; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way. 
For high renown, or hireling pay: 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize, 
The maid I love, the man I hate ; 
And I will hunt the steps of fate. 
To save or slay, as these require, 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speechTrom one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave. 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave 
Then let life go to him who gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I now? 

* * * * + + 



" I loved her, friar ! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word 
There 's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose : 
'T was shed for her, who died for me. 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee. 

Nor midst my sms such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Paj^iim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
WeU wielded in some hardy hands. 
And wounds by Galileans given, 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the prophet's gate. 
I loved her — ^love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, 
And if it dares enough, 't were hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or where, or why 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh; 



THE GIAOUR. 



89 



Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 

I wish she had not loved again. 

She died — ^I dare not tell thee how ; 

But look — 't is written on my brow ! 

There read of Cain the curse and crime, 

In characters unworn by time : 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 

Not mine the act, though I the cause. 

Yet did he but wliat I had done 

Had she been false to more than one. 

Faitliless to him, he gave the blow ; 

But true to me, I laid him low : 

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 

Her treachery was truth to me ; 

To me she gave her heart, that all 

Which tyranny can ne'er enthral ; 

And I, alas ! too late to save ! 

Yet all I then could give, I gave, 

'T was some relief, our foe a grave. 

His death sits lightly ; but her fate 

Has made me — what thou well may'st hate. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stem Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear^° 
The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 

As filed the troop to where they fell 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 
He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay. 
And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
Though pierc'd like pard by hunters' steel. 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind 5 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betraj^d his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 
The late repentance of that hour. 
When penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 

****** 

" The cold in cUme are cold in blood. 

Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
But mine was like the lava flood 

That boils in ^Etna's breast of flame. 
I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
And all that I have felt, and feel, 
Betoken love — that love was mine. 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first I have posscss'd. 
And, come what may, I liave been blest. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? 
No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
So would I live and lovo again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps bcncatli (lie wandering wave — 
All ! had she but an earthy grave, 
This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share hei narrow bcil. 

M 



She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
And rose, where'er I turned mine eye. 
The morning star of memory ! 

" Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafi;s the mind above, 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A ray of him who form'd the whole 5 
A glory circhng round the soul ! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! 
She was my Ufe's unerring Ught : 
That quench'd, what beam shall break my night? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope, 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
[n phrensy then their fate accuse: 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow : 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And this too was I born to bear ! 
'T is true, that, like that bird of prey. 
With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn. 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake. 
One mate, and one alone, \vill take. 
And let the fool still prone to range. 
And sneer on all who cannot change. 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He loft beheving and bet ray 'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only thino ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to tliee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me: 
For worlds I ilare not view the damo 
Resembling thee, yet. not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth! 
'T is all too late — thou wcrt, thou art 
The chcrish'tl madness of my heart ! 

" And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 

But not the breath of human Ufo: 
A serpent round my heart was wrealhod,\ 

And stung my every thought to slrifb. 
Alike all time, abliorr'd all place, 
Sluuldering I slinuik from nature's facet, 
Where every hue that rliarm'd before 
Tho blackness of my bosom wore. 



-.* 



90 



THE GIAOUR. 



The rest thou dost already know, 

And all my sins, and half" my wo. 

But talk no more of penitence ; 

Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence 

And if thy holy tale were true, 

The deed that 's done can'st tlwu undo ? 

Think me not thankless — but this grief 

Looks not to priesthood for relief.*' 

My soul's estate in secret guess : 

But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 

When thou canst bid my Leila hve, 

Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 

Then plead my cause in that high place 

Where purchased masses proffer grace. 

Go, when the hunter 's hand hath wrung 

From forest-cave her shrieking young, 

And calm the lonely lioness : 

But sooth not — mock not my distress. 

" In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers 

I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send. 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim. 
Yet dear to him my bUghted name. 
'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while ; 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth. 

And wish his words had not been sooth: 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Thi-ough many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do vnth fame? 
I do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his ovm of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind. 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf^ 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 
+ + # * + # 



" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
No, father, no, 't was not a dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now: 
I wish'd but for a single tear, 
As something welcome, new, and dear : 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
Despair b stronger than my will. 



Waste not tliine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer; 
1 would not, if I might, be blest ; 
1 want no paradise, but rest. • 
'T was then, I tell thee, father ! then 
I saw her ; yes, she hved again ; 
And shining in her white symar,** 
As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark; 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark', 
And I, before its rays appear, 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former v/oes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart. 
And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp, 
No heart that beats reply to mine, 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest, 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there! in silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye — 
I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw liim buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me wild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more •, 
Or place them on my hopeless heart: 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul, 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 
* + + + + * 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day: 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or liim he slcw.'*^ 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 



Notel. Page 81, line 3. 
That tomb, which, gleaming o'er the cliff'. 
A tomb above the rocks on the [)romontory, by some 
supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 
Note 2. Page 81, line 22. 
Sultana of the nightingale. 
The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the "Bul- 
bul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 
Note 3. Page 81, line 40. 
TiU the gay mariner''s guitar. 
The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 
sailor by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a 
calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often 
by dancing. 

Note 4. Page 82, line 26. 
Where cold obstruction's apathy. 

" Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
To lie in cold obstruction." 

Measure for Measure, Act III. 130. Sc. 2. 

Note 5. Page 82, line 34. 
Thejirst, last look by death reveoTd. 
I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- 
portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
scription, but those who have, will probably retain a 
painful remembrance of that singular beauty which 
pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the 
dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the 
spirit is not there." It is to be remarked, in cases of 
violent death by gimshot wounds, the expression is 
always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of 
the sufferer's character : but in death from a stab the 
countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, 
and the mind its bias to the last. 

Note 6. Page 82,luie 96. 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the slave 
of the seraglio and guardian of the women,) who ap- 
points the Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these 
are not polite, yet true appellations — now governs the 
governor of Athens ! 

Note 7. Page 82, line 135. 
T w caljner than thy heart, ymcng Giaour. 
Infidel. 

Note 8. Page 83, line 26. 

In echoes of the far tophaike. 

" Tophaike," musket. — The Bairam is announced by 

the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Mosques, 

and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 

ball, proclaim it during the night. 

Note 9. Page 83, line 52. 
Swift as the hurhl on highjerreed. 
Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which 
is darted from horseback with great force and precision. 
It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but I 
know not if it can be called a manly one, since the 
most expert in the art are the Black EimucJJs of Con- 
stantinople. I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna 
was the most skilful that came within my observation. 

Note 10. Page 83, line 83. 
He came, he went, like the simoimi. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, 
and often alluded to in eastern poetry. 

Note 11. Page 83, line 144. 
To blesH the sacred '■'■bund andmlt.''' 
To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your 



host, ensures the safety of the guest ; even though an 
enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 

Note 12. Page 84, line 2. 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality 
are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and, to say 
truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The 
first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a pane- 
gyric on his bounty ; the next, on his valour. 

Note 13. Page 84, line 6. 
And silver-sheathed ataghan. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; and, 
among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

Note 14. Page 84, line 8. 
An emir by his garb of green. 

Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's nu- 
merous pretended descendants; with them, as here, 
faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
the necessity of good works : they are the worst of a 
very indifferent brood. 

Note 15. Page 48, line 9. 
Ho ! who art thou 1 — this low salam. 
Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam ! peace be with 
you ; be with you peace — the salutation reserved for 
the faithful : — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good jour- 
ney ; or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, 
good even ; and sometimes, " may your end be happy ;" 
are the usual salutes. 

Note 16. Page 84, line 40. 
The insect-queen of eastern spring. 
The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
rare and beautiful of the species. 

Note 17. Page 84, line 85. 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire. 
Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement \ 
but others have actually brought in the verdict, "Felo 
dc se." The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy 
decision of the question ; as, if once fairly established 
as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as 
long as they think proper, without being martyred for 
the sake of an hypothesis. 

Note 18. Page 84, line 100. 
When Rhamazan''s last sun was set. 
The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
note 8. 

Note 19. Pago 84, line 119. 
By pale PhingarVs trembling light. 
Phingari, the moon. 

Note 20. Page 84, line 130. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendour, named 
Schobgcrag, " the torch of night ;" also, " the cup of the 
sun," &c. — In the first edition, "Giamschiil" was 
written as a word of three syllables, so D'Hcrbolot has 
it ; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, 
and writes ".lamshid." I have lefl in the text the 
orthography of the one with the pronunciation of the 
other. 

Note 21. Pago 84, line 1S4. 
Though on Al-Siral's arch I sto<H{. 
Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth loss than the ihrond 



92 



THE GIAOUR. 



of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must 
skate into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; 
but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell 
itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful and 
tender of foot contrive to tumble with a " facilis de- 
scensus Averni," not very pleasing in prospect to the 
next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for 
Ihe Jews and Christians. 

Note 22. Page 85, Une 2. 
And keep that portion of his creed. 
A vulgar error : the JKoran allots at least a third of 
paradise to well-behaved women ; but by far the 
greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text 
their own way, and exclude their moieties from 
heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
discern " any fitness of things" in the souls of the 
other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
Houris. 

Note 23. Page 85, line 8. 
The young pomegranate 's blossoms strew. 
An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly 
stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arable." 
Note 24. Page 85, line 10. 
Her hair in hyadnthine flow. 
Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ;" as common a 
thought in the eastern poets, as it was among the 

Note 25. Page 85, line 20. 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 
*' Franguestan," Circassia. 

Note 26. Page 85, line 82. 
Bismillah! now the perits past. 
Bismillah — " In the name of God ;" the commence- 
ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of 
prayer and thanksgiving. 

Note 27. Page 85, line 107. 
Then curl ^d his very beard with ire. 
A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers, at a 
diplomatic audience, were no less lively with indig- 
nation than a tiger oat's, to the horror of all the dra- 
gomans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood 
erect of their own accord, and were expected every mo- 
ment to change their colour, but at last condescended 
to subside, which, probably, saved more heads than they 
contained hairs. 

Note 28. Page 85, line 117. 
JKor raised the craven cry^ Amaun ! 
" Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

Note 29. Page 85, line 126. 
/ know him by the evil eye. 
The " evil eye," a common superstition in the Le- 
vant, and of which the imaginary effects are vet very 
singular, on those who conceive themselves affected. 

Note 30. Page 86, line 37. 
A fragment of his palampore. 
The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons of 
rank. 

Note 31. Page 86, line 88. 
His calpac rent — his caftan red. 
The " calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of the 
headdress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms 
the turban. 

Note 32. Page 86, hne 94. 
A turban carved in coarsest stone. 
The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or 
tbe wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass 
similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, you are informed, 
that they record some victim of rebellion, plunder, or 
revenge. 

Note 33. Page 86, line 105. 
At solemn sound of "Alia Hu .'" 
"Alia Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's 
call to prayer from the hi^jhest gallery on the exterior 
of the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin 
has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the effect 
is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christen- 
dom. 



Note 34. Page 86, line 114. 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 

The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : 

— " I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, and she 

waves a handkerchief^ a kerchief of green ; and cries 

aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee,' etc. 

Note 35. Page 86, line 119. 

Beneath avenging JMonkir's scythe. 

Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, 
before whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate 
and preparatory training for damnation. If the answers 
are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe 
and thumped down with a red-hot mace till properly 
seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The 
office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but two, 
and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small 
proportion to the remainder, their hands are always 
full. 

Note 36. Page 86, line 121. 
To wander round lost £blis 's throne. 

Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 
Note 37. Page 86, line 126. 
JBiotJlrst, on earth, as vampire sent. 

The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
vant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. 
Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these 
" Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term 
is "Vardoulacha.." I recollect a whole family being 
terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined 
must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks 
never mention the word without horror. I find that 
'4 Broucolokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic appella- 
tion — at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according 
to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the 
Devil. — The moderns, however, use the word I men- 
tion. 

Note 38. Page 87, line 13. 
PF'et with thine own best blood shall drip. 

The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. 
The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul 
feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly 
attested. 

Note 39. Page 88, line 40. 
It is as if the desert-bird. 

The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. 
Note 40. Page 89, line 24. 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear. 

This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never 
met with downright second-sight in the east) fell once 
under my own observation. — On my third journey to 
Cape Colonna early in 1811, as we passed through the' 
defile that leads from the hamlet between Keratiar and 
Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of 
the path, and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in 
pain. I rode up and inquired. " We are in peril," he 
answered. " What peril ? we are not now in Albania, 
nor in the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; 
there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates 
have not courage to be thieves." — " True, Affendi, but 
nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears." — " The 
shot ! not a tophaike has been fired this morning." — 
" I hear it notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — ^as plainly as 
I hear your voice." — "Pshaw." — "As you please, Af^ 
fendi ; if it is written, so will it be." — I lefl this quick- 
eared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, his Chris- 
tian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, 
by no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived 
at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned lei- 
surely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more 
languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the 
mistaken seer ; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, ItaUan, and 
English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon 
the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contem- 
plating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied 
about the columns. I thought he was deranged into an 
antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a '^Palao- 
castro^'' man : " No," said he, " but these pillars will be 
useful in making a stand ;" and added other remarks, 
which at least evinced his own belief in his troublesome 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



93 



faculty oi fore- hearing. On our return to Athens, we 
heard from Leone (a prisoner set ashore some days 
after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, men- 
tioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the 
notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some 
pains to question the man, and he described the dresses. 
arms, and marks of the horses of our party so accu- 
rately, that, with other circumstances, we could not 
doubt of his having been in " villainous company," emd 
ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more 
musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
ment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and bis native moun- 
tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular 
race. In March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active 
Amaout came (I beUeve the 10th on the same errand) 
to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : 
** Well, Affendi," quoth he, " may you live I — ^you would 
have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the 
hills to-morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you 
will then receive me." — Dervish, who was present, re- 
marked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, 
" in the mean time he will join the IQephtes" (robbers,) 
which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they come 
down in the winter, and pass it uimiolested in some 
town, where they are often as well known as their 
exploits. 

Note 41. Page 90, line 8. 

LdDoks not to priesthood for relief . 
The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no 
hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that 
it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from 
the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent,) and 
was dehvcred in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. 
Note 42. Page 90, fine 74. 

And shining in her white symar. 
" Symar" — shroud . 



Note 43. Page 90, fine 135. 

The circumstance to wliich the above story relates 
was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few vears ago 
the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of 
his son's supposed infidelity ; he asked with whom, 
and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the tsvelve 
handsomest women in Yanma. They were seized, 
fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same 
nightl One of the guards who was present informed me, 
that not one of tlie victims uttered a cr\', or showed a 
symptom of terror at so sudden a " wrench from all we 
know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the 
fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
and Amaout ditty. The story in the text is one told 
of a young Yenetian many years ago, and now nearly 
forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the 
coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, 
and sing or recite" their narratives. The additions and 
interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- 
guished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery ; 
and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag- 
ments of the original. 

For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
partly to DTEerbelot, and partly to that most eastern, 
and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, " sublime tale," 
the "Caliph Yathek." I do not know from what source 
the author of that singular volume may have drawn his 
materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the 
" Bibhotheque Orientale : but for correctness of cos- 
tume, beauty of description, amd povrer of imagination, 
it far surpasses all European imitations; and bears 
such marks of originality, that those who have visited 
the East, will find some difficulty in believing it to be 
more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 
Rasselas must bow before it : his " Happy Yalley" will 
not bear a comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 

A TURKISH TALE. 



"Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 

Burns. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGFD AND 
SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



CANTO I. 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds tliat arc done in their clime. 

Where the rage of tlie \iilture, the love of the turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 

Know ye the land of tlie cedar and vine. 

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 

Whore the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with prrfumc, 

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gull • in her bloom ; 

Where the citron and olive arc fairest of fruit, 

And the voice of the nightingale never u» mule ; 



■\Yhere the tints of the earth, and the hues of the diy, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may We, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dve ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'Ti:j the clime of the cast ; 'tis the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? ' 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and tho talw which 
thoy tell. 



94 



THE BRIDR OF ABYDOS. 



Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
Old Giaffir sat in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and ponderbg brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 



" Let the chamber be clear 'd." — The train disappear 'd- 

" Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

" Haroom — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Wo to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face imveil'd!) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 

Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 

By me alone be duty taught !" 

"Pacha! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way. 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire.' 

"Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide. 
Know — ^for the fault, if fault there be. 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep. 
With none to hsten and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate 'er my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Haram 's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown, 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
There lingcr'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; ^ 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour '* 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 



" Son of a slave !" — the Pacha said — 
« From unbeheving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 



Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff^ — not the brand. 
But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string !" 

v. 
No sound from SeUm's lip was heard. 
At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
But every frowTi and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
" Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear ! 
Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ?" 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 
And glances even of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 

And started; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath hath done ; 
He saw rebeUion there begun : 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
But if thy beard had manUer length. 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my o'.\ti perchance." 
As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye retum'd him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire's was raised. 

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shnmk askance — 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wa3rward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
I '11 watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab ^ to my sight. 
Or Christian croucliing in the fight — 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet as the desert-foimtain's wave 
To hps just cool'd in time to save — 
Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest (hv birth, and l>less thee now." 



96 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


XI. 


His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 


« What! not receive my foolish flower? 


Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 


Nay then I am indeed unblest: 


But let our plighted secret vow 


On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 


Be only known to us as now. 


And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 


I know the wretch who dares demand 


Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 


From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 


Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest? 


More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 


Come, lay thy head upon my breast. 


Holds not a Musselim's^o control: « 


And I will kiss thee into rest, 


Was he not bred in Egiipo ? ^i 


Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 


A viler race let Israel show ! 


Even from my fabled nightingale. 


But let that pass — to none be told 


I knew our sire at times was stern. 


Our oath ; the rest shall time tmfold. 


But this from thee had yet to learn : 


To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 


Too well I know he loves thee not ; 


I 've partisans for peril's day : 


But IS Zuleika's love forgot? 


Think not I am what I appear ; 


Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 


I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near. 


This kinsman Bey of Carasman 


XIII. 


Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 


" Think not thou art Vv'hat thou appearest ! 


If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 


My Selim, thou art sadly changed: 


If shrines that ne'er approach allow 


This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 


To woman's step admit her vow, 


But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. 


Without thy free consent, command, 


My love thou surely knew'st before, 


The Sultan should not have my hand ! 


It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 


Think'st thou that I could bear to part 


To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 


With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 


And hate the night I know not why, 


Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side. 


Save that we meet not but by day ; 


Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 


With thee to live, with thee to die, 


Years have not seen, time shall not see 


I dare not to my hope deny: 


The hour that tears my soul from thee: 


Thy cheek, tliine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 


Even Azrael,'8 from his deadly quiver 


Like this — and this — no more than this ; 


When flies that shaft, and fly it must. 


For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : 


That parts all else, shall doom" for ever 


What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 


Our hearts to undivided dust !" 


My own have nearly caught the same, 




At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 


xir. 


To sooth thy sickness, watch thy health, 


He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt j 


Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 


He raised the maid from where she knelt; 


Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 


His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 


And lighten half thy poverty ; 


With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 


Do all but close thy dying eye, 


With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 


For that I could not live to try ; 


As the stream late conceal'd 


To these alone my thoughts aspire; 


By the fringe of its willows, 


More can I do ? or thou require ? 


When it rushes reveal'd 


But, Selim, thou must answer why 


In the light of its billows ; 


We need so much of mystery ? 


As the bolt bursts on high 


The cause I cannot dream nor tell. 


From the black cloud that bound it, 


But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 


Flash'd the soul of that eye 


Yet what thou mean'st by 'arms' and 'friends, 


Through the long lashes round it. 


Beyond my weaker sense extends. 


A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 


I meant that Giaffir should have heard 


A lion roused by heedless hound, 


The very vow I plighted thee ; 


A tyrant waked to sudden strife 


His wrath would not revoke my word : 


By graze of ill-directed knife. 


But surely he would leave me free. 


Starts not to more convulsive hfe 


Can tiiis fond wish seem strange in me, 


Than he, who heard that vow, display'd. 


To be what I have ever been ? 


And all, before repress'd, betray 'd : 


What other hath Zuleika seen 


" Now thou art mine, for ever mine. 


From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 


With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 


What other can she seek to see 


Now thou art mine, that sacred oath. 


Than thee, companion of her bower, 


Though sworn by one, halh bound us both. 


Tlie partner of her infiincy? 


Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 


These cherish'd thoughts with life begun. 


That vow halh saved more heads than one : 


Say, why must I no more avow ? 


But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 


What change is wrougiU to make mo shun 


Claims more from mc than tenderness ; 


The truth; my pride, and thine till now 


I would not wrong the slenderest hair 


To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 


That clusters round thy forehead fair, 


Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 


For all the treasures buried far 


Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 


Within the caves of Istakar.'^ 


At such, our Prophet's will repine : 


This morning clouds upon mc lowcr'd," 


No ! happier made by that decree ! 


Reproaches on my head were showcr'd, 


Ho left mo all in leaving thee. 


And Giafiir almost called mo coward ! 


Deep wore my aimuish, thus compoU'd 


Now I have motive to bo brave; 


To wed with o\w I ne'er beheld: 


The son of his neglected slave. 


This wh(>n'fore tihould I not reveal ? 


Nay, start not, 't was the term ho gave. 


Why wilt tiiou urge me to conceal? 


May show, though little aj)! to vaunt, 


1 know the Puclui's haughty nioiwi 


A heart liis words nor deeds can daunt. 


To thee halh nover boded g.»od 



4 



THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 



95 



Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above ; 
Was she — the daughter of that rude old chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of beauty 's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until liis faihng sight 
Faints into dimness witli its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
The hght of love, the purity of grace. 
The mind, the music breathing from her face, ^ 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul I 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending"*' 
Across her gently budding breast ; 

At one kind word tiiose arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that agamst her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel ; 
Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness 

How dear this very day must tell. 
When I forget my own distress. 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with anotlier dwell: 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman ' 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan, 
And teach the messenger ^ what fkte 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know: 
'T was mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love thy lord may show." 

VIII. 

In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fill'd vdth tears, 
That stifled feeUng dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped. 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 



So bright the tear in beauty's eye, 

Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of bashfulness. 

Even pity scarce can wish it less ! 
Whate'er it was the sire forgot; 
Or if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 
Tlirice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed,* 

Resign'd liis gem-adorn'd Cliiboukey *° 
And mounting foatly for the mead, 

Witli Maugrabee 'i and Mamaluke, 

His way amid his Dehs took, '^ 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch'd well the Harara's massy doors. 



His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand. 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt ^^ 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd. 
Nor heard their Ollalis i* wild and loud — 
He thought but of old GiafBr's daughter! 



No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke: 
Still gazed he through the lattice grate^ 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd ; 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart alarm'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay? 
"How strange he thus should turn away! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd ; 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was raix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's'* perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
The pictured roof '^ and marble floor : 
The drops, that through his ghttering vest 
The playful girl's appeal addrest, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew. 
As if that breast were marble too. 
"What, sullen yet? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee !" 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of Eastern land — 
" He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breath'd 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Sehm's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message fi-om the Bulbul ^^ bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He '11 try for once a strain more glad. 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



97 



And he so often storms at nought 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought I 
And why, I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, ^^ 
My father leaves the mimic war; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 



" Zuleika ! to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet : 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There 's fearful news from Danube's banks, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 

For which the Giaoui- may give him thanks ! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come : 

Then softly from the Haram creep 

Where we may wander by the deep ; 

Our garden-battlements arc steep; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

"Delay not thou; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear: 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO II. 



The winds are high on Hello's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
He could not sec, he would not hear 
Or sound or sign forciboding fear ; 
His eye but saw tiiat light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
" Yo waves, divide not lovers long ! " — 
That tale is old, but lovo anew 
May nerve young hoarta to prove as true. 



The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main; 

And night's descending shadows hide 
That field with blood bedew 'd in vain, 

The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole reUcs of his reign. 

All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 

The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 



Oh ! yet — ^for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore. 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own " broad Hellespont " ^-^ still dashes, 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 



The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme : 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Ammon's "'^ son ran proudly round, 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd. 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow ! 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
But thou — thy very dust is gone ! 



Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase tlie boatman's fear; 

Till then — no beacon on the chff 

May shape the course of struggUng skiff; 

The scattcr'd lights that skirt the bay 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of tliis lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zulcika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken Ottoman 
Are tlirown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran;''* 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,'''' 
Whereon engraved the Koorsce text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next; 
And by her Comboloio''' lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not ofl so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Shecraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Arc gather'd in Uiat gorgeous room: 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of tliis Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 



98 



THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 



Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear, 
With cautious steps the thicket threading, 

And starting oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow moanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side? 

How teach her tender Ups to chide ? 

VII. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to time^^ 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be: 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her prophet had disdam'd to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure. 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without /ler, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear wth him could dwell ? 
What Houri sooth him half so well? 

VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot: 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light: 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What m.ay this mean ? she tum'd to see 

Her SeUm— «0h! can this be he?" 

ix^ 

His robe of pride was throvm aside, 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red. 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem, 
No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadom'd were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosel3r hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote: 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee.^* 



I said I was not what I seem'd ; 

And now thou seest my words were true : 



I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 't were vain to hide ; 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own hps declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother 1" 



" Oh ! not my brother ! — ^yet unsay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before. 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than Uve thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
And I alas ! am GiafRr's child, 
For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
My life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave l" 



" My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I 'm thme : 

But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
Thy lot shall jet be link'd with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran ^^ verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widened, not divided. 

Although thy Sire 's my deadliest foe» 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That SeUm late was deem'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall^ 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a hke return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ; '" 
He watch'd me hke a lion's whelp, 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will 1 talte ; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, belov'd Zuleika ! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear^ 



" How first their strke to rancour grew> 

If love or envy made them foes. 
It matters little if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will distwh repose^ 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Reraember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's" rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest : 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



His death is all I need relate, 
The stern effect of Giaffir's hate ; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 



" When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life, 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pacha's rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horsetails '^ to the wind, 

And, mustering in Sophia 's plain, 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one drought, '^ nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 



" The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man— 

Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
By him a brother's murder stain'd 
'T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence ? Survey the waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
Why me the stern usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I Imow not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant 's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
Preserved me thus ; but not in peace : 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood; 



" Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true: 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few; 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew. 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die; 
But what could single slavery do? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foea subdued, or friends betray'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate, 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To nave the life for which he pray'd. 



The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumehe 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends! 

XVII. 

" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove aU truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn. 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy pUghted vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes, 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolatmg tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale ; 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought. 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fiU'd — once quaff 'd, they ne'er repine : 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They 're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 

" What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 

And taunted to a wish to roam ; 

And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft — Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 

In full Divan the despot scoff'd. 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand : 

He ever went to war alone. 

And pent me here untried, unknown; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 

While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaited'st there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'T is vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay — Heaven itself was mine ! 



" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convcy'd me from this idle shore ; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Oci-an's purple diadem : 
I Bouglit by turns, and saw them all ; •* 
But when and whore I join'd the crew, 



100 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



With whom I 'm pledged to rise or fall, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 't will then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 

XX. 

« 'T is true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place : 
But open speech, and ready hand. 
Obedience to their chiefs command ; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to aU, 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than even my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my counsel call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
The last of Lambro's ^^ patriots there 
Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the Rayahs ^^ from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er loiew ; 
1 have a love for freedom too. 
Ay ! let me lilve the ocean-patriarch '^ roam, 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! ^^ 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail. 
Across the desert, or before the gale. 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! 
But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
The dove of peace and promise to mine ark! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife. 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call : 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, 
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden ^^ in its earliest hour. 
A thousand swords, with Sehm's heart and hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side. 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these : 
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnumberd perils — but one only love ! 
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still! 
Be but thy soul, like Selira's, firmly shown ; 
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
To sooth each sorrow, share in each delight. 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 
Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide ; 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
By fatal nature to man's warring kind : 
Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
He maltes a sohtude, and calls it — peace I 



I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 

Ours be the last ; in thne deceit may come 

When cities cage us in a social home : 

There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or wo 

Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! not Zuleika's name ! 

But life is hazard at the best ; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear: 

Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 

By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 

Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest. 

Their steps still ro\ing, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 

Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 

There lie the only rocks our course can cheek ; 

Here moments menace — there are years of \vreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape ! 

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 

Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline 1 

And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 



" His head and faith from doubt and death 
Return'd in time my guard to save \ 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 

From isle to isle I roved the while : 

And since, though parted from my band, 

Too seldom now I leave the land. 

No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, 

Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 

I form the plan, decree the spoil, 

'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 

But now too long I 've held thine ear ; 

Time presses, floats my bark, and here 

We leave behind but hate and fear. 

To-morrow Osman with his train 

Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 

And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 
Perchance his Ufe who gave thee thine, 

With me this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 

Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 

Appall'd by truths imparted now, 

Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 

But be that peril on my head !" 

xxil, 
Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
Stood hke that statue of distress. 
When, her last hope for ever gone. 
The mother harden'd into stone ; j 
All m the maid that eye could see 
Was but a younger Niobe. 
But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
Essay'd to speak, or look reply, 
Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
Far flashed on high a blazing torch! 
Another — and another — and another — [ther I* 
" Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than bro- 



THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 



101 



Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all, his sabre waving 
Stem Giaffir in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave 



DauntFess he stood — " 't is come — soon past- 
One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept. 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lost even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No — though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel !" 



One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 

His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strcngth- 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay. 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land! 
They come — 't is but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 



Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 

Had Selim won, bctray'd, beset, 

To where the strand and billows met : 

There as his last step loft the land, 

And the last dcalh-l)low dealt his hand — 

All ! wherefore did ho turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that filial gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof^ in peril and in pain, 
How late will lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 



When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 

"So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" 

Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 

Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 

Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 

'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer! 

The father slowly rued thy hate. 

The son hath found a quicker fate: 

Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 

The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling— 

If aught his lips essay'd to groan. 

The rushing billows chok'd the tone ! 



Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an earless boat; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burden round Sigseum's steep. 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high. 

Then levcU'd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall li« 

Within a living grave? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die. 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 

And mourn'd above his turban-stone, ^° 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed- 
Yea — closed before his ov%ti ! 

xxvii. 
By Hclle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale, 
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late , 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hoar 
The loud Wnl-wuUch"*' warn his distant ear? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gale. 
The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate. 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale. 

Tell him thy tale! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! 

That fearfid moment when ho left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
Ho was thy lio]ie — thy joy — thy love — thino all — 
And that last thought on him thou couldst not sava 
Sufhrrd to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wld cr}' — and all was still. 
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 



102 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 

That grief— though deep — though fatal — was thy first ! 

Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 

Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 

And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! 

The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 

Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 

That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 

That winds around and tears the quivering heart! 

Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 

Wo to thee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 

Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 

Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief : 

Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 

She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy daughter's dead! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 

What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast shed ! 

Hark ! to the hurried question of despair : 

* Where is my child ?" — an echo answers — " Where ?" ^^ 



Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms, 
And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited love. 
One spot exists, which ever blooms. 

Even in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower. 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 



And buds unshelter 'd by a bower ; 

Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote: 
Invisible his airy wings. 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the bulbul; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain: 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear the mom to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake. 

He sings so wild and well! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high- 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 

Yet harsh be they that blame) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable its sound 

Into Zuleika's name.'*' 
'T is from her cypress' summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ; 
For there, as Helle 's legends tell. 
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell ; 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there by night, reclined, 't is said. 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'T is named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow !" 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath flourish'd ; flourished this hour, 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale! 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Note 1. Page 93 line 8. 

IVcuc faint o 'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. 
" Gvl}^ the rose. 

Note 2. Page 93, line 17. 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done 7 

" Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, 
Wilh whom revenge is virtue." 

Young's Revenge. 

Note 3. Page 94, line 53. 
With Mej noun's tale, or Sadi's song. 
Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 
Note 4. Page 94, line 54. 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour. 
Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise 
noon, and twilight. 



Note 5. Page 94, line 125. 

He is an Arab to my sight. 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
ment a hundred fold,) even more than they hate the 
Christians. 

Note 6. Page 95, line 22. 
The mind, the mtisic breathing from her face. 
This expression has met wilh objections. I will not 
refer to " him who hath not music in his soul," but 
merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, 
the features of the woman whom he believes to be the 
most beautiful ; and if he then does not comprehend 
fuUv what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall 
be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the 
latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps 
of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate com- 
parison excited by that analogy,) between " painting 
and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10. De l'Allemagre. 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 



103 



And is not this connexion still stronger with the original 
than the copy? With the colouring of nature than of 
an ? After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; 
still I think there are some who will understand it, at 
least they would have done, had they beheld the coun- 
tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; 
for this passage is not drawn from imagmation, but 
memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the 
earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- 
holds the reflection multiplied . 

Note 7. Page 95, line 44. 
But yet the line of Carasman. 
Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the 
principal landholder in Turkey ; he governs Magnesia: 
those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on 
condition of service, are called Timariots : they serve 
as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and 
bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. 
Note 8. Page 95, line 56. 
And teach the messenger what fate. 
When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the 
order for his death, is strangled instead, and some- 
times five or six, one after the other, on the same 
errand, by command of the refractory patient ; if, on 
the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the 
Sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with 
great complacency. In 1810, several of these presents 
were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; 
among others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a 
brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a despe- 
rate resistance. 

Note 9. Page 95, line 75. 
Thrice clapped his hands, and chWd his steed. 
Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The 
Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and 
they have no bells. 

Note 10. Page 95, line 76. 
Resigned his gem-adorned chibouque. 
Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
mouth- piece and sometimes the ball which contains 
the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in posses- 
sion of the wealthier orders. 

Note 11. Page 95, line 78. 
With Maugrabee and Mamaluke. 
Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 

Note 12. Page 95, line 79. 
His way amid his Delis took. 
Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
and always begin the action. 

Note 13. Page 95, line 91. 
Careering cleave the folded felt. 
A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice 
by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut 
through it at a single stroke : sometimes a tough tur- 
ban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed is a 
game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 
Note 14. Page 95, line 94. 
Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud. 
" Ollahs," Allail Allah, the " Leilies," as the Span- 
ish poets call them, the sound is Ollah ; a cry of 
which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat 
profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in the 
chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation in the 
field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and 
comboloios, form an amusing contrast. 

Note 15. Page 95, line 113. 
The Persian Atar-gul \<i perfume. 
"Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

Note 16. Page 95, line 115. 
The pictured roof and marble floor. 
The ceiling and wainscots, or rather wallsj of the 
Mussulman apartments are generally painted, \n great 
houses, with one eternal ana highly coloured view of 
Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a 
noble contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimi- 
tars, &c. are in general fancifully and not inplogantly 
disposed. 



Note 17. Page 95, line 131. 
A message from the Bulbul bears. 
It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
" Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's 
remarks on the subject have provoked some learned 
controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the 
subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, 
though a httle inclined to the "errare mallem," (fcc. if 
Mr. Fox was mistaken. 

Note 18. Page 96, line 29. 
Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. 
" Azrael" — the angel of death. 

Note 19. Page 96, line 64. 
Within the caves of Istakar. 
The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. See 
D'Herbelot, article Istakar. 

Note 20. Page 96, line 80. 
Holds not a Musselim's control. 
Mussehm, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; 
a Waywode is the third ; and then come the Agas. 

Note 21. Page 96, hne 81. 

Was he not bred in Egripo ? 

Egripo — the Negropont. — According to the proverb, 

the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the 

Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective 

races. 

Note 22. Page 97, line 9. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar. 
" Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who precedes a 
man of authority. 

Note 23. Page 97, line 79. 
Thine own " broad Hellespont^' still dashes. 
The wrangling about this epithet, " the broad Helles- 
pont" or the " boundless Hellespont, "whether it means 
one or the other, or what it means at all, has been 
beyond all possibility of detail. I have even heard it 
disputed on the spot; and, not foreseeing a speedy 
conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with 
swimming across it in the meantime, and probably may 
again, before the point is settled. Indeed the question 
as to the truth of "the tale of Trov divine" still conti- 
nues, much of it resting upon the talismanic word 
" atreipos :" probably Homer had the same notion of 
distance that a coquette has of time, and when he talks 
of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a like 
figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply spe- 
cifies three weeks. 

Note 24. Page 97, line 90. 
WTiich Amman's son ran proudly round. 
Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 
calla in his race. It is believed that the last also 
poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new 
Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on 
the tombs of ^sietes and Anlilochus ; the first is ia 
the centre of the plain. 

Note 25. Page 97, line 109. 
O'er which her fairy fngers ran. 
When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
which is sUght, but not disagreeable. 

Note 26. Page 97, line 112. 

Her mother's sainted amulet. 
The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or inclosed 
n gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn 
round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the- 
East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second chan. 
of the Koran describes the attributes of the most Hign, 
and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, 
as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 
Note 27. Page 97, lino 115. 

And by her Comboloio lies. 
' Comboloio" — a Turkish rosary. ThcMSS. par- 
ticularly those of the Persians, arc richly adorned and 
illuminated. The Greek fomules are kept in utter 
ignorance ; but many of the Turkish girls arc highly 
accomplished, though not art!iallv(]uiililiedfor a Chris- 
tian coterie ; perhaps some of our own " blurs" might 
not be the worse for bleaching. 



104 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 



Note 28. Page 98, line 64. 
In him was smne young Galiongee. 
" Galiongee" — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turk- 
ish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the 
guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen 
the Captain Pacha more than once wearing it as a 
kind of incog. Their legs, however, are generally 
naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed 
behind with silver, are those of an Arnaut robber, who 
was my host, (he had quitted the profession,) at his 
Pyrgo, near Gaslouni in the Morea ; they were plated 
in scales one over the other, like the back of an arma- 
dUlo. 

Note 29. Page 98, line 103. 

So may the Koran verse displayed. 

The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain 

sometimes the name of the place of their manufacture, 

but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of 

fold. Among those in my possession, is one with a 
lade of singular construction •, it is very broad, and the 
edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of 
•water, or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian 
who sold it, what possible use such a figure could add : 
he said, in Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mus- 
sulmans had an idea that those of this form gave a 
severer wound ; and liked it because it was " piu fe- 
roce." I did not much admire the reason, but bought 
it for its peculiarity. 

Note 30. Page 98, line 118. 
But like the nephew of a Cain. 
It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing 
or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, 
or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and 
Jew: indeed, the former profess to be much better 
acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the pa- 
triarchs, than is warranted by our own sacred writ, and 
not content with Adam, they have a biography of Pre- 
Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, 
and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Ma- 
homet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar's 
wife, and her amour with Josepli constitutes one of the 
finest poems in the language. It is therefore no vio- 
lation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, 
into the mouth of a Moslem. 

Note 31. Page 98, line 134. 
And Paswan's rebel hordes attest. 
Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last 
years of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at 
defiance. 

Note 32. Page 99, line 11. 
They gave their horsetails to the wind. 
Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. 

Note 33. Page 99, line 24. 
He drank one draughty nor needed more. 
Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 
sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, 
in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while 
I was in the country, married the daughter of his vie 
tim, some years after the event had taken place, at a 
bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed 
in the cup of coffee, which is presented before the sher- 
bet by the bath-keeper, after dressing. 

Note 34. Page 99, line 136. 
I sought by turns and saw them all. 
The Turkish notions of almost all islands are con- 
fined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 



Note 35. Page 100, line 22. 
The last of Lambrd's patriots there. 
Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 
1789-90 for the independence of his country; aban- 
doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is 
said to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Riga are 
the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutiomsts. 

Note 36. Page 100, line 26. 
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 
"Rayahs" all who pay the capitation tax, called the 
" Haratch." 

Note 37. Page 100, lire 30. 
Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 
The first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 
Note 38. Page 100, line 31. 
Or only know on land the. Tartar's home. 
The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turko- 
mans, will be found well detailed in any hook of Eastern 
travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself 
cannot be denied. A young French renegado con- 
fessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found himself 
alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation ap- 
proaching to rapture, which was indescribable. 
Note 39. Page 100, line 61. 
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
" Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussul- 
man Paradise. 

Note 40. Page 101, line 116. 
And mourned above his turban-stone. 
A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men 
only. 

Note 41. Page 101, line 125. 
The loud Wul-ivuUeh warn his distant ear. 
The death-song of the Turkish women. The " silent 
slaves" are the men whose notions of decorum forbid 
complaint in public. 

Note 42. Page 102, line 23. 
"tVhere is my child ?^'' — an echo answers — " JVhere?^ 
"I came to the place of my birth and cried, 'the 
friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo 
answered, 'Where are they?'" 

From an Arabic 3IS. 
The above quotation (from which the idea in the 
text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader, 
— it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of " the 
Pleasures of Memory ;" a poem so well known as to 
render a reference almost superfluous ; but to whose 
pages all will be delighted to recur. 

Note 43. Page 102, line 72. 

Into Zideika's name. 

" And airy longues that syllable men's names." 

Milton. 
For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the 
form of birds, we need not travel to the east. Lord 
Lyttleton's ghost story, the behef of the Dutchess of 
Kendal that George I. flew into her window in the 
shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) and 
many other instances, bring this superstition nearer 
home. The most singular was the whim of a Wor- 
cester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the 
shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in 
the Cathedral with cages-full of the kind ; and as she 
was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, 
no objection was made to her harmless folly. For this 
anecdote see Orford's Letters, 



THE CORSAIR, 

A TALE. 



I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

TASSO, Canto decimo, Gerusalemme Liberata. 



THOMAS MOORE, ESa. 

MY DEAR MOORE, 

I dedicate to you the last production with which I 
shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, 
for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail 
myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my 
pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public 
principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. 
While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- 
triots ; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her 
estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, 
permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaint- 
ance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to 
the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove 
to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification 
derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It 
is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are 
engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will 
be laid in the East ; none can do those scenes so much 
justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
cent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of 
her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when 
he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not 
aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your 
imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded 
sky, but wildness, tenderness and originality are part 
of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
have already thus far proved your title more clearly than 
the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? — Self. 
I have written much, and published more tlian enough 
to demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but for 
some years to come it is my intention to tempt no 
further the award of " gods, men, nor columns." In 
the present composition I have attempted not the most 
difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our 
■anguage, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. 
The stanza of Spencer is perhaps too slow and dignified 
for narrative ; though, I confess, it is the measure most 
after my own heart : Scott alone, of the present genera- 
tion, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal 
facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the least 
victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, 
Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, arc the beacons 
that sliino along the deep, but warn us from the rough 
and barren rock on which lliey are kindled. The heroic 
couplet is not the most popular measure certainly ; but 
as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
whi\t is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 



further apology, and take my chance once more with that 
versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing 
but compositions whose former circulation is part of my 
present, and will be of my future regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the 
gloomy vanity of " drawing from self," the pictures are 
probably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, 
those who know me are undeceived, and those who do 
not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; 
but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
instance, when I see several bards, (far more deserving, 
I allow,) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, 
nevertheless, might be found with little more morality 
than " The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must admit 
Childe Harold-to be a very repulsive personage ; and as 
to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever 
" alias" they please. 

If] however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man 
who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, 
the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits 
me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 

most truly, and affectionately, 
his obedient servant, 

BYRON. 

January 2, 1814. 



CANTO I. 



-nesstin inagsjior tlolore, 



V\\e ricordarsi del tempo fi'lice 
Nclla miseria, 



" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam. 
Survey our empire, and behold our iiome ! 
These arc our realms, no limits lo their sw»y — 
Our flag the sceptre all who rnoet obey. 
Ours the wild life ui tumult still to rango 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 



106 



THE CORSAIR. 



Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core. 
Its hope awaken and its spirits soar ? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it vnYl — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife 7 
Let him who crawls enamour 'd of decay 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
Ours — the fresh turfj and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
Ours vvith one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its um and narrow cave. 
And they wha loathed his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
When those who win at length divide the prey. 
And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow. 
How had the brave who fell exulted now .'" 



Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 

And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 

Select the arms — to each his blade assign. 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 

While others stragghng muse along the shore ; 

For the wild bird the busy springes set, 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 

With all the thirsting eye of enterprise ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil. 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 

No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief ? His name on every shore 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and Imow no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpUng cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare— the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots. 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

AVith all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense. 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

« Steer to that shore '."—they sail. " Do this !" — 't is done 

"Now form and follow me!"— the spoil is won. 

Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 

And all obey and few inquire his will ; 



To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 
" A sail ! — a ^ail !" — a promised prize to hope I 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes I 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life. 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck 1 

IV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings 

And gathering loiterers on the land discern 

Her boat descending fi-om the latticed stern. 

'T is mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, 

Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 

Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech I 

When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 

The smUe, the question, and the quick reply, 

And the heart's promise of festi\dty ! 



p 

vdl 



The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd; 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud. 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear word; 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless ? 
From where the battle roars — the billows chafe— 
They doubtless boldly did — ^but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise,. 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" 



" Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short 
Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief; 
But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
Our greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way. 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay,: 
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossombg, 
And freshness breathing from each silver spring. 
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
From crag to chff they mount — Near yonder cave^ 
What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
Not oft a resting-staff" to that red hand? 
"'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone; 
On — Juan I — on — and make our purpose known. 
The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet: 
We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 
Wlien strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
" These letters. Chief, are from the Greek — the spy 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings we can well report, 
Much that" — " Peace, peace !" — he cuts their prating 
short. 



THE CORSAIR. 



107 



Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: 
They watch his glance witli many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo?" 

" In the anchor'd bark." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
« To-night, Lord Conrad ?" 

"Ay! at set of sun: 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the Armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired. 
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 

VIII. 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides. 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery. 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew. 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their fate can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown. 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one ! 
'T is Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils. 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How hght the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again. 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men; 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and palo 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 

Slill seems there something he would not have seen: 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yi't uridofinod ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquiry his stern glance would (lueil. 

There breathe but few whoso aspect might defy 

The full onco\uitor of his searching eye : 



He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheeky 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell! 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 

Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought ! 

Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 

Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 

Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 

Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 

He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 

Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 

The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 

That listens, starting, lest the step too near 

Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 

Then — with each feature worlung from the heart, 

With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart: 

That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow, 

Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 

Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 

Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 

Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 

The scathing thought of execrated years ! 

Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 

Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 

XI. 

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 

To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 

His soul was changed, before his de«3ds had driven 

Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 

Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 

In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Doom'd by his very %artues for a dupe. 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill. 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 

Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to give again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her force, 

He hated man too much to feel remorse. 

And thought the voice of wrath a, sacred call, 

To pay the injuries of some on all. 

He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 

The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 

And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 

He knew himself detested, but he knew 

The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood' alike exempt 

Fiom all affection and from all contempt: 

His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 

But they that fear'd him dared not to despise: 

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 

The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 

The first may turn — but not avenge the blow; 

The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 

Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 

And ho may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 



None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
One softer fcohng would not yet doi)art ; 
Oft could ho sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still ho strove. 
And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 



108 



THE CORSAIR. 



Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 

Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 

He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 

Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness. 

Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 

And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile. 

Could render sullen were she near to smile, 

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 

On her one murmur of his discontent ; 

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 

Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 

Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 

If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 

He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 

On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 

Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 

Not guilt itself could quench tliis loveliest one ! 

XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 

Pass'd the first \vinding downward to the glen. 

" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 

Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 

Yet so my heart forbodes, but must not fear, 

Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 

'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait' 

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 

And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile. 

We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral-pile. 

Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 

Mom ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 

As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) 

To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 

Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 

Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 

Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 

This common courage which with brutes we share. 

That owes its deadliest efforts to despair. 

Small merit claims — ^but 't was my nobler hope 

To teach my few \vith numbers still to cope ; 

Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed : 

No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 

So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 

But thus to urge them whence they cannot fliy. 

My lot hath long had little of my care, 

But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 

Is this my skUl ? my craft ? to set at last 

Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? 

Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 

She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 
Thus with himself communion held he, tijl 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 

L 
" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells. 

Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 

Then trembles into silence as before. 
2. 
" There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 

Bums the slow flame, eternal — but unseen; 
Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 

Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



3. 

" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline : 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to fmd forge tfulness in thine. 

4. 

"My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 

Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear. 

The first — the last — sole reward of so much love !" 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore. 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: 
" My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

"In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay. 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined. 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge ; 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow I 
At length — 'twas noon — I haiJ'd and blest the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! . 
Another came — Oh God! 'twas thine at last! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life. 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still. 
Should war with nature and its better will !" 

" Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been changed, 

Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-fike avenged, 

Without one hope on earth beyond thy love. 

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 

Yet the same feeling which tliou dost condemn, 

My very love to thee is hate to them. 

So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 

I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 

Yet dread not this — the proof of all that past 

Assures the future that my love will rest ; 

But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentle heart. 

This hour again — but not for long — we part." 

" This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this : 

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 

This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 

Yon bark hath hardly anchor 'd in the bay : 

Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew : 

My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst steel 

My breast before the time when it must feel ; 

But trifle now no more with my distress. 

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 

Be silent, Conrad! — dearest! come and share 

The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 

Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare 



THE CORSAIR. 



109 



See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 

And where not sure, pcrplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 

At such as seem'd the fairest: thrice the hill 

My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 

Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 

See how it sparldes in its vase of snow i 

The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 

Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 

Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 

What others deem a penance is thy choice. 

But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 

Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 

Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 

And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 

Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear. 

Shall sooth or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 

We 'II turn the tale, by Ariosto told. 

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. ^ 

Why — thou wert worse than he v.ho broke his vow 

To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 

Or even that traitor chief — I 'vc seen thee smile. 

When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 

Which I have pointed from these chffs the while : 

And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said, 

Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread 

Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 

And he deceived me — for — he came again !" 

"Again — again — and oft again — my love! 

If there be life below, and hope above. 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing : 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wld word — farewell ! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord 's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List ! — 't is the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 

One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms. 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — thai feeling scern'd almost unfclt ! 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
It told 't was sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd. 
Which mutually clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
And tottering to the couch his bride ho bore. 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone ? 



" And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 

How oft that fearful (lucstion will intrude ! 

"'T was but an instant past — and hero ho stood! 

And now" — without the portal's porch sho rush'd, 

And then at length her tears in frcculom gusli'd ; 

Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her thoy fell ; 

But slill her lips refused to send — " Farewell !" 

For in that word — that fatal word — howu'er 

Wo promise — hope — believe — tliero breathes despair. 

O'er every feature of tliat still, pah^ fa(M«, 

Hud sorrow fix'd what time can n<''<'r er.isr : 



The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 

Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him. 

And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim 

Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 

With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 

"He 's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven 

She look'd and saw the heaving of the mairi ; 

The white sail set — she dared not look again; 

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate— 

" It is no dream — and I am desolate 1" 

XVI. 

From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep. 

That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 

And she — the dim and melancholy star, 

Whose ray of beauty reach'd liim from afar, 

On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 

There he might rest— but on Destruction's brink : 

Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; 

But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman 's grief. 

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 

And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 

Again he hurries on — and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears 

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. 

The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast. 

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 

That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 

And more than all, his blood-red flag alofl;, 

He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 

Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 

He feels of all his former self possest ; 

He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 

The verge where ends the cliff; begins the beacli, 

There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath. 

Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 

Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 

For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 

By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 

His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 

That seems to shun the sight— and awes if seen : 

The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 

That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 

All these he wielded to command assent : 

But v.here he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 

That kindness canceU'd fear in those who heard, 

And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 

When echo'd to the heart as from his own 

His deep yet tender melody of tone : 

But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 

H(>. cared not what ho soften'd, but subdued ; 

The evil passions of liis youtli had made 

Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Annmd him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — "Are all prejjarcd?'' 

" They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

" My sworil, and my capoto. 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak wcro o'er liis sIuuiIiKm-s flung : 
"Cull Pedro hero!" H«> comes — and Conrad bonds, 
With nil tlir courttiBV he duigiul his friends ; 



110 



THE CORSAm. 



"Receive tliese tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine !" 
Tfiis said, his brother Pirale's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves' phosphoric ^ brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart. 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-Uke the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by. 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 
Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood. 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO II. 



Conosceste i dubiosi desiri ?'' 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
When he shaU drag the fetter'd Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word. 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast : 
Already shared the captives and the prize. 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their liaven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they Avill, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 



How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — 

To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 

Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 

Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 

And do not deign to smite because they may ! 

Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 

To keep in practice for the coming foe. 

Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 

And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 

For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 

And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 
High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff" — 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice ' 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long Chibouque's '^ dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almus ^ to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn wUl view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark: 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 

III. 
With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye. 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God—his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form liis loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seelt, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 

Whence com'st thou, Dervise ?" 

" From the outlaw's dei^ 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ?" 
"From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon* our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night • 

Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can fear?" 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared, 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ?" 

" Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy 

I only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore ; 



THE CORSAIH. 



Ill 



I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape. 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly. 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh : 
Pacha ! — my hmbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 
" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou shalt not pine where aO are banqueting ; 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 

'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man. 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor show'd liigh reUsh for the banquet prest, 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 
'T was but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calnmess which before forsook : 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
"What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge. 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite. 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !" 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stem vow and order's '^ laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

"Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 

One question answer ; then in peace depart. 

How many ? — Ha ! it camiot sure be day ? 

What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 

It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 

Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 

The galleys feed the flames — and I afar! 

Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 

Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now I 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume. 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sahler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and sliouts to swill, 
Flung o'er that spot of earth Ihi- air df hell! 



Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 

Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 

Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 

They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 

He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 

That urged him but to stand and perish there, 

Since far too early and too well obey'd, 

The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 

He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 

His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 

'T is ansv/er'd — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 

Why did 1 doubt their quickness of career ? 

And deem design had left me single here ?" 

Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirhng sway 

Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 

Completes his fury, what their fear begun. 

And makes the many basely quail to one. 

The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 

And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 

Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, surprise. 

Retreats before him, though he still defies. 

No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 

So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 

His blazing galleys still distract his sight, * 

He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ; " 

For now the pirates pass'd the Haratn gate, 

And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 

Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws 

The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 

The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 

Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 

Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 

Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 

They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 

A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 

But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 

" 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 

Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 

Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?" 

v. 
duick at the word — they seized him each a torch. 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
" Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
One female form — remember — we have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay; 
Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
Bui still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
If at my word die helpless cease to live : 
Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door. 
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
His breath choked gasping with the volumcd smoke, 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms* 
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms; 
('aim their loud fears; sustain their sinking frames 
With all the care defi-nccless beauty claims; 
So well could Conrad lame their fiercest mood. 
And check the very liands with gore imbrued. 
But who is she? whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 
The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnaro,* 
Few words to rca.ssuro tlio trembling fair; 
Eor in tiiat pause compassion sualch'd from war, 
The foe be.fnro rotirinr, fust and far. 



112 



THE CORSAIR, 



With wonder saw their footsteps unpui-sued, 

First slowher fled — then rallied — then withstood. 

Tliis Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 

Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 

And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 

The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia il AUa ! Vengeance swells the cry — 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 

And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 

The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 

When wrath returns to renovated strife. 

And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 

Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 

His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 

" One effort — one — to break the circling host !" 

They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 

Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset. 

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 

Hemm'd in — cut off" — cleft down — and trampled o'er ; 

But each strilies singly, silently, and. home. 

And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome. 

His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 

Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 



But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 

And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 

Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed. 

Safe in the dome of one who held their creed. 

By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd. 

And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 

And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 

Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 

Much did she mangel o'er the courtesy 

That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 

'T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 

Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 

The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 

Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 

The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affi-ight, 

As if his homage were a woman's right. 

* The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 

Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 

If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 

The life — my loving lord remember'd not !" 



And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 

But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 

Far from his band, and batthng with a host 

That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 

FeU'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 

And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 

Preserved to linger and to live in vain. 

While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain 

And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 

But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 

Would doom him ever dyincf — ne'er to die ! 

Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, 

When his red hand's wild gesture waved," a law ! 

'T is he indeed — disarm'd but undeprest, 

His sole regret the life he still possest ; 

His wounds too slight, though taken with that will. 

Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 

Oh were there none, of all the many given. 

To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 

Must he alone of all retain liis breath. 

Who more tlian all had striven and struck for death ? 

He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel. 

When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 

For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 

Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 

He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 

Tha,t led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 



StiU in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 

But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 

Though the far shouting of the distant crowd. 

Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 

The better warriors who beheld him near, 

Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 

And the grim guards that to his durance led, 

In silence eyed him with a secret dread, 

* IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there^ 

To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 

He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 

And promise feelmg for the wrench of pain : 

To-morrow — ^yea — tc-morrow's evening sun 

Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 

And rising with the wonted blush of morn 

Behold how well or iU those pangs are borne. 

Of torments this the longest and the worst. 

Which adds all other agony to thirst, 

That day by day death still forbears to slake, 

While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 

" Oh .' water — water !" — smiling Hate denies 

The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 

This was his doom: — the Leech, the guard, were gone, 

And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 

X, 

'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind. 
When all its elements convulsed — combined — 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
That jugglmg fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries " I warn'd thee !" when the deed is o'er. 
Vain voice ! the spirit burning but imbent. 
May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And, to itself, all — all that self reveals. 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought; 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews- 
All rushing thi-ough their thousand avenues. 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endanger'd glory, hfe itself beset ; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
Things hght or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd. 
Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 
To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all. 
All — all — before — beyond — the deadUest fall. 
Each hath soihe fear, and he who least betrays. 
The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; 
But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career. 
He half-way meets him should he menace near.* 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court, 



THE CORSAIR. 



113 



Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 

His foe, if vanquJsh'd, had but shared the same: — 

Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 

His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 

One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 

" Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ?" 

Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised. 

And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 

But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd reUe^ 

And smiled in self-derision of his grie^ 

" And now come torture when it will — or may, 

More need of rest to nerve me for the day !" 

This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 

And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 

'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 

For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 

Disguised — discover'd — conquering-ta'en-condemn'd- 

A cliief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 

Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 



He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 

Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 

He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends? 

His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends 

Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 

No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face ! 

Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 

Of that closed eye, vv^hich opens but to pain. 

And once unclosed — but once may close again. 

That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair. 

And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 

With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 

That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 

Through guards and dunnest night how came it there ? 

Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 

Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 

She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 

She left his side — his signet-ring she bore. 

Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 

And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 

Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 

Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows. 

Their eyes had enviad Conrad his repose ; 

And chill and nodding at the turret door. 

They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more : 

Just raised their heads to hail the signet- ring. 

Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 



She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe. 
And me and mine he spared from worse than wo : 
'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the light. 

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 

Too harshly told him that ho lived again, 

- What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 

Methinks, my jailor's face shows wond'rous fair !" 

* Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou haat too rarelv done ; 
Look on mo — and renicmbor hor, lliy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
P 



I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

" If so, kind lady I thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight: 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thuie. 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine I" 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremist grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 

And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 

Till even the scaffold '° echoes with their jest ! 

Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 

A laughing vvildness half unbent his brow : 

And these his accents had a sound of mirth. 

As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 

Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life. 

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 



'• Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 

To sooth the Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now, 

But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ; 

But all I can, I will: at least delay 

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 

More now were ruin — even thyself were loath 

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

'' Yes ! — loath indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 

Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 

Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly. 

The one of all my band that would not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 

Till to these eyes her ov,n wild softness springs. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my God ! 

The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 

And man but works his will to lay me low. 

I have no thought to mock his throne wth prayer 

Wrung from the coward croiicliing of despair; 

It is enough — I brcatlie — and I can bear. 

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 

That might have better kept so true a brand ; 

My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 

For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 

Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 

And this will break a heart so more than kind, 

And blight a form — till thine appear'd Gulnare 

Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh! I envy those 
Whose liearts on hearts as faithful can repose. 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thouglit 
That sighs o'er visions — sucli as mine hath wrought'' 

" I^ady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redcem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" My love stern Soyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my love — 

Vet much this heart, that strives no moro, once strove 

To meet his passion — but it would not be. 

I fill — I \W\ — love dwells wilh — with the free. 

I am a slavt^, a favour 'd slave at host, 

To share his splendour, and seem very blest I 



114 



THE CORSAIR. 



Oft must my soul the question undergo, 

Of—' Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, ' No!' 

Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain. 

And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 

But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 

And hide from one— perhaps another there. 

He takes the hand I give not — ^nor withhold — 

Its pulse not check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 

And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 

Prom one I never loved enough to hate. 

No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 

And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 

Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 

The change to hatred were at least to feel : 

But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 

And oft when present — absent from my thought. 

Or when reflection comes, and come it must — 

I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust; 

I. am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 

'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 

Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 

Or seek another and give mine release. 

But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 

Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 

Remember — captive ! 't is to break thy chain ; 

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 

To give thee back to all endear'd below, 

Who share such love as I can never know. 

Farewell — morn breaks — ^and I must now away: 

'T will cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !" 



She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart. 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain. 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 

Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 

Oh! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield. 
To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 
Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
Yet be the soft triumvirs fault forgiven. 
By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 
And seal their ovni to spare some wanton's wo ! 



*T is mom — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd Umb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



CANTO m. 



Come Yedi— ancor i 



m'abbandona." 

Dantt. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright. 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 



O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle. 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars ai-e no more divine ; 
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gull^ unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tmts, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven j 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's " latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting Ungers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once deUghtflil dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phcebus never frown'd before, 
But ere he sank below Cithoeron's head, 
The cup of wo was quaflf'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who liv'd and died, as none can live or die I 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 

The queen of night asserts her silent reign.** 

No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 

With cornice glimmermg as the moon-beams play 

There the white column greets her grateful ray» 

And, bright around with quivering beams beset. 

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret ; 

The groves of ohve scatter'd dark and wide 

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 

The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,*' 

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 

Near Theseus' fane yon solitary pahn, 

All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye — 

And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the -Egean, heard no more afar, 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 

Again his waves in milder tints unfold 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, 

That fro^vn — where gentler ocean seems to smile.** 

II. 

Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee? 

Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 

So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 

Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set. 

Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? 

Not he — wfiDse heart nor time nor distance frees, 

Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! 

Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain. 

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 

Would that with freedom it were thine again! 



1 



The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night. 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, 
Medora's heart — the third day 's come and gone— 
With it he comes not — sends not — ^faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storma wertt 

none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though vrild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 



THE CORSAIR. 



116 



The night-breeze freshens — she that day had past 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she vvander'd heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense I 

It cume at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 

Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 

Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 

Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 

In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate: 

Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 

She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 

Beneath that grief; that loneliness of lot. 

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high. 

That deem'd not till they found their energy. 

While yet was Hope — they soften'd — fluttcr'd — wept— 

All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 

And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 

"With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread." 

'T is more than nature's ; like the burning might 

Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

* Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 

What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 

Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 

The — quick your answer — tell me where he Ues." 

"Lady! we know not — scarce with life we fled; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — ^"twas in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
stood; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her fiom another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 



In that vvdld council words wax'd warm and strange, 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge; 
All, save repose or flight: slill lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 



Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 
Stern Seyd, slill pondering o'er his Captive's fate ; 
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 
Hero at his feet the lovely slave reclined 
Surveys his brow — would sooth his gloom of mind 
While many an anxious glance her largo dark cyo 
Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,' * 
But inly views his victim as ho bleeds. 



" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
Was eam'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate: 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While baffled, weakeu'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

"Gulnare! — if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 

If ail our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 

If had not now redeem'd a single hour; 

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved far .mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not tree : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band. 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

" His capture cotdd ! — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine? 

Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine 

Fair suitor ! — to thy virtues gratitude, 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 

I have a council for t'ny gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of tliine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say, wcrt thou lins;oring there with him to fly? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 

'T is not hi.i life alone may claim such care ! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was die moment when lie bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far— but — no — 

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo — 

Now 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful tlwng ! 

Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence witlidrew. 
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that ciiief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His (loiibls appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, dilforing but in name ; 
Slill half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 
Again his rages repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, tlio source of woman's woes! 



Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
Roll'd day and night — his soul could never tamo — 



116 



THE CORSAIR. 



This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 

When every houi" might doom him worse than dead, 

When every step that echo'd by the gate 

Might entering lead where axe and stake await; 

When every voice that grated on his ear 

Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 

Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 

Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 

'T was worn — perhaps decay'd — ^yet silent bore 

That conflict deadlier far than all before : 

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 

But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 

To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 

To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 

Irrevocable faults, and comiiig fate — 

Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 

To count the hours that struggle to thine end. 

With not a friend to animate, and tell 

To other ears that deatli became thee well: 

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie. 

And blot life's latest scene wilh calumny ; 

Before the tortures, which the soul can dare. 

Yet doubts how well the skrinldng flesh may bear ; 

But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 

To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim; 

The life thou leav'st below, denied above 

By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 

And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 

Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 

And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 

And those sustain'd he — ^boots it well or ill? 

Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 

VII. 

The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 

The second — third — and still she came not there ; 

But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done. 

Or else he had not seen another sun. 

The fourth day roU'd along, and with the night 

Came storm and darkness in their mingling might : 

Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 

And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 

Roused by the roar of his o^'^^l element ! 

Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 

And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 

And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 

A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 

Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly loud, 

Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud; 

And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 

To him more genial than the midnight star : 

Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, 

And hope that peril might not prove in vain. 

He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 

One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 

His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 

The storm roU'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 

Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone. 

As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 

VIII. 

The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: 
'T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint. 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came. 
More pale her check, more tremulous her frame: 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — " thou must die ! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 



" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou not 

Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 

Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 

To the fond workings of a woman's mind ! 

And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 

With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 

Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 

It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — loved. 

Reply not, tell not now thy tale again. 

Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 

Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 

I rush tlirough peril which she would not dare. 

If that thy heart to hers were truly dear. 

Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 

An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 

What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 

But speal: not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 

Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 

If thcu hast courage still, and would'st be free. 

Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me !" 



I! 



" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gentry tread, 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?" 

"Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard, 

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A single word of mine removes that chain : 

Without some aid how here could I remain ? 

Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time. 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 

The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed 1 

I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 

"Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 

Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 

But he has said it — and the jealous well. 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. 

Deserve the fate their fretting hps foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said. 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'T was false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife) 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 

Oh ! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not star^ 

Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart, ' 



THE CORSAIR. 



117 



'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seyd ! 

" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 

Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that inercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 

Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 

* Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 

If thou -wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 't is but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid. 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years. 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeb'e hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 



She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 

But his glance foUow'd far with eager eye ; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 

Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 

'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or ghun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 

Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

He rcach'd an o[)cn gallery — on his eye 

•Gleam'd the last star of nigiit, the clearing sky : 

Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 

Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward past, 

Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 't is She at last ! 

No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 

" Thanlcs to that softening heart — she could not kill !" 

Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She sto|)p'd — throw back her dark far-iloating hair, 

That nearly vcil'd her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above sonje object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 

Its hue was all ho saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 't is blood ! 



He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
He had been templed — chastened — and the chain 
Vet on his arms might ever there remain : 



But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 

From all his feelings in their inmost force — 

So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 

As now they froze before that purple stain. 

That spot of blood, that hght but guilty streak, 

Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 

Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 

It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men. 



" 'T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away! 
Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 



She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No v/ords are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad v/aves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obeyed, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII, 

Embark'd the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew— 
How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time. 
Had swept an age of terror, grief] and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past ; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn'd and saw — Gubiarc, the homicide ! 



She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she prest, 
" Thou may'st forgive though AUa's self detest ; 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now ! 
1 am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite ! *" 

If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if tliou wilt." 



She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest. 
They bleed withui that silent cell — his breast, 
ytill onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
The blue waves sjjort around the stern they urge ; 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — nn armed dock ! 
Their little bark iicr men of watch descry, 
And ampler canvass woos the wind from high 
She bears her down majestically near, 
Speed on her prow, and terror hi her tier 



118 



THE CORSAIR. 



A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
"'Tis mine — my blood-red flag! again — again — 
I am not all deserted on the main !" 
They own the signal, answer to the hail, 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
"'T is Conrad ! Conrad I" shouting from the deck, 
Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride. 
They view him mount once more his vessel's side 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face. 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand. 
And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 



These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 

Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 

They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 

A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 

She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 

Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 

With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 

They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 

And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 

Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 

To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 

She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 

Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 

Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 

Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill, 

Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 

The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 



This Coru-ad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ? — 

Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 

What she has done no tears can wash away, 

And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 

But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt. 

For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 

And he was free ! — and she for him had given 

Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 

And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave 

Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 

Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and meek, 

But varying oft the colour of her cheek 

To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 

That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 

He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 

So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 

He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 

Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 

"Gulnare!" — but she replied not — "dear Gubare !" 

She raised her eye — her only answer there — 

At once she sought and sunk in liis embrace : 

if he had driven her from that resting-place. 

His had been more or less than mortal heart, 

But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 

Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast. 

His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 

Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 

That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 

The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 

To Ups where Love had lavish'd all his breath. 

To hps — whose broken sighs such fragrance flinch, 

As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

xviir. 
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 



The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? . 

XIX. 

The hghts are high on beacon and from bower, 

And midst them Conrad se^ks Medora's tower: 

He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, 

Amid so many, her's alone is dark. 

T is strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 

Nor now, perchance, extmguish'd, only veil'd. 

With the first boat descends he for the shore, 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 

With the first pause the restmg rowers gave, 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave. 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd his turret door — ^he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 't is a well known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd. 
And fail'd to frame the question they dela/d ; 
He snatch'd the lamp — its Ught will answer all- 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — ^yet foretold I 

XX. 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 

And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 

He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain. 

And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 

In life itself she was so still and fair. 

That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 

And that cold flowers '^ her colder hand contain'd, 

In the last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep. 

And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 

And veil'd — tliought shrinks from all that lurk'd below— 

Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 

And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 

Sinks tliose blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — ' 

Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, i 

And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 

But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 

Long — fair — but spread in utter hfelessness, 

Which, late the sport of every summer wind. 

Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 

These — and the pale pure cheelc, became the bier — 

But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 



He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



119 



The love of youth, the hope of better years, 

The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 

The only living thiiag he could not hate, 

Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 

But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 

For peace, those realms ^vhere guilt can never soar ; 

The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 

Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo, 

Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 

But who in patience parts with all dehght? 

Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 

Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 

And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 

In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 



By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show. 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost luU'd it into rest ; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept: 
It was the very weakness of his brain. 
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen. 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart: 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 



His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot ; like that had harden'd too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth: 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell. 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 

XXIV. 

• 
'T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away. 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; 
And fair tlie monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.*' 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



The time in this poem may seem too short for the 
occurrences, but the whole of the ^gean isles are 
within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader 
must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often 
found it. 

Note 1 page 109, line 18. 
Of fair Olympia loved ami left of old. 
Orlando, Canto 10. 

Note 2, page 110, line 10. 
Around the waves plwupkoric brightness broke. 
By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke 
of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed 
by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the watcu*. 

Note 3, page 110, line 17. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice. 
Coffee. 

Note 4, |iagc 110, lino 79. 
The long Chibouque's dissoluing cloud supply. 
Pipe. 

Note 5, page 110, lino 80. 
HHiile darux tlie Almas to wild miitstrchy. 
Dancing girls. 

Note to Canto II. page 110, lino 93. 

It has been objected that ( 'oiirad's entering disguised 
as a spy is out of nature. — Perhaps so. I finil some- 
thing not unlike it in liistory. 

"Anxious to explore with his own eyes tlio slate i)f 



the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising th» 
colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of 
his own ambassador ; and Genseric was afterwards 
mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and 
dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- 
dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is 
a fiction which would not have been imagined unless 
in the life of a hero." Gibbon,!), and F. vol. vi. p. ISO. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- 
ture I shall attempt to prove by some historical coinci- 
dences which I nave met with since writing "The 
Corsair." 

" Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, " s'enfermoit dans 
un silence menayant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage 
feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor ;i sa profonde indig- 
nation. — De toutes parts cependant les soldats et les 
peuples accouroient ; ils vouloicnt voir cet iiomme, jadis 
si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutos parts. 
***♦*♦ 

" Eccolin t^toit d'une petite taille; mais tout I'aspect 
de sa personne, tons ses mouvomens, indiquoiont un 
soldat. — Son langage t'toit amer, son diporteenent su- 
perbe — et par son scul t'gnnl, ii faisoit trembler les plus 
nurdis." Sismondi^ (ome in. pagv 219, 220. 

" Gizericu^" (Genseric, kin<; of the Vandals, the con- 
queror i)f both_Cartha,i^e and Rome) sliiturA mediocris, 
ot f()Ui casu ("lauilicaiis, aniino profundus, s(>rn)i>iie rarus. 
Iu\iiii:i' (Duteinptor, ira tuibiilus, liabenili cuiiidus, ad 
solifiiaiulas gcntes provident issimus," &c. &c, jor- 
nandts dc Rtbus Getici'a,'c. 33. 



120 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep 
in countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 

Notes 6j page 111, line 41. 
JLnd my stern vmu and ordei's law oppose. 
The dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, 
as the monks. 

Note 7, page 111, line 76. 
They seize thai Dervise! — seize on Zatanai ! 
Satan. 

Note 8, page 111, line 97. 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled ihejight. 
A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. " The 
Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; he plucked 
up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to 
quit the field." 

Note 9, page 111, line 141. 
Brief time had Conrad now to greet GvXnare. 
Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the flower 
of the pomegranate. 

Note 10, page 113, line 82. 
Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest ! 
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when grasping her 
neck, she remarked, that it "was too slender to trouble 
the headsman much." During one part of the French 
Revolution, it became a fashion to leave some " mot" 
as a legacy ; and the quantity of facetious last words 
spoken during that period would form a melancholy 
'cst-book of a considerable size. 

Note 11, page 114, line 80. 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day. 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set, (the hour of execution,) notwithstanding the entrea- 
ties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

Note 12, page 114, line 92. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country : the days in winter are longer, but in sum- 
mer of shorter duration. 

Note 13, page 114, line 102. 
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. 
The Kiosk is a Turkish summerhouse : the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and tlVe tree the 
wall intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, 
and Ilissus has no stream at all. 

Note 14, page 114, line 112. 
That frown* — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 
The opening lines as far as section II. have, perhaps, 
little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished 
(though printed) poem ; but they were written on the 
spot in the spring of 1811, and — I scarce know why — 
the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can. 

Note 15, page 115, line 66. 
HRs only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 
The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads 
are in number ninety-nine. 

Note 16, page 130, line 9. 
And the cold flowers her colder hand co7itain^d. 
In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the 
bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young person to 
place a nosegay. 

Note 17, page 133, last line. 
LinJc'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
That the point of honour which is represented in one 
instance of Conrad's character has not been carried 
beyond the bounds of probability may perhaps be in 
some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a 
brother Buccaneer in the year 1814. 

Our readers have all seen the account of the enter- 
prise against the pirates of Barrataria; but few, we 



See" Curse of Minerva. 



believe, were informed of the situation, history, or na- 
ture of that estabUshment. For the information of such 
as were unacquainted with it, we have procured from 
a friend the following interesting narrative of the main 
facts, of which he has personal knowledge, and which 
cannot fail to interest some of our readers. 

Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of 
Mexico : it runs through a rich but very flat country, 
until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, 
fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay 
has branches almost innumerable, in which persons can 
lie concealed from the severest scrutinj'. It communi- 
cates with three lakes which lie on the southwest side, 
and these, with the lake of the same name, and which 
lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed 
by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and 
west points of this island were fortified, in the year 
1811, by a band of pirates under the command of one 
Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws 
are of that class of the population of the state of Louis- 
iana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the 
troubles there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba: 
and when the last war between France and Spain com- 
menced, they were compelled to leave that island with 
the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony, 
they entered the United States, the most of them the 
state of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had pos- 
sessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor 
of that State of the clause in the constitution which for- 
bad the importation of slaves ; but, at the same time, 
received the assurance of the Governor that he would 
obtain, if possible, the approbation of the General Go- 
vernment for their retaining this property. 

The Island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 deg. 
IS min. Ion. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for its health 
as for the superior scale and shell-fish with which its 
waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles 
de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. 
In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and 
boldness, claimed the attention of the Governor of Lou- 
isiana ; and to break up the establishment, he thought 
proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered a 
reward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, 
who was v/eli known to the inhabitants of the city of 
New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, and"^ his 
once having been a fencing-master in that city of great 
reputation, which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, 
where he was a captain. The reward which was of- 
fered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was 
answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 
15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor 
ordered out a company to march from the city to La 
Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the property, 
and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. 
This company, under the command of a man who had 
been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, ap- 
proached very near to the fortified island, before he saw 
a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not 
unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found him- 
self surrounded by armed men who had emerged from 
the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was 
that the modern Charles de Moor developed his few 
noble traits ; for to this man, who had come to destroy 
his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared 
his life, but offered him that which would have made 
the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days, 
which was indignantly refused. He then, with the ap- 
probation of his captor, returned to the city. This cir- 
cumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that 
this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our 
naval force having always been small in that quarter, 
exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment 
could not be expected from them until augmented ; for 
an officer of the navy, with most of the gunboats on 
that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force 
of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the navy 
authorized an attack, one was made ; the overthrow of 
this banditti has been the result ; and now this almost 
invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of 
an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold rt 
by a strong military force. — From an American New»* 
paper. 



LARA. 



121 



In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical 
History, there is a singular passage in his account of 
archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- 
nected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing 
poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. 

" There is something mysterious in the history and 
character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but 
imperfectly known; and report has even asserted he 
was a bucaneer ; and that one of his brethren in that 
profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what 
nad become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was an- 
swered, he is archbishop of York. We are informed, 
that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter, in 
1694, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his 
successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained 
it. In the following year he became dean ; and, in 1714, 
held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was 
consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and 
translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, 
according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have 
been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he be- 
haved with great prudence, and was equally respectable 
as the guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour 
whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that 
a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of 
his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted by 



seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been 
directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these 
aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it 
possible a bucaneer should have been so good a scholar 
as Blackbourne certainly was? he who had so perfect 
a knowledge of the classics, (particularly of the Greek 
tragedians,) as to be able to read them with the same 
ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great 
pains to acquire the learned languages ; and have had 
both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubt- 
edly educated at Cliristchurch College, Oxford. He 
is allowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, 
was turned against him, by its being said, ' he gained 
more hearts than souls.' " 



"The only voice that could sooth the passions of the 
savage, (Alphonso 3d,) was that of an amiable and 
virtuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of 
Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, 
and the granddaughter of Philip 2d, King of Spain. — 
Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; his fierce 
spirit melted into tears ; and after the last embrace, 
Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irre- 
parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human 
life." — Miscellaneous TVorks of Gibbon, New Edition, 
8vo. vol. iii. page 473, 



LARA; 

A TALE. 



CANTO I. 



The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, 

And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 

The long self-exiled chieftain is restored ; 

There be bright faces in the busy hall. 

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 

Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 

The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 

And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 

With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 

II. 
The chief of Lara is retum'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of wo. 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 
And Lara Icfl in youth his father-land ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 

Q 



His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief consoled his destined bride. 
The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live !" exclaims the impatient heir. 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace. 
The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 



He comes at last in sudden loneliness. 

And whence they know not, why tlicy need not guess ; 

They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 

Not that he came, but came not long before : 

No train is his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of fender age. 

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay ; 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 

They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhoood's prime, 
Though sear'd by (oil, and something touch'd by time-; 
His faults, whate'cr they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might bo untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late wore known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet hardon'd in their course, 
Might bo rcdeom'd. nor ask a long remorse. 



And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen, 
Whate'or ho be, 'twas not what ho had been : 



122 

That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 

And spake of passions, but of passion past : 

The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 

Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 

A high demeanour, and a glance that took 

Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 

And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 

That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 

All these seem'd his, and something more beneath, 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 

Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 

That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, 

Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 

And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments hghten'd o'er his livid face. 



Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous v^dlds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 



Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men : 
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
But still he only saw, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd ; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain: 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sate something of reproof 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confest 
They deem'd him better than his air exprest. 



'T was strange — ^in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave, 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or wo, 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high. 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
"^ Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 

To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 



Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
From all communion he would start away : 



LARA. 



And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 

Through night's long hours would soiind his hurried tread 

O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 

In rude but antique portraiture around: 

They heard, but whisper'd — '■Hhat must not be known — 

The sound of words less earthly than his own. 

Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 

They scarce knew what, but more than should have been. 

Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 

Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead, 

That still beside his open'd volume lay, 

As if to startle all save him away ? 

Why slept he not when others were at rest 1 \ 

Why heard no music, and received no guest t ' 

All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong ? 

Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too long ; 

And such besides were too discreetly wise, 

To more than hint their knowledge m surmise ; 

But if they would — they could" — around the board, 

Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their Lord. 



It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal Ughts that live along the sky : 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 

And Innocence would offer to her love, 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — ■ 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night Uke this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 



He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
And his high shadow shot along the wall ; 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults ; 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies Uke truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom. 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 



'T was midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall— 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 



LARA. 



l^ 



A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 

Pale as the beam that o'er his feature's play'd. 

Was Lara stretch'd ; his half drawn sabre near, 

Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 

And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 

Some half form'd threat in utterance there had diecT, 

Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook, 

Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 

And now was fixed in horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he speaks 

The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 

His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim. 

Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 

Recalls its function, but his words are strung 

In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 

Distinct but strange, enough they understand 

To deem them accents of another land. 

And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 

That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 

XIV. 

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow. 
They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
Than those around their cliieftain's state he eyes. 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside. 
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied. 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To sooth away the horrors of his dream ; 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal wo. 

XV. 

"Whate'er his phrensy dream'd or eye beheld, 
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd. 
Rests at his heart: the custom'd morning came. 
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech. 
And soon tlie same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours. 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours. 
Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not. 
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door. 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals. 
As evening saddens o'er the daric gray walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought! that lionr of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgelfiilness, that made 
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
Had memory vanisli'd then with sonso restored? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of tlnir lord 



Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
Their slumber ? his the oppress'd o'erlabour'd heart 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 
Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget. 
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause? 
Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 

XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his 

fate. 
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say. 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd, that smile if oft observed and near. 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye: 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
And steei'd itself as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half -withheld esteem ; 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 



There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall. 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret : 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth. 
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth. 
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent; 
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path. 
And lefl the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 
But haughty still, and loth iiimsclf to blame, 
Ho call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 
And charged all fatilts upon the fleshly form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
Till he at last confounded good and ill. 
And half mistook for fiitc the acts of will: 
Too high for conmion sollishness, ho coiild 
At times resign his own for others' good, 
But not in pity, not because he ouglit, 
But in some strange perversity of thought, 
Tlitil swiiy'd him onward with a secret pride 
To do uluii few or none would do beside; 



124 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 

The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own : 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 

Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd 

But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 

'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seemmg did and talli'd. 

Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 

His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 

And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 

His thoughts so forth as to offend the \new. 



With all that chilling mystery of mien. 
And seemjng gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought ; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain. 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net. 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget I 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims 
Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest, 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds aUke the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth. 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 
His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh. 
With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 
111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this: 
At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown, 
But seems as searching his, and his alcMie ; 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
Of keen inquiry, and ot mute amaze ; 
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
As if distrusting that the stranger thi-ew ; 



LARA. 



Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern, 

Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn, 

XXII. 

"'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard 

Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

"'Tis he!" — "'Tis who?" they question far and near, 

Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 

So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 

The general marvel, or that single look ; 

But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 

That spnmg at first to his arrested eyes 

Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 

Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 

And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 

" 'T is he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he here ?" 

XXIII. 

It were too much for Lara to pass by 

Such questions, so repeated fierce and high ; 

With look collected, but v/ith accent cold, 

More mildly firm than petulantly bold. 

He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 

" My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 

Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 

The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 

'T is Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 

I shun no question, and I M^ear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 

Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun' 

And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze cigain 

At least thy memory was not given in vain. 

Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 

Eternity forbids thee to forget." 

With slow and searching glance upon his face 

Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 

They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 

He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 

And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 

But the stem stranger motion'd him to stay. 

" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 

To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer. 

But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord. 

If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 

But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 

Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

"Whate'erlbe, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell. 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his pohsh'd guest. 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprest." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed. 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou. Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know. 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth. 
He will not that untainted line belie. 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

" To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

"And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 

I gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words, so may I mingle with the blest 1" 



LARA. 



125 



What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
The words of many, and the eyes of all 
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
In far forgetfulness away — away — 
Alas ! that heedlessness of aU around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

"To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow !" further word 

Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 

Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 

From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 

Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, 

Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 

He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 

And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 

And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down : 

It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 

That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 

But that of one in his own heart secure 

Of all that he would do, or could endure. 

Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good? 

Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 

Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 

For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 

From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 

Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 

XXV. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey: 
His only follower from those climes afar. 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the sliore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home: 
Those accents as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 

That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 

But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through ; 

Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 

All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 

But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 

That for a burning moment fover'd there ; 

And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 

From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 

Though its black orb tliose long low lashes' fringe 

Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 

Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 

Or if 't were grief, a grief that none should share : 

And pleased not him the sports that please his ago, 

The tricks of youth, the frolics of tlio page ; 

For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 

As all-forgotton m that watchful trance ; 

And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone. 

Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 

His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 

His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 

He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 

From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 



To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gifl beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 

In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fulfiU'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 't was Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord. 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or if he will'd it more. 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train. 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew: 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays. 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast. 

But from his aspect might be more than guess'd 

Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud wthout reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 

Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXVIII. 

He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 

And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 

And when the crowd around and near him told 

Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 

The colour of young Kaled went and came. 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 

And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 

The sickening iciness of that cold dew. 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from wliich reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there bo things which we must dream and dare 

And execute ere thought be half aware : 

Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To seal his Up, but agonise his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; 

When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if from something recognisetl right well ; 

His memory read in such a meaning more 

Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 

And all within that hall seem'tl left alone ; 

Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 

All ha<l so mix'd Uieir feelings with that scene, 

That when his long dark shadow through the porch 

No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 

Each |)ulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 

Sucli as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 

Because tlie worst is ever nearest truth. 



126 



LARA. 



And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 

The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 

Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 

Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep. 

And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife. 

Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 

There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 

Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile ; 

O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 

And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 

What better name may slumber's bed become ? 

Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 

Alike in nailed helplessness recline ; 

Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 

Yet wake to wrestle wiih the dread of death, 

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 

That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



CANTO II. 



Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'd 

Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 

Man has another day to swell the past, 

And lead him near to little, but his last ; 

But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth. 

The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 

Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam. 

Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream 

Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 

And cry, exulting inly, " they are thine !" 

Oaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 

A morrow comes when they are not for thee ; 

And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 

Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 

Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 

Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 

But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 

And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 

ir. 
'T is morn — 't is noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call , 
'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given. 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

in. 
The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow o'ercast. 
"I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd. 
Nor had Sir EzzeUn his host disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 



The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

He ceased — and liara answer'd "I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

Whose words already might my heart have v/rung, 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not — but me it seems he knew 

In lands where — but I must not trifle too: 

Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his own or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke; 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

For Otho's phrensy would not be opposed; 

And from his lip those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash, 

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 

He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 

Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 

" Demand thy fife !" He answer'd not : and then 

From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 

Then all was stern collectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd. 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld, 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those. 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent its victim onward to liis grave. 

V. 

They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighbouring hall. 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all. 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took. 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 



But where was he ? that meteor of a night. 
Who menaced but to disappear with light ? 
Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere mom, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded naught 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 



LARA. 



127 



A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest: 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne, 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonised hands, that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft. 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name. 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd 
Again its wonted wondering to renew. 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 



Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 

But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 

He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 

The friend of all who sought to work him wo, 

And from his country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzehn at Lara's hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 

His presence ? who had made him disappear, 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 

Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 

The general rumour ignorantly loud. 

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 

The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 

To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 

The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 

Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 

Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 

For it was not the blind capricious rage 

A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 

But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 

With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 

Such as long power and overgorged success 

Concentrates into all that 's merciless : 

These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 

Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 

'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 

Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 

And he must answer for the absent head 

Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

viri. 
Within that land was many a malcontent, 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
That soil fiill many a wringing despot saw, 
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
That waited but a signal to begin 
New havock, such as civil discord blends, 
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord. 
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
Thus Lara had inherited his lands. 
And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
But that long absence from his native climo 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime. 
And now diverted by his milder sway, 
All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The menials felt their usual awe alone, 
But more for him than thorn that fear was grown ; 
They deem'd him now unhai)py, though at first 
Their evil judgment augur'd of iho worst, 



And each long restless night, and silent mood, 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 

For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 

Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 

The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 

Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof, 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And they who watch'd might mark that day by day 

Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 

But most of late, since Ezzehn was lost, 

He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host: 

Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 

Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 

Whate'er his ^dew, his favour more obtains 

With these, the people, than his feUow thanes. 

If this were policy,. so far 'twas sound, 

The million judged but of him as they found j 

From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 

They but required a shelter, and 't was given. 

By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot. 

And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot; 

With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor; 

Youth, present cheer, and promised recompense 

Detain' d, till all too late to part from thence : 

To hate he ofFer'd, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 

To love, long baffled by the unequal match. 

The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 

All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

That slavery nothing which was still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 

His summons found the destined criminal 

Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 

Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 

Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 

Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 

Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 

Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 

Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 

A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 

Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 



Throughout that clime the feudal chiefe had gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both: 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
By circumstance compcU'd to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
Kvn if he fiiil'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that soom'd forcdoom'd to urge 
His gloomy iurtunos to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he onco had been. 
And is again; ho only changed the scone, 
liighl care had ho for lif(>, and less for fiune, 
But not loHs fitted f )r the desperate game ; 



128 LARA. 

He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But maji and destiny beset him there: 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
But, di-agg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife. 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 

The varying fortune of each separate field. 

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy Imew her cry was vain, 

The captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possest 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 

It was too late to check the wasting brand, 

And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 

And Carnage snuled upon her daily dead. 



Fresh v(dth the nerve the new-bom impulse strung, 

The first success to Lara's numbers clung: 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all. 

They form no longer to their leader's call ; 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate. 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 

In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame. 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood. 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 

The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 

The long privation of the hoped supply. 

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky. 

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 

And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 

Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 

They could encounter as a veteran may ; 

But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 

And present death, to hourly suffering life : 

And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 

His numbers meltmg fast from their array ; 

Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 

And Lara's soul alone seems stiU unbent : 

But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 

And thousands dwindled to a scanty band 

Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 

To mourn the discipline they late disdaJn'd. 

One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 

And thence they may escape from native war; 

And bear within them to the neighbouring state 

An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 

Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 

But harder still to perish or submit. 



It is resolved — they march — consentmg Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight; 
Already they, perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank? 
Away ! 't is Uned with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear? 
'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! ijJA 
XIII. ^J 

A moment's pause, 't is but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed. 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 

XIV. 

His blade is bared, in him there is an air 
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
A something of indifference more than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men — 
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twilight threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his: 
It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
His Up was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee !" 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven; 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
Outnumber'd not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XV. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 

Where foe appear'd to press, or fiiend to fall, 

Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 

Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 

None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ^ 

But those that waver turn to smite again, 

While yet they find the fiirmest of the foe 

Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 

Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 

He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 

Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 

Now was the time, he waved his hand on high. 

And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest? 

The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 

That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 

And Death hath striken down yon arm of pride. 

The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 

That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 

But yet the sword instinctively retains. 

Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins 



LARA. 



129 



These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bendmg o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 



Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth. 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd. 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept. 
Their hmbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake — 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony — but now forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene. 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

'T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now his only guide. 

Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 

And %vith his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 

With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 't were vain. 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
And turns to Kaled : — each remaimng word. 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
/lis dying tones are in that other tongue, 
V which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 

•;y speak of other scenes, but what — is known 

Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
^r he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 

iiile gazed the rest in dumb amazement round: 

/'x'hey scem'd even then — that twain — unto tlio last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate, 

XIX. 

Their words though faint were many — from tho tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 



From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death 

More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 

So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 

The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 

But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 

And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near: 

But from his visage httle could we guess. 

So unrepentant, dark, and passionless. 

Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 

Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 

And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast, 

Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 

Where (as then the breaking sun from high 

Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 

Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene. 

That raised his arm to point where such had been, 

Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away. 

As if his heart abhorr'd that com.ing day. 

And shrunk his glance before that morning light. 

To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 

Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss 

For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 

And profFer'd to his touch the holy bead, 

Of which his parting soul might own the need. 

He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 

And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 't were with disdain : 

And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 

From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 

With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 

Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 

As if such but disturb'd the expiring man. 

Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 

That life of Immortality, secure 

To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew. 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 

The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 

He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 

It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 

With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 

For that faint throb which answers not again. 

"It beats!" — away, thou dreamer! he is gone — 

It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trance, 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that felt no more. 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair. 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved! Oh! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe! 

That trying moment hath at once rcveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 

Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest ; 

And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 

What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 

xxir. 
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where ho died his grave was dug as deep ; 
Nor is his nwrtal slumber less prof)und, 
Thdii^^lj pritist nor bless'd nor marble dookM the mound 
Antl he was rnourn'd by one whoso quiet griif, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for theu' chief. 



130 LARA. 



Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that form'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain, 
But that wild tale she brooked not to unfold, 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid hhn in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest. 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life. 
It seems they vanish'd In a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guih, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past^ 
Retum'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 



Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 

A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 

When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 

And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 

A Serf) that rose betimes to thread the wood. 

And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 

Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 

Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 

He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 

From out the wood — before him was a cloak 

Wrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow. 

Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 

Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 

And some foreboding that it might be crime. 

Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 

Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 

And lifting thence the burden which he bore. 

Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 

Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch. 

And still another hurried glance would snatch. 

And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 

As if even yet too much its surface shovi^d : 

At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 

The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 

Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 

And slung them with a more than common care. 



Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 

Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 

He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 

And something glitter'd starlike on the vest, 

But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 

A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: 

It rose again but indistinct to view, 

And left the waters of a purple hue. 

Then deeply disappear'd: the horseman gazed, 

Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 

Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 

And instant spurred him into panting speed. 

His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 

If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 

But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 

Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 

And such 't is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 

Upon the night that led to such a morn. 

If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul t 

His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 

And charity upon the hope would dwell 

It was not Lara's hand by which he fell, 

XXV. 

And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone. 

Alike without their monumental stone ! 

The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 

From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been; 

Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 

Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ','. 

But furious would you tear her from the spot 

Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 

Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 

That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire 

But left to waste her weary moments there. 

She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air. 

Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints. 

And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 

And she would sit beneath the very tree 

Where lay his drooping head upon her knee j 

And in that posture where she saw him fall, 

His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 

And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair. 

And ofl; would snatch it fi-om her bosom there. 

And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 

As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 

Herself would question, and for him reply ; 

Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 

From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 

Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 

And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 

Or trace strange characters along the sand — 

This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 

Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 



NOTE TO LARA. 



The event in section 24, Canto 2d, was suggested by 
the description of the death or rather burial of the Duke 
of Gandia. 

The most interesting and particular account of this 
mysterious event is given by Burchard, and is in sub- 
stance as follows : " On the eight day of June, the car- 
dinal of Valenza, and the duke of Gandia, sons of the 
Pope, supped with their mother, Vanozza, near the 
church of S. Pietro ad vincula ; several other persons 
being present at the entertainment. A late hour ap- 
proaching, and the cardinal having reminded his brother, 
that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, they 
mounted their horses or mules, with only a few attend- 
ants, and proceeded together as far as the palace of 
cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to pay a 



visit of pleasure. Dismissing therefore all his attend- 
ants, excepting his staffiero, or footman, and a person in 
a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at supper, an«^ 
who, during the space of a month or thereabouts, pr 
vious to this time, had called upon him almost daily, 
the apostolic palace, he took this person behind him 
his mule, and proceeded to the street of the Jews, whe 
he quitted his servant, directing him to remain ther*. 
until a certain hour ; when, if he did not return, he might 
repair to the palace. The duke then seated the person 
in the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither ; 
but in that night he was assassinated, and thrown intc 
the river. The servant, after having been dismissec' 
was also assaulted and mortally wounded ; and al- 
though he was attended with great care, yet such wa 
his situation, that he could give no intelligible accov 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



131 



of what had befallen his master. In the morning, the 
duke not having returned to the palace, his servants 
began to be alarmed ; and one of them informed the 
pontiff of the evening excursion of his sons, and that 
the duke had not yet made his appearance. This gave 
the pope no small anxiety , but he conjectured that the 
duke had been attracted by some courtesan to pass the 
night with her, and not choosing to quit the house in 
open day, had waited till the following evening to return 
home. When, however, the evening arrived, and he 
found himself disappointed in his expectations, he be- 
came deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries from 
different persons, whom he ordered to attend him 
for that purpose. Among these was a man named 
Giorgio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some timber 
from a bark in the river, had remained on board the 
vessel to watch it, and being interrogated whether he 
had seen any one thrown into the river on the night pre- 
ceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who 
came down the street, and looked diligently about, to 
observe whether any person was passing. That see- 
ing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards 
two others came, and looked around in the same man- 
ner as the former : no person still appearing, they gave 
a sign to their companions, when a man came, mounted 
on a white horse, having behind him a dead body, the 
head and arms of which hung on one side, and the feet 
on the other side of the horse ; the two persons on foot 
supporting the body, to prevent its falling. They 
thus proceeded towards that part, where the filth of the 
city is usually discharged into the river, and turning 
the horse, with his tail towards the water, the two per- 
sons took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with 



all their strength flung it into the river. The person on 
horseback then asked if they had thrown it in, to which 
they replied, Signor, si, (yes. Sir.) He then looked 
towards the river, and seeing a mantle floating on the 
stream, he inquired what it was that appeared black, to 
which they answered, it was a mantle ; and one of them 
threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. 
The attendants of the pontiff then inquired from Gior- 
gio, why he had not revealed this to the governor of the 
city ; to which he replied, that he had seen in his time 
a hundred dead bodies thrown into the river at the same 
place, without any inquiry being made respecting them, 
and that he had not, therefore, considered it as a matter 
of any importance. The fishermen and seamen were 
then collected, and ordered to search the river, where, 
on the following evening, they found the body of the 
duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. 
He was pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in 
his throat, the others in his head, body, and limbs. No 
sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of his son, 
and that he had been thrown, like filth, into th^ river, 
than, giving way to his grief, he shut himself up in a 
chamber, and wept bitterly. The cardinjil of Segovia, 
and other attendants on the pope, went to the door, and 
after many hours spent in persuasions and exhortations, 
prevailed upon him to admit them. From the evening 
of Wednesday, till the following Saturday, the pope took 
no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday morning till 
the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, 
giving way to the entreaties of his attendants, he began 
to restrain his sorrow, and to consider the injury which 
his own health might sustain, by the further indulgence 
of his grief." — Roscoe^s Leo Tenth, vol. i. page 265. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESd. 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEND. 



January 22, 1816. 
ADVERTISEMENT. 



" The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under the 
Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart 
of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Roma- 
nia, the most considerable place in all tJiat country,* 
thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon 
which they made several storms. The garrison being 
weakened, and the governor seeing it was impossible to 
hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat 
a parley : but while they were treating about the articles, 
one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they 
had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, 
whereby six or seven hundred men were killed ; which 
so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any 
capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, 
that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with 
ignior Minotti, the governor, to tlie sword. The rest, 
ith Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made 
prisoners of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 



Napoli (li Romania is not now Iho moat coiisiilcraljli! place in tlic 
Morca, but Tripolitzn, where tlie Pucha residen, and mnintnlns liis 
govcnimcnl. Napoli la near Argos. I viiitort all ihrcc in 1810-11; and 
In the conrac of Journeying through the country from my tirBl arriv»l in 
1809, I crossed the litlimna eight timi-a in my way from Attica to tlii; 
Morca, over the mounlnin*. or in the other dirprtion, when pa«»ini{ from 
the Oulf of Athens to that of I,opanlo. Uolh the routes are piclurcsinic 
And beautiftd, though very different : that hy sea haa morfl sameness, hut 
the voyage heing always within sight of land, and often very near it, 
presents many nitrnrlive views of liie island* SiiIamiH, Alginn.P.iro, Ac. 
•nd the coast of the continent. 



Many a vanish'd year and age, 

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage. 

Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands 

A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 

Have left imtouch'd her hoary rock. 

The keystone of a land, which still. 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet, 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timoicon's brother bled, 

Or baffled Persia's despot fled. 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 

Than yon towor-capt Acropolis, 

Which seems tlio very clouds to kiss. 



On dim Cithtrron's ridgo appears 

The ulcani of twiro fen thousand Bpcara ; 



132 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels. 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,i 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which crambles vsith the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies. 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 



But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall, 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reelung steed. 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boost, 
To guide the follower o'er the field. 
To point the tube, the lance to wield 
Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 



From Venice — once a race of worth 
His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
But late an exile from her shore. 
Against his countrymen he bore 
The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
The turban girt his shaven brow. 
Through many a change had Corinth 
With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
And here, before her walls, wth those 
To Greece and Venice equal foes. 
He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
Which young and fiery converts feel 
Within whose heated bosom throngs 
The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
To him had Venice ceased to be 
Her ancient civic boast — "the Free;" 
And in the palace of St. Mark 
Unnamed accusers in the dark 
Within the "Lion's mouth" had placed 
A charge against him unefliaced : 
He fled in time, and saved his life, 
To waste his future years in strife. 
That taught his land how great her loss 
In him Avho triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high. 
And battled to avenge or die. 



Coumourgi ^ — he whose closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
The last and mightiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die, 
But curst the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roU'd away 
Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway. 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levell'd v.'ith the dust ; 
And proved, by many a deed of death. 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 



The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 

Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 

With unabating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose fi-om each heated culverin : 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb: 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath. 

In red and wreathing columns flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 

Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With volumed smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 



But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 

Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 

The Moslem warriors sternly teach 

His skill to pierce the promised breach: 

Witliin these walls a maid was pent 

His hope would win without consent 

Of that inexorable sire. 

Whose heart refused him in its ire. 

When Alp, beneath his Christian name. 

Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 

In happier mood, and earlier time. 

While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime 

Gayest in gondola or hall. 

He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 

And tuned the softest serenade 

That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 

At midnight to Italian maid. 



And many deem'd her heart was won ; 
For sought by numbers, given to none. 
Had young Franccsca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
More constant at confessional. 
More rare at masque and festival; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize: 
With listless look she seems to gaze 
With humbler care her form arrays ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



133 



Her voice less lively in the song ; 


It struck even the besieger's ear 


Her step, though light, less fleet among 


With something ominous and drear. 


The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 


An undefined and sudden thrill, 


Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 


Which makes the heart a moment still, 




Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 


IX. 


Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 


Sent by the state to guard the land. 


Such as a sudden passing-bell 


(Which wrested from the Moslem's hand. 


Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 


While Sobieski tamed his pride 




By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 


XII. 


The chiefs of Venice wrung away 


The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 


From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 


The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er ; 


Minotti held in Corinth's towers 


The watch was set, the night-round made, 


The Doge's delegated powers, 


All mandates issued and obej^d : 


While yet the pitying eye of Peace 


'T is but another anxious night, 


Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 


His pains the morrow may requite 


And ere that faithless truce was broke 


With all revenge and love can pay. 


Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 


In guerdon for their long delay. 


With him his gentle daughter came 


Few hours remain, and he hath need 


Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 


Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 


Forsook her lord and land, to prove 


Of slaughter ; but within his soul 


What woes await on lawless love, 


The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 


Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 


He stood alone among the host ; 


Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 


Not his the loud fanatic boast 




To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 


X. 


Or risk a life with little loss, 


The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 


Secure in paradise to be 


And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 


By Houris loved immortally : 


O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 


Nor his, what burning patriots feel. 


The foremost of the fierce assault. 


The stern exaltedness of zeal. 


The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 


Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 


Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 


When battling on the parent soil. 


The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 


He stood alone — a renegade 


Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 


Against the country he betray'd ; 


And win theii* way with falchion's force, 


He stood alone amidst his band. 


Or pave the path with many a corse, 


Without a trusted heart or hand : 


O'er which the following brave may rise, 


They follow'd him, for he was brave. 


Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 


And great the spoil he got and gave ; 




They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 


XI. 


To warp and wield the vulgar will : 


'T is midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 


But still his Christian origin 


With them was little less than sin. 


Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 


They envied even the faithless fame 


Spreads lilce an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 


He eam'd beneath a Moslem name ; 


Since he, their mightiest chief) had been 


So wildly, spiritually bright ; 


In youth a bitter Nazarene. 


Who ever gazed upon them shining. 


They did not know how pride can stoop, 


And turn'd to earth without repining. 


When baffled feelings withering droop ; 


Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 


They did not know how hate can burn 


And mix with their eternal ray? 


In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 


The waves on either shore lay there 


Nor all the false and fatal zeal 


Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 


The convert of revenge can feel. 


And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 


He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 


But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 


By ever daring to be first : 


The winds were piilow'd on the waves ; 


So lions o'er the jackal sway; 


The banners droop'd along their staves, 


The jackal points, he fells the prey. 


And, as they fell around them furling, 


Then on the vulgar yelling press. 


Above them shone the crescent curling; 


To gorge the relics of success. 


And that deep silence was unbroke. 




Save where the watch his signal spoke. 


XIII. 


Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 


His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 


And echo answer'd from the hill, 


The quick successive throbs convulse ; 


And the wide hum of that wild host 


In vain from side to side ho throws 


Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 


His form, in courtsiiip of repose ; 


As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 


Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 


In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 


Awoke him with a sunken heart. 


It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 


The turban on his hot brow prcss'd, 


Lilto some lone spirit's o'er tlio plain : 


The mail wcigh'd lead-like on his breast, 


'T was musical, but sadly sweet, 


Though oft and long beneath its weight 


Such as when winds and harp-strings moot, 


Upon his eyes had slumber sato. 


And take a long unmeasured tone, 


Without or couch or canopy, 


To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 


Except a rougher fi«>ld iuul sky 


It scom'd to those within the wall 


Than now might yioUi a warrior's bed, 


A cry prophetic of their ftiU : 


Thau now along the heaven was sproml ; 



134 



THE SIEGE OP CORINTH. 



He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
What pillow'd them? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though cahn, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gul^ the mount, the cUme ; 
It vvdU not melt, like man, to time ; 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture hke a hovering shroud. 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled. 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh, still her stop at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token. 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 

Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 

And through this night, as on he wander'd, 

And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 

And thought upon the glorious dead 

Who there in better cause had bled, 

He felt how faint and feebly dim 

The fame that could accrue to him, 

Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 

A trjutor in a turban'd horde ; 

And led them to the lawless siege, 

Whose best success were sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy number'd, 

The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 

Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 

They fell devoted, but undying ; 

The very gale their names seem'd sighing: 

The waters murmur'd of their name ; 

The woods were peopled with their fame ; 

The silent pillar, lone and grav, 

Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 

Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 

Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 

The meanest rill, the mightiest river 

RoU'd mingling with their fame for ever. 

Despite of every yoke she bears, 

That land is glory's still and theirs I 



'T is still a watchword to the earth : 
When man would do a deed of worth 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,' 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood ; 

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 

Heedless if she come or go : 

Calm or high, in main or bay, 

On their course she hath no sway. 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o'er the surfj but it comes not there ; 

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below. 

On the Une that it left long ages ago : 

A smooth short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold? 

Were their hands grown stifl^ or their hearts wax'd 

cold? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town \ 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel. 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,* 
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their ed 

grew dull, 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead. 
When they scarce could rise from the spot whe 

they fed ; 

So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the 

sand, 
The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,* 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf. 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 



i 






Alp tum'd him from the sickening sight : 

Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 

But he better could brook to behold the dying, 

Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 

Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain| 

Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



135 



There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 

Whate'er be tlie shape in which death may lower ; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 

All regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone. 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must 

be: 
What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 



He sate him down at a pillar's base. 

And pass'd his hand athwart has face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest; 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Oft his beating fingers went. 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key, 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily. 

As he heard the night-wuid sigh. 

Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,^ 

Sent that soft and tender moan? 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hil^ 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 

What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He tum'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 

There sate a lady, youtliful and bright ! 



He sterted up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ?" 

His trembUng hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine: 

He had resumed it in that hour. 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francosca by his side. 

The maid who might have been his bride ! 

The rose was yot upon her check, 
But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 
Where was the play of her soil lips flod ? 
Gone was the smile, that enliven'd their rod. 
The ocean's calm with'm their view, 
Beside her eye had loss of blue : 



But like that cold wave it stood still. 

And its glance, though clear, was chill : 

Around her form a thin robe twining. 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her hair, 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare: 

And ere yet she made reply. 

Once she raised her hand on high ; 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shme through. 

XXI. 

"I come from my rest to him I love best, 

That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'T is said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high, that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 

I come — and if I come in vain, 

Never, oh never, we meet again ! 

Thou hast done a fearful deed 

In faUing away from thy father's creed : 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine 

Wring the black drop from thy heart, 

And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

" And where should our bridal couch be spread f 
In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flamo- 
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name« 
None, save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 
Shall be lefl; upon the morn: 
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow- 
forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
When once again I 've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase. 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, thosa 
Whom vice and envy made my foes," 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone^, 

And shot a chillness to his heart. 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,. 

He could not loose him from its hold; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeUng of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night.. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone». 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 

So deeply changed from what he knew: 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without hor breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With augiit of change, as the eyes may socm 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like the figures on arras, that glooniily glarOi 

Slirr'd by llio breath of the wintry air, 



136 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 

Lifeless, but Ufe-like, and a\vful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 

down 
From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
* If not for love of me be given 
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
Again I say — that turban tear 
From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see 
Not earth — that 's past — but heaven or me. 
If this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 
That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 
But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shut from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon — ' 
'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 
I^ by the time its vapoury sail 
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil. 
Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside. 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

RoU'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

£fe, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earnestly. 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 

FuU on his eye the clear moon shone, 

And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 't is too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

What Venice made me, I must be. 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe : oh, fly with me 1" 

He turn'd, but she is gone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 

He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there. 

XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one. 

Lightly and brightly breaks away 

The Morning from her mantle gray, 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 

Hark to the trump, and the drum, 

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn. 

And the flap of the banners that flit as they 're borne. 

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 

And the clash, and the shout, " they come, they come !" 

The horsetails ^ are pluck'd from the ground, and the 

sword 
From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the 

word. 



Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 

Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 

Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 

That the fugitive may flee in vain, 

V/hen he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 

Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 

Wliile your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 

Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 

Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 

White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 

The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 

The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar. 

And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 

Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 

Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 

So is the blade of his scimitar ; 

The khan and the pachas are all at tlieir post: 

The vizier himself at the head of the host. 

When the culverin's signal is fired, then on 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

" There the breach lies for passage the ladder to scale ; 

And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 

fail? 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have !" 
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire t — 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire I 

XXIII. 

As the wolves, that headlong go * 

On the stately buffalo. 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He tramples on the earth, or tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die . 

Thus against the wall they went, 

Thus the first were backwark bent ; 

Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, 

Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 

Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more : 

Even as they fell, in files they lay, 

Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 

When his work is done on the levell'd plain; 

Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-fides, vidth heavy plash. 

From the cliffs invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 

Till white and thundering dovm they go. 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below ; 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renew'd 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 

Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot: 

Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory, 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder. 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes. 

If with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In tliat annihilating voice, 



3U» T 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



137 



Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara ; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

I Even unto Piraeus bay. 
XXV. 
From the point of encountering blades to the hilt. 
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 
But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 
And all but the after carnage done. 
*. Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
From within the plunder'd dome : 
Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 
But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
Against the foe may still be found, 
Desperate groups, of twelve or ten. 
Make a pause, and turn again — 
With banded backs against the wall, 
Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

Thei-e stood an old man — his hairs were white, 

But his veteran arm was full of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounded, 

Though retreating, unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 

But of every wound his body bore, 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb. 

Few of our youth could cope with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. 

From right to left his sabre swept : 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe ; 

And since the day, v/hen in the strait ^ 

His only boy had met his fate. 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a htinian hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son, who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ; 
But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark to the Allali shout ! a band 
Of the Miissulnuui bravest and best is at hand : 
Their leader's ncrvovis arm is bare, 
Swifter to smite, and nover to spare — 
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
Thus in the fight is ho ever known : 
Others a gaudier garb may show, 
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; 
Many a liand's on a richer hilt, 
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
S 



Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 

Look through the thick of the fight, 't is there ! 

There is not a standard on that shore 

So well advanced the ranks before ; 

There is not a banner in Moslem war 

Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 

It glances like a falling star ! 

Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 

The bravest be, or late have been ; 

There the craven cries for quarter 

Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 

Or the hero, silent lying, 

Scorns to yeild a groan in dying ; 

Mustering his last feeble blow 

'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe. 

Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 

Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 

And Alp's career a moment check'd. 

"Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take, 

For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

" Never, renegado, never ! 

Though the hfe of thy gift would last for ever." 

" Francesca ! — Oh my promised bride ! 

Must she too perish by thy pride ?" 

" She is safe." — " Where ? where ?" — " In heaven ; 

From whence the traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and undefiled." 

Grimly then Minctti smiled, 

As he saw Alp staggering bow 

Before his words, as with a blow. 

« Oh God ! when died she ?" — " Yesternight — 

Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee — * 

Come on !" — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp 's already with the slain ! 

While Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the time allow'd to wound, 

From within the neighbouring porch 

Of a long defended church, 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew. 

The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of tlie infidel. 

Round he spun, and do\vn he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk ; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering: 

They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 

And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed. 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death: 

Ero his very thought could pray, 

Unanel'd ho passM away. 

Without a hope from mercy's aid,— 

To the last a renogado. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes ; 

Those in joy, in fury tiioso ; 



138 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



1 



Then again in conflict mixing, 
Clashing swords, and spears transfixing. 
Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
Hurling warriors in the dust. 
Street by street, and foot by foot, 
Still Minotti dares dispute 
The latest portion of the land 
Lefl beneath his high command ; 
With him, aiding heart and hand, 
The remnant of his gallant band. 
Still the church is tenable, 

Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall. 
When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
Thither bending sternly back. 
They leave before a bloody track ; 
And, with their faces to the foe, 
Dealing wounds with every blow. 
The chief) and his reti-eating train^ 
Join to those within the fane ; 
There they yet may breath awhile, 
Shelter'd by the massy pile. 



' Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 
With adding ranks and raging boast. 
Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
Their numbers baUt their own retreat ; 
For nan"0w the way that led to the spot 
Where still the Christians yielded not; 
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 
They perforce must do or die. 
They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 
Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 
And faint the weary Christians wax 
Before the still renew'd attacks : 
And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 
Still resists its iron weight. 
And still, all deadly aim'd and hot. 
From every crevice comes the shot; 
From every shatter'd window pour 
The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 
But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
The ii-on yields, the hinges creak — 
It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
Lost Corinth may resist no morel 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
Madonna's face upon him shone, 
Painted in heavenly hues above. 
With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
Still she smiled ; even now she smiles. 
Though slaughter streams along her aisles: 
Minotti lifted his aged eye. 
And made the sign of a cross with a sigh. 
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; 
And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
Their names were on the graven floor, 
But now illegible with gore, 



The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins diffiise. 

Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strownt 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row;. 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But War had enter'd theb- dark caves. 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead: 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 

The Christians' chiefest magazine; 

To these a late form'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource 

Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 



The foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain: 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake. 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 

And lop the ah-eady lifeless head. 

And fell the statues from their niche. 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich. 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show I 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes r 

That morn it held the holy wine. 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine,, 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of dajr. 

To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 

Still a few drops within it lay ; 

And roimd the sacred table glow 

Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 

From the purest metal cast ; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 



So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

'T is fired! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 

The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
AU that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fkne, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd tovra — the walls thrown down— 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hUls that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven. 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkle 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



139 



Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 


The camels from their keepers broke ; 


Scatter'd o'er the istlimus lay ; 


The distant steer forsook the yoke — 


Christian or Moslem, which be tlaey ? 


The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 


Let their mothers see and say ! 


And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 


When in cradled rest they lay, 


The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 


And each nursing mother smiled 


Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh 


On the sweet sleep of her child, 


The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 


Little deem'd she such a day 


Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 


Would rend those tender limbs away. 


The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,'*' 


Not the matrons that them bore 


Bay'd from afar complainingly, 


Could discern their offspring more ; 


With a mk'd and mournful sound, 


That one moment left no trace 


Like crymg babe, and beaten hound : 


More of human form or face 


With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 


Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 


The eagle left his rocky nest. 


And down came blazing rafters, strown 


And mounted nearer to the sun, 


Around, and many a falling stone, 


The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 


Deeply dinted in the clay, 


Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 


All blackenM there and reeking lay. 


And made him higher soar and shriek — 


All the living things that heard 


Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 


That deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 




The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 




And howling left the unburied dead; 





b 



NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Note 1, page 132, line 11. 
Tlie Turcoman Jiath left Ids herd. 



' The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patriar- 
chal : they dwell in tents. 

Note 2, page 132, line 69. 
Coumourgi — he whose closing scene. 

All Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and 
Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelopon- 
nesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mor- 
tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the 
battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain of Carlowitz,) in 
Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died 
of his wounds next day. His last order was the de- 
capitation of General Breuner, and some other Ger- 
man prisoners ; and his last words, " Oh that I could 
thus serve all the Christian dogs!" a speech and act 
not unlike one of Caligula. He was a young mati of 
great ambition and unbounded presumption : on being 
told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was 
great general," he said, " I shall become a greater, and 
at his expense." 

Note 3, page 134, line 81. 
There shrinks no chb in that tidelcss sea. 

The reader need hardly be reminded that there are 
no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 

Note 4, page 134, line 115. 
And their white tuslcs crmicKd o^er the whiter skull. 

This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath 
the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little 
cavities worn by the Hosphorus in the rock, a narrow 
terrace of which projects between the wall anil the 
water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Ilobhouse's 
Travels. The bodies were probably those of some 
refractory Janizaries. 

.Note 5, page 134, Uno 124, 
And each scalj) hail a single long tujl of hair. 

This tuft, or long lock, is left from n superstition that 
Mahomet will draw ihcm into Paradise by it. 



Note 6, page 135, line 37. 
I must here acknowledge a close, though unintention- 
al, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an 
unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called "Christabel." 
It was not till after these lines were written that I heard 
that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem 
recited; and the MS. of that production I never saw 
till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge him- 
self, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a 
wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly per- 
tains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed 
above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that 
he will not longer delay the publication of a production, 
of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the 
applause of far more competent judges. 

Note 7, page 136, line 22. 
There is a light cloud by the moon. 

I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 
598 to 603 has been admired by those whose approba- 
tion is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original 
— at least noi mine ; it may be found much better ex- 
l)ressed in pages 182-3-4 of the English version of 
" Vathck," (I forget the precise page of the French,) a 
work to which I have before referred ; and never recur 
to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. 

Note 8, page 136, line 67. 
The horsetaiU are pluck\l from the ground^ and the sword. 
The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pasha's standard. 
Note 9, page 137, line 45. 
And since the day, when in the strait. 
In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Dardanelles, 
between the Venetians and the Turks. 

Note 10, page 139, line 31. 

The jackaTs troop, in giUhvrd cry. 

I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant 

the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor hoard 

these animals; but amongjhe ruins ot Kpho.sus I have 

heard them by hundreds. 



Tliey huunl rums, and tollow 



P A R I S I N A. 

TO SCROPE BERDMORE DA VIES, Esq. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED 
BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIg FRIENDSHIP. 



January 22, 1816. 

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of 
Brunswick." — I am aware, that in modern times the deli- 
cacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such sub- 
jects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek drama- 
tists, and some of the best of our old Enghsh writers, were 
of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also 
been, more recently, upon the continent. The following 
extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. 
The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more 
metrical. 

** Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was pol- 
luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este 
discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and 
Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They 
were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father 
and husband, who published his shame, and survived their 
execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty ; if 
they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor 
is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely 
approve the last act of justice of a parent." — Gibbon^s 
MisceUaneotis Works, vol. iii. p. 470, new edition. 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 

And gentle winds, and waters near. 

Make music to the lonely ear. 

Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the. leaf a browner hue. 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, . 

So soflly dark, and darkly pure. 

Which follows the decline of day, 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 



But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall. 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 

She listens — but not for the nightingale — 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There gUdes a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats 

quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 



A moment more — and they shall meet — 
'T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 



And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass'd away, 

They only for each other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay. 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream? 
Who that have felt that passion's power. 
Or paused or fear'd in such an hour? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas ! we must awake before 
We, know such vision comes no more. 



With many a Ungering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — - 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of iU. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems. 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day. 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 



f 



PARISINA. 



141 



I 



That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
And listen'd to each broken word ; 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 
As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinlcs to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name ? 't is Hugo's, — his — 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
'T is Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all- evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth. 
When he betrayed Bianca's truth. 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 



He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath. 

But sheath'd it ere the point was bare — ■ 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — • 
Nay more : — he did not wake her then. 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance. 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd — 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around. 
The proof of all he fear'd to know. 
Their present guilt, his future wo ; 
The long-conniving damsels seek 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 
Concealment is no more — they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell: 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear • 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook'd delay : 

Within the chamber of his state, 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of jvulgment sate ; 
Hia nobles and iiis guards are thoro, — 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young — and 07ie how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetler'd hand, 
Oh, Christ! that such a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his siro, 
And hear the sentence of his iro, 

The tale of his disgrace ! 



And yet he seems not overcome. 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 



And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering room 
Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 

The graces of its queen: 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
And made her quarrel all their own. 
Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
Can she command, or these obey ? 
All silent and unheeding now. 
With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
And folded arms, and freezing air. 
And hps that scarce their scorn forbear, 
Her knights, and dames, her court — is there: 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 
Who — where his arm a moment free- 
Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 
The minion of his father's bride, — 
He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him: 
Those lids — o'er which the voilet vein 
Wandering, leaves a tender stain. 
Shining through the smoothest white 
That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below; 
AVhich glance so heavily and fill, 
As tear on tear grows gathering still, 



And he for her had also wept. 

But for the eyes that on him gazed; 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 
He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate— 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And her's, — oh, her's ! — he dared not thro\y 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! ■ 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 



And Azo spake : — *' But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son; 
That dream this morning pass'd away ; 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ; 
Well, — let that pass, — there breatiios not on© 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that too i)ass; — The doom's prepared! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on tlieo, 

And then — thy crime's reward! 
Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if Uiou thoro canst bo forgiven ; 

Its mercy may al>solvo tlice yet. 



142 



PARISINA. 



But here, upon the earth beneath, 
There is no spot where thou and I 

Together, for an hour, could breathe : 
Farewell! I will not see thee die — 

But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head — 
Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 
Go! woman of the wanton breast 

Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 

Go ! if that sight thou canst outhve. 

And joy thee in the hfe I give." 



And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flowed again 5 

And therefore bow'd he for a space, 

And pass'd his shaking hand along 

His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 

While Hugo raised his chained hands, 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father's ear: the silent sire 

Forbids not what his words require. 
" It is not that I dread the death — 

For thou hast seen me by thy side 

All redly through the battle ride. 

And that not once a useless brand 

Thy slaves have wrested from my hand. 

Hath shed more blood in cause of thine. 

Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 

A gift for which I thank thee not ; 

Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 

Her shghted love and ruin'd name. 

Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 

But she is in the grave, where he, 

Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 

Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 

Shall witness for thee from the dead 

How trusty and how tender were 

Thy youthful love — paternal care. 

'T is true, that I have done thee wrong — 
But wrong for wrong : — this, deem'd thy bride, 
The other victim of thy pride. 

Thou know'st for me was destined long. 

Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms — 
And with thy very crime — my birth, 
Thou taunted'st me — as httle worth ; 

A match ignoble for her arms. 

Because, forsooth, I could not claim 

The lawful heirship of thy name, 

Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short summers mine. 
My name should more than Este's shine 

With honours all my own. 

I had a sword — and have a breast 

That should have won as haught ^ a crest 

As ever waved along the Une 

Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 

Not always knightly spurs are worn 

The brightest by the better born ; 

And mine have lanced my courser's flank 

Before proud chiefs of princely rank. 

When charging to the cheering cry 

Of 'Este and of Victory !' 

I will not plead the cause of crime. 

Nor sue thee to redeem from time 

A few brief hours or days that must 

At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 

Such maddening moments as my past, 

They could not and they did not, last — 

Albeit my birth and name be base. 

And thy nobility of race 



Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 
Yet in my hneaments they trace 
Some features of my father's face, 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
Prom thee — this tamelessness of heart — 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ?- 
From thee in all their vigour came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame- 
Thou didst not give me life alone. 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control : 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou. 
When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
And we, all side by side, have striven, 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died : 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'T is not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view, 
But God must judge between us too !" 



He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the cliiefs that there were rank'd, 
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd; 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still. 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide. 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear I 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak. 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek. 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More hke a thing that ne'er had life — 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting. 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despair. 



PARISINA. 



148 



But yet she lived — and all too soon 

Recover'd from that death-hke swoon — 

But scarce to reason — every sense 

Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 

And each frail fibre of her brain 

(As bowstringSj when relax'd by rain, 

The errbg arrow lanch aside) 

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide— 

The past a blank, the future black, 

"With glimpses of a dreary track, 

Like lightning on the desert path. 

When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 

She fear'd — she felt that something ill 

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 

That there was sin and shame she knew ; 

That some one was to die — but who ? 

She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 

Could this be still the earth beneath, 

The sky above, and men around ; 

Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme. 

She strove with that convulsive dream ; 

For so it seem'd on her to break: 

Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 

XV. 

The Convent bells are ringing. 

But mournfully and slow ; 
In the gray square turret swinging. 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below. 

Or the Uving who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll 
He is near his mortal goal ; 
Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
With the block before and the guards around — 
And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 

XVI, 

It is a lovely hour as yet 

Before the summer sun shall set, 

Which rose upon that heavy day. 

And mock'd it with liis steadiest ray ; 

And his evening beams are shed 

Full on Hugo's fated head, 

As his last confession pouring 

To the monk, his doom deploring 

In penitential holiness, 

He bends lo hear liis accents bless 

With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 

That high sun on his head rlid glisten 

As he there did bow and listen — 
And the rings of chestnut liair 
Curl'd half down his neck so bare; 
But brighter still tho beam was llirown 
Upon tho axe which near him shono 

With a clear and ghastly ghltor 

Oh! that parting hour was bitter! 



Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover ! 

His beads and sins are all recounted. 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd. 

His bright brown locks must now be cUpp'd ; 

'T is done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn— 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were half renew'd, 

When headman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blini 

As if they dared not look on death, 

" No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands are chain'd — but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike :" — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke 

"Strike" — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sxmk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunlT 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died as erring man should die. 

Without display, without parade j 

Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid. 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the Prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling;- 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour ? 
No more reproach — no more despair; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
Save the few which from him broke. 
When, bared to meet the headman's stroke^ 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
His sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 

Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran. 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On iiim whose life and love thus ended ; 

And with a hushing sound comprest, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock. 

Save one: — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill, so passing wild ? 

Tliat, as a motlier's oVr her child. 

Done to death by siidtU'n blow. 

To the sky those accents go, 

Ijiko a soul's in endless wo. 

Tlirougii Azo's palace-lattico driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

Anil every eye is turn'd tlioreon ; 

But sound and sight alike arc gone ! 



144 



PARISINA. 



It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
In madlier accents rose despair ; 
And those who heard it, as it past, 
In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day, 

But Paiisina's fate Ues hid 

Like dust b^ieath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode. 

And won to heaven her dreary road. 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 

For that dark love she dared to feel 5 

Or ifj upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the headman's shock, 

In quicken'd brokenness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know : 

But whatsoe'er its end below, 

Her life began and closed in wo ! ^ 

XX. 

And Azo found another bride. 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who vvither'd in the grave ; 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended, 

And never smile his brow unbended 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 



Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirth or wo: 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself— and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget, 

Which when it least appear'd to melt, 

Intensely thought — intensely felt : 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream Ues quick below, 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which Nature hath implanted; 

Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 

Howe'er our stifled tears we banish ; 

When, struggling as they rise to start, 

We check those waters of the heart, 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 

But flow back to the fountain head, 

And resting in their spring more pure, 

For ever in its depth endure, 

Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 

And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 

With inward starts of feeling left, 

To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 

Without the power to fill again 

The desert gap which made his pain; 

Without the hope to meet them where 

United souls shall gladness share, 

With all the consciousness that he 

Had only pass'd a just decree ; 

That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 

Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 

The tainted branches of the tree. 

If lopp'd with care a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free ; 
But if the lightning, in its wrath. 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 




NOTES TO PARISINA. 



Note 1, page 140, line 14. 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 

The lines contained in Section I. were printed as set 
to music some time since ; but belonged to the poem 
where they now appear, the greater part of which was 
composed prior to " Lara," and other compositions since 
published. 

Note 2, page 142, line 55. 
TTiat should have won as haught a crest. 
Haught— haughty— « Away, haught man, thou art 
insulting me." Shakspcare, Richard II. 

Note 3, page 144, line 32. 
Her life began and closed in wo. 
" This turned out a calamitous year for the people of 
Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event in the 
court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed and 
in manuscript, with the exception of the unpolished and 
negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the 
following relation of it, from which, however, are rejected 
many details, and especially the narrative of Bandelli, 



who wrote a century afterwards, and who does not ac- 
cord with the contemporary historians. 

" By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the 
Marquis, m the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beau- 
tiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers, 
treated him with little kindness, to the infinite regret of 
the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality. 
One day she asked leave of her husband to undertake a 
certain journey, to which he consented, but upon condi- 
tion that Ugo should bear her company ; for he hoped 
by these means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside 
the obstinate aversion which she had conceived against 
him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but too 
well, since, during the journey, she not only divested her- 
self of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite extreme. 
After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occa- 
sion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one day 
that a servant of the Marquis, named Zoese, or, as 
some ca.ll him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments 
of Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chamber- 
maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, 
she told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, 






THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



145 



had been beating her ; and, giving vent to her rage, she 
added, that she could easily be revenged, if she chose to 
make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted 
between Parisina and her step-son. The servant took 
note of the words, and related them to his master. He 
was astounded thereat, but scarcely believing his ears, 
he assured himself of the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 
18th of May, by looking through a hole made in the 
ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into 
a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with 
Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and 
also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, 
as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to pronounce 
sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the culprits. 
This sentence was death. Some there were that be- 
stirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, 
among others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-power- 
ful with Niccolo, and also his aged and much deserving 
minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears 
flowing down their cheeks, and upon their knees, im- 
plored him for mercy : adducing whatever reasons they 
could suggest for sparing the offenders, besides those mo- 
tives of honour and decency which might persuade him 
to conceal from the public so scandalous a deed. But his 
rage made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he com- 
manded that the sentence should be put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly 
in those frightful dungeons which are seen at this day 
beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of 
the Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, that 
on the night of the twenty-first of May were beheaded, 
first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that 
accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the 
place of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she 
was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, 
whether she was yet come to the spot ? She was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She inquired what 
was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he 
was already dead ; at the which, sighing grievously, she 
exclaimed, 'Now, then, I wish not myself to live ;' and, 
being come to the block, she stripped herself with her 
own hands of all her ornaments, and wrapping a cloth 



around her head, submitted to the fatal stroke, which 
terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with 
Rangoni, who, together with the others, according to 
two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was 
buried in the cemetery of that convent. Nothinfr else 
is known respecting the women. 

" The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dread- 
ful night, and, as he was walking backwards and for- 
wards, inquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was 
dead yet ? who answered him. Yes. He then gave him- 
self up to the m.ost desperate lamentations, exclaiming, 
' Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried 
on to resolve thus against my own Ugo !' And then, 
gnawing v/ith his teeth a cane v/hich he had in his hand, 
he passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, call- 
ing frequently upon his own dear Ugo. On the follow- 
ing day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to 
make public his justification, seeing that the transaction 
could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be 
drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts of 
Italy. 

"On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Fran- 
cesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his 
reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for 
a tournament, which, under the auspices of the Mar- 
quis, and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about 
to take place, in the square of St. Mark, in order to 
celebrate his advancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, com- 
manded that as many of the married women as were 
well known to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, 
should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, Bar- 
berina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of 
the court judge, underwent this sentence, at the usual 
place of execution, that is to say, in the quarter of St. 
Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. 
It cannot be told how strange appeared this proceeding 
in a prince, v/ho, considering his own disposition, should, 
as it seemed, have been in such cases most indulgent. 
Some, however, there were, who did not fail to com- 
mend him."* 



* Frizzi— History of Ferrara, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



A FABLE. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayloss gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard I' — May none those marks efiacc ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is gray, but not with years, 

Nor grew it whito 

In a pinglo night,2 
As men's have grown from sudden foar- 
T 



My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd— forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sufier'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had bejiun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have scal'd ; 
Dying as their father died, 
l''or the God their foes denied ; 
'I'hren rtcro in a dungeon cast, 
f ■r\v|ion» thi.,- wrock is left t.'io last. 



148 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLOlSf, 



There are seven pillars of gothic mold, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these hmbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done \vith this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 
They chain'd us each to a column stowl!. 
And we were three — yet, each alone: 
We could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 

As they of yore w^ere wont to be ; 

It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded Uke our own. 

IV. 

I was the eldest of the three. 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well In his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it be dlstrest 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till Its summer 's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And In his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills. 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the wo 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

V. 

The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world b war had stood, 



And perlsh'd in the foremost ranlc 

With joy : — ^but not In chains to nine : 

His spirit withered with then- clank, 
I saw It silently decline — 
And so perchance In sooth did mine ; 

But yet I forced It on to cheer 

Those rehcs of a home so dear. 

He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had foUow'd there the deer and wolf j 
To him this dungeon was a gul^ 

And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 



Lake Leman Ues by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,' 

Which round about the wave enthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a_ living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard It ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wasii through the bars when winds were 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd. 

And I have felt It shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free, 

TII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude. 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for the like had Uttle care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat. 
Was changed for water from the moat. 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have molsten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an Iron den : 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or hmb, 
My brother's soul was of that mo'd 
Which In a palace had grown cold. 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
Though hard I strove, but strove In vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse In dust whereon the day 
Might shine — It was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain It wrought. 
That even In death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my Idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above It leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument !. 

VIII. 

But he, the favourite and the flower» 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



147 



Kis mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my hfe, that his might he 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
To sec the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : — 
I 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
But these were horrors — this was wo 
Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow: 
He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
And grieved for those he left behind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, 
And not a word of murmur — not 
A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
A little talk of better days, 
A little hope my own to raise. 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In this last loss, of all the most ; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
More slov/ly drawn, grew less and less : 
J listen'd, but I could not hear — 
I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 
I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
I burst my chain with one strong bound. 
And rush'd to him: — I found him not, 
/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 
/ only lived — / only drew 
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
The last — the sole — the dearest Jink 
Between me and the eternal brink, 
Which bound me to my failing race, 
Was broken in this fatal place. 
One on the earth, and one beneath — 
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 
I took that hand which lay so still, 
Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
I had not strength to stir, or strive. 
But felt that I was still alive — 
A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
I know not why 
I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 

First camo ihe loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the Htones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarco conscious what I wist, 
As shniblesg crags within the mist; 
l<'()r all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
It was not night — it was not day, 



It was not even the dungeon-Hght, 

So hateful to my heavy sight, 

But vacancy absorbing space. 

And fixedness — without a place ; 

There were no stars — no earth — no time — • 

No check — no change — no good — no crime — 

But silence, and a stirless breath 

Which neither was of life nor death ; 

A sea of stagnant idleness. 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 
It was the carol of a bird ; 

It ceased, and then it came again. 
The sweetest song ear ever heard, 

And mine was thankful till my eyes 

Ran over with the glad surprise, 

And they that moment could not see 

I was the mate of misery; 

But then by dull degrees came back 

My senses to their wonted track, 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before, 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done. 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 
And tamer than upon the tree ; 

A lovely bird, with azure wings, 

And song that said a thousand things, 
And seem'd to say them all for me ! 

I never saw its like before, 

I ne'er shall see its hkeness more : 

It seem'd like mc to want a mate, 

But was not half so desolate. 

And it was come to love me when 

None lived to love me so again. 

And cheering from my dungeon's brink. 

Had brought me back to feel and think. 

I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird I I could not wish for thino 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown ui)on the atmos[)here, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate, 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of wo, 
But so it was: — my broken chain 
With tinj^ nnfasten'd did remahi, 
And it vfes libtTty to stride 
Along my cell from sido to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one. 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brolhora' graves without a sod ; 



148ji6t 



■ :it 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned tlieir lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

xir. 
I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all, • 

. Who loved me in a human shape ; '.' 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a Uttle isle,* 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more. 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor. 
But in it there w^ere three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew tlie mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growing 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 



The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again. 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save. 
And yet my glance, too much opprest. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



It might be months, or years, or days, 

1 ke[)t no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



Note 1, page 145, Une 13. 
By Bonruvard ! — may none those marks efface I 

Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, 
originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 
1496; il fit ses etudes a Turin: en 1510 Jean Aime de 
Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le Prieure de St. Vic- 
tor, qui aboutissoit aux murs de Geneve, et qui formoit 
un benefice considerable. 

Ce grand homme (Bonnivard merite ce titre par la 
force de son ame, la droiture de son coeur, la noblesse 
de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage 
de ses demarches, I'etendue de ses connaissances et la 
vivacite de son esprit,) ce grand homme, qui excitera 
I'admiration de tous ceux qu'une vertu hero'ique pent 
encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive recon- 
naissance dans les coeurs des Genevois qui aiment Ge- 
neve. Bonnivard en fut toujours un dcs plus fermes 
appuis : pour assurer la liberte de notre Republique, il 
ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sii»ine ; il oublia 
son repos ; il meprisa ses richcsses ; il ne negligea rien 
pour afiermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son 
choix: d6s oe moment il la chcrit comme le plus zele 
de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec I'intrepiditc d'un heros, 
et il ecrivit son Histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe 
et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

II dit dans le commencement do son histoire de Ge- 
neve quo, dls qu^il cut commence de lire I'histoire des na- 



tions, il se sentit entratne par son goiit pour les Repub- 
liques, dont il epousa toujours les interUs : c'est ce gout 
pour la liberte que lui fit sans doute adopter Gen6ve pour 
sa patrie. 

Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonfa hautement comme 
le defenseur de Geneve contre le Due de Savoye et 
rEvfique. 

En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie ; 
Le Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq 
cent hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du Due ; 
il voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour en eviier les suites; 
mais ilfuttrahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnoient, 
et conduit par ordre du Prince h Grolee ou il resta 
prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etoit malheu- 
reux dans ses voyages : comme ses mallieurs n'avoient 
point ralenti son zele pour Gen&ve, il etoit toujours un 
ennemi redoutable pour ceux qui la mena9oient, et par 
consequent il devoit etre expose h. leurs coupr;. II fut 
rencontre en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le 
depouillf^rent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains 
du Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le 
Chateau de Chillon, oti il resta sans etre interroge jus- 
ques en 1536; il fiit alors delivre par les Bernois, qui 
s'emparerent du Pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de 
trouver Geneve libre ct reformee ; la Republique s'em» 
pressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance et de le de* 
dommager des maux qu'il avoit soufferts; elle le re9ut 



BEPPO. 



149 



Bourgeois de la villeaumoisdeJuin 1536; ellelui donna 
la ma"ison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-Gencral, et 
elie Ini assigna une pension de 200 ecus d'or lant qu'il 
sejourneroil a Geneve. II fut admis dans le Conseil 
de Deux-Cent en 1537. 

Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : apprCs avoir tra- 
vaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre lo- 
lerante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux 
Ecolesiastiques et aux paysans un terns suffisant pour 
examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisoit ; il reussit 
par sa douceur: on preche toujours le Christianisme 
avec succes quand on ie preche avec charite. 

Bonnivard fut savant ; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans 
la Bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avoit bien lu les 
auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avoit approfondi la 
theologie et I'histoire. Ce grand homme aimoit les 
sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles pouvoient faire la gloire 
de GentJve ; aussi il ne negligca rien pour les fixer 
dans cette ville naissante ; en 1551 il donna sa biblio- 
theque au public ; elle fut le commencement de notre 
bibliotheque publique ; et ces livres sont en partie les 
rares et belles editions du quinzieme si^cle qu'on voit 
dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annee, 
ce bon patriote institua la Republique son heriti^re, a 
condition qu'elle employeroit ses biens a entretenir le 
college dont on projettoit la fondation. 

II paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais on 
ne peut I'assurer, parce qu'il y a une lacune dans le Ne- 
crologe depuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusques en 1571. 

Note 2, page 145, line 17. 
In a single night. 
Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted 
of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI. though 
not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the 
same effect : to such, and not to fear, this change in hers 
was to be attributed. 

Note 3, page 146, Hne 85. 

From Chilton's snow-white battlement. 

The Chg.teaude Chillon is situated between Clarens 



and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of tho 
Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and 
the range of Alps above Boveret and St. Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; below it, wash- 
ing its wails, the lake has been fathomed to the depth 
of" 800 feet, (French measure ;) within it are a range of 
dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subsequent- 
ly prisoners of state, were confined. Across one of the 
vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were in- 
formed that the condemned were formerly executed. 
In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being 
half merged in the wall ; in some of these are rings for 
the fetters and the fettered : in the pavement the steps 
of Bonnivard have left their traces — he was confined 
here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catas- 
trophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of her chil- 
dren by Julie from the water ; the shock of which, and 
the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of 
her death. 

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a 
great distance. The walls are white. 

Note 4, page 148, line 28. 
And then there was a little isle 

Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
not far from Chillon, is a very small island ; the only 
one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the 
lake, within its circumference. It contains a few trees, 
(I think not above three,) and from its singleness and 
diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed I was not 
sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt 
to celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some account 
of his life will be found in a note appended to the " Son- 
net on Chillon," with which I have been furnished by 
the kindness of a citizen of that Republic, which is still 
proud of the memory of a man worthy of the best age 
of ancient freedom. 



BEPPO, 

A VENETIAN STORY. 

Ro§nlind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller : Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits : disable all the benefits of your own 
country ; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chids God for making you that countenance you are ; or I will 
scarce think that you liave swam in a Gondola. 

As You Like It, Act IV. Sc, I. 

Annotation of the Commentators, 
That is, been at Venice, which was much visiieil by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was then what 
Paris il now— the seat of ail disstiluteness.— S. A. 



'T IS known, at least it should be, that throughout 

All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 

The people take their fill of recreation. 
And buy reponlance, ere they grow devout, 

However higli their rank, or low their station, 
With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, inasqning, 
And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 
The moment night with dusky mantle covers 

Tho skies, (and the; more duskily the bettor,) 
Tho timc^ loss r,',iHl l)y husbands than by lovers 

B(;gins, and prudrry flings aside her fetter; 
And giiyety on restless tiittoc hovers, 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
And there arc songs and (juavors," roaring, humming, 
Guitars, and every oilier sort of strumming. 



And there are dresses splendid, but fimtasfical, 

Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 

Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 

All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 
But no one in those parts may quiz tho clergy, 
Thoroforo take heed, yo Freethinkers ! I charge ye, 

IV. 
You 'd bettor walk about begirt with briers, 

Instead of^at and small-cliHlies, than put on 
A single stit^ rolleoliiig u])0!i friars, 

Although you swore it onlv was in fun ; 
Thi'V 'd haul you oVr tho coals, and stir llio fires 

t)f Phlogelhon with every mother's son, 
Nor say tme mass to cool the oaUlnMi's bubble 
That boil'd your bones, unless you paiil them double. 



150 



BEPPO. 



But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You lilte by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmoutii-street, or in Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are, 

"With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Covent Garden, I can liit on 

No place that's call'd " Piazza" in Great Britain. 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh :" 

So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing. 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

'T is as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stagecoach or packet just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes. 
Because they have no sauses to their stews, 

A thing which causes many " poohs" and " pishes," 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse) 

From travellers accustom'd from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

VIII. 

And therefore humbly I would recommend 
" The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 

The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend. 
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross, 

(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
By any means least liable to loss,) 

Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 

Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 

IX. 

That is to say, if your religion 's Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 

According to the proverb, — although no man, 
If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you. 

If protestant, or sicldy, or a woman. 

Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 

Dine and be d — d ! I do n't mean to be coarse, 

But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 

X. 

Of all the places where tne Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore. 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore. 

And at the moment when 1 fix my story 

That seaborn city was in all her glory, 

XI. 

They 've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 

Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still ; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's, 

(The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) - 

They look when leaning over the balcony. 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XII. 

Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace gc^t 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest. 

And that 's the cause I rhyme upon it so ; 
'T is but the portrait of his son, and wife. 
And self; but such a woman! love in life. 



Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name. 
But something better still, so very real. 

That the sweet model must have been the same ; 
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 

Wer't not impossible, besides a shame: 
The face recalls some face, as 't were with pain, 
You once have seen but ne'er will see again ; 

XIV. 

One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face 

And, Oh I the loveliness at times we see 
In momentary gliding, the soft grace. 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
In many a nameless being we retrace. 

Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 

Like the lost Pleiad' seen no more below. 

XV. 

I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
Venetian women were, and so they are, 

Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty 's sometimes best set off" afar,) 

And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 

And truth to say, they 're mostly very pretty, 

And rather like to show it, more 's the pity 1 

XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 

Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 
Who do such things because they know no better ; 

And then, God knows, what mischief may arise. 
When love links two young people in one fetter. 

Vile assignations, and adulterous beds. 

Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame. 
And to this day from Venice to Verona 

Such matters may be probably the same. 
Except that since those times was never known a 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a " cavalier servente." 

XVIII. 

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 

When weary of the matrimonial tether 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's. 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a gondola? For fear 

You should not, I '11 describe it you exactly : 

'T is a long cover'd boat that 's common here. 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 

Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 
It glides along the water looking blackly, 

Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 

Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 

And under the Rialto shoot along. 
By night and day, all paces, swift or s! w, 

And round the theatres, a sable throng. 
They wait in their dusk livery of wo. 

But not to them do woful things belong, 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the ftineral 's done. 



BEPPO. 



151 



But to my story. — 'T was some years ago, 

It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 
The carnival was at its height, and so 

Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
A certain lady went to see the show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
And so we '11 call her Laura, if you please, 
Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a " certain agc^'' 

Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
To name, define by speech, or write on page, 

The period meant precisely by that word, — 

Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time returrad the compliment, 

And treated her genteelly, so that, drest. 

She look'd extremely well where'er she went : 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent, 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Manldnd with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman ; 't is convenient, 
Because in Christain countries 'tis a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more lenient; 
Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 

(Unless within the period intervenient 
A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 

I do n't know how they ever can get over it, 

Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXV. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 

And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 

His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship with ease: 

He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.^ 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though colour'd, as it were, within a tanyard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigour— 

A better seaman never yet did man yard: 

And s/^e, although her manners show'd no rigour, 

Was dcem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt, 

And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
And there were several offer'd any bet, 

Or that he would, or that he would not come. 
For most men (till by losing rcndcr'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 

'T is said that their last parting was jjathelic. 
As |)artings often arc, or ought to ho, 

And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see, 

(A sort of morbid fueling, half poeti<:. 
Which I have known occur in two or throe) 

When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knoo, 

Ho Icfi, this Adriatic Ariadne. 



XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might ; 

She almost lost all appetite for victual, 

And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 

She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite. 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 

XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 
If only you will but oppose their choice?) 

Till Be[)po should return from his long cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 

A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 

And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a count, and then he knew 

Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan ; 

The last not easy, be it known to you, 

For few ItaUans speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too, 

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura." 

XXXII. 

His " bravo" was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd "academie" sigh'd in silent awe; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 

The " prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah 1" 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He patronized the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas. 
Wrote rhj-mes, sang songs, could also tell a story. 

Sold pictures, and was skilfiil in the dance as 
ItaUans can be, though in this their glory 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France has; 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous ; 

So that no sort of female could complain, 
Although they're now and then a little clamorous, 

He never put the pretty souls in {)ain ; 
His heart was one of those which most enamour us» 

Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school, 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady'%- 

Wilh scarce a hope that Beppo could return. 
In law ho was almost as good as dead, ho 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he 's alive, ho 's rfcw/, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 

'T is, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
I can't tell who lirst brought the custom in. 

But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common, 
And no (uie notices, nor cares a pin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A srccmt marriage which corrupts \.\wjirst. 



152 



BEPPO. 



The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo," 

But that, is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 

The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo,^'^ 

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent ; 

In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses ! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all due deference 

To the fair single part of the Creation, 
That married ladies should preserve the preference 

In tite-u-tzte or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar reference 

To England, France, or any other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, 
But shy and awkward at first coming out. 

So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, 

All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout; 

And glancing at Mamma, for fear there 's harm in 
Wliat you, she, it, or they, may be about, 

The Nursery still hsps out in all they utter — 

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call. 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy 's a pleasant place to me, 
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play. 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 

I hke on Autumn evenings to ride out. 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 

My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about. 
Because the skies are not the most secure ; 

I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
Where the green alleys windingly allure. 

Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way, — 

In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 

I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the Sun set, sure he '11 rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow. 
But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reekmg London's smoky caldron simmers. 

XLIV. 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth. 

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin. 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in. 
That not a single accent seems uncouth. 

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 

Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 



I like the women too, (forgive my folly,) 

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once. 

To the high dama's brow, more mela:,>choly. 
But clear, and with a v.'ild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her hps, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her cUme, and sunny as her skies. 

XL VI. 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 

Itahan beauty I didst thou not inspire 
Raphael,'* who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire. 
In what he hath bequeath'd us? — in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre. 
Would words describe thy past and present glow^ 
While yet Canova can create below ?* 

XL VII. 

"England ! with all thy faults I love thee still" 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 

I lilce the government, (but that is not it ;) 

I Hke the freedom of the press and quill ; 

I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we 've got it;) 

I like a parhamentary debate, 

Particularly when 't is not too late ; 

XLVIII. 

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
I lilve a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no obj ection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy. 

That is, I hke two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King I 
Which means that I like all and every thing. 

XLIX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen. 
Poor's rate. Reform, my own, the nation's debt. 

Our Uttle riots just to show we are free men, 
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
All these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glories. 

And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 

L, 

But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 
Digression is a sin, that by degrees 

Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 

The gentle reader, who may wax unkind. 
And caring little for the author's ease, 

Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 

And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems never known to fail, 

How quickly would I print (the world dehghting) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 

And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism. 

Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 



* Nole. 
(In talking thus, the writer, more especially 

Of women, wonlil be undersloorl to say, 
He speaks a? a spectator, not oiTicially, 

And always, reader, in a modesl way ; 
Perhaps, loo, in no very g>eat degree shall he 

Appear to havcoffended in this lay, 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
Would seem unlinish'd like their uutriram'd bonnets. 
(Signed) PrinUr'e Dtvil. 



BEPPO. 



153 



But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on. 
The first that Walker's liexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 

I 've half a mind to tumble down to prose, 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement. 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do. 

For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But on the whole, they were a happy pair. 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, [them : 

Their chains so shght, 't was not worth while to break 

The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wish'd " the devil take them !" 

He took them not ; he very often waits, 

And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 

liV. 

But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 

Would love be ! What would youth be without love ! 
Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth. 

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 

One of few things experience do n't improve. 
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 
Are always so preposterously jealous. 
liVr. 
I It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
I Laura the usual preparations made. 

Which you do when your mind 's made up to go 
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 

Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
The only difference known between the cases 
Is — here, we have six weeks of " vamish'd faces." 

LVII. 

i Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen. 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door. 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

JLVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 't is a hall 
Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
But that 's of no importance to my strain ; 

'T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

The company is "mix'd," (the phrase I quote is 

As much as saving, they 're below your notice -,) 

LIX. 

For a " mix'd company" implies that, save 

Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 

Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
The roat arc but a vulgar sot, the bore 

Of public places, where they basely bravo 
The fashionable stare of twenty score 

Of well-bred persons, call'd ^the fVorldf but I, 

Although I know thoni, really don't know why. 



This is the case in England ; at least was 

During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
Perchance succeeded by some other class 

Or imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion : all below 
Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 

Stopp'd by the elements, hke a whaler, or 
A blundering novice in his new French grammar; 

Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 

Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 

The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet. 
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 

I cannot say that she 's done much for me yet ; 
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage. 

We 've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage j 

Meantime the goddess I '11 no more importune. 

Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it I 
This story slips for ever through my fingers, 

Because, just as the stanza likes to make it. 
It needs must be — and so it rather Ungers ; 

This form of verse began, I oan't well break it, 
But must keep time and tune like pubUc singers ; 

But if I once get through my present measure, 

I '11 take another when I 'm next at leisure. 

LXIV. 

They went to ihe Ridotto, ('t is a place 
To which I mean to go myself to-morrow. 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space. 

Because I 'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I '11 make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd. 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 
A third — where did she buy that frightful turban? 

A fourth 's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, 
A fifth 's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 

A seventh's thin muslin surely will bo her banc, 

And lo ! an eighth appears, — " 1 'II sco no more !" 

For fear, like Banquo's kings, thoy reach a score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, while slio was thus at otliers gazing. 
Others were levelling their looks at her ; 

She heard tlio men's half-whispcr'd mode of praising, 
And, till 't was doao, determined not to stir ; 

The wom(>n only thought it quite amazing 
That at her time of life so many wore 

Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 



154 



BEPPO. 



LXVIII. 

For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 

A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
I only do n't see why it should be thus ; 

And if I were but in a gown and band, 
Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 

I 'd preach on tliis till Wilberforce and Romilly 

Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 

So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 

And well drest males still kept before her filing. 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 

More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 

With pertinacity tjiat's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
'T is said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 

LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely : 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations. 

Their days are either past in doing nothing, 

3r bathmg, nursing, making love and clothing, 

LXXII. 

They cannot read, and so do n't lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they do n't affect the nmse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism. 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harams earning soon would make a pretty schism ! 

But luckily these beauties are no " blues," 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
" That charming passage in the last new poem." 

LXXIII. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme. 
Who having angled all his hfe for fame. 

And getting but a nibble at a time. 
Still fussily keeps fisliing on, the same 

Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of a\vful phrase. 

The approving « Good /" (by no means good in law) 
Humming like flies around the newest blaze. 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw. 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise. 

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter. 
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 

LXXV. 

One hates an author that 's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up ^v^th ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 

One do n't know what to say to them, or think. 

Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 

These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. 



LXXVI. 

Of these same we see several, and of others, 
Men of the world, who know the world like men, 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; 

But for the children of the " mighty mother's," 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 

Smug coterie, and Uterary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 

And one v/ould seem to them a new invention, 
Unknovwi as bells within a Turldsh steeple ; 

I think 't would almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 

rxxviii. 

No chemistiy for them unfolds her gasses, 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures. 

No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, ' 

I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose. 
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 

I '11 keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 
I fear I have a little turn for satire. 

And yet methinlis the older that one grows 
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

rxxx. 
Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise: 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Lam-a's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the mussulman than Christian way. 

Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honour, 
And while I please to stare, you '11 please to stay :" 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her. 
But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 

She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 

Even at tliis stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 

A turn of time at which I would advise 
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 

In any other kind of exercise. 
To make their preparations for forsaking 

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise. 
Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
His blushes make them look a Uttle pale. 

Lxxxiir. 
I 've seen some balls and revels in my time, 

And stayed them over for some silly reason. 
And then I look'd, (I hope it was no crime,) 

To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
And though I 've seen some tliousands in their prime, 

Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
I never saw but one, (the stars withdravra,) 
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 



BEPPO. 



155 



LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I '11 not mention, 
Although I might, for she was naught to me 
•More than that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom we hke to see ; 

But writing names would merit reprehension, 
Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 

At the next London or Parisian ball 

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 

To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting 

Among three thousand people at a ball, 

To make her curtsey thought it right and fitting ; 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
And they the room were on the point of quittting. 

When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they 're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling. 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
They make a never intermitting bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 

But for all that, there is a deal of swearing. 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 

LXXXVII. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 

And homeward floated o'er the silent tide. 
Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 

The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 
Some httle scandals eke : but all aghast 

(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 
Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 
When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

Lxxxviir. 
"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 

" Your unexpected presence here will make 
It necessary for myself to crave 

Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake; 
I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 

All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
You understand my meaning, or you shcdl.^^ 
*Sir," (quoth the Turk,) «'t is no mistake at all. 

LXXXIX. 

•* That lady is my wife .'" Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females do n't do so outright ; 

They only call a httle on their saints. 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, 

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 

xc. 
She said, — what could she say ? Why not a word : 

But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 

"Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss williin," 
Said he; "don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

xci. 
They enter'd, and for coffee call'd— it came, 

A beverage for Turks and CInistians botli, 
Although the way they make it 's not the same. 

Now Laura, much recover'd, or less lolli 
To speak, cries "Beppo! wliat's your pagan name? 

Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
And how camo you to keep away so long? 
Are you not sensible 't was very wrong ?" 



xcii. 



" And are you reaZ(y, truly, now a Turk ? 

With any other women did you wive ? 
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork? 

Well, that 's the prettiest shawl — as I 'm alive ! 
You '11 give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver? 

XCIII. 

"Beppo! that beard of your's becomes you not; 

It shall be shaved before you 're a day older : 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 

Pray do n't you think the weather here is colder ? 
How do I look ? You sha'n't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it 's grown ! 

xciv. 
What answer Beppo made to these demands 

Is more than I know. He was cast away 
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 

Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 

Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 
He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 
A renegado of indifferent fame. 

xcv. 
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 

Keen the desire to see his home again. 
He thought himself in duty bound to do so. 

And not be always thieving on the main ; 
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 

And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
Bound for Corfu ; she was a fine polacca, 
Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 

xcvi. 
Himself) and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash, 

He then embark'd with risk of life and limb. 
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 

He said that Providence protected him — 
For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 

In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on. 
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

xcvii. 

They reach'd the island, he transfcrr'd his lading, 
And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 

And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading 
With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em. 

However, he got off by tliis evading. 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; 

And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 

XCVIII. 

His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
(lie made the church a present by the way ;) 

He then threw olf the garments which disguised him, 
And borrow'd the Count's small-clothes f n- a day : 

His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
Finding he 'd wherewithal to make them gay. 

With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of thorn, 

For stories — but / don't believe the half of thorn. 

xcrx. 
Whato'er his youth had sufior'd, his old ago 

With wealth and talking made him some amends ; 
Though Laura sometinies put him in a rogo, 

I 'vo heard the Count and ho were always friends. 
My pen is at the bottom of a page, 

Which being finish'd, hero the story ends ; 
'T is to bo wish'd it had Won sooner done, 
But fltorios somehow lengthen when begun. 



NOTES TO BEPPO. 



Note 1, page 150, line 80. 

Like the lost Pleiad seen no Tnore below. 

" Quae septem dici sex tamen esse solent." Ovid. 

Note 2, page 151, line 40. 

His name Giuseppe^ called more briefly^ Beppo. 

Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 

Note 3, page 152, line 3. 

The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo.''^ 

" Cortejo" is pronounced " CorteAo," with an aspi- 



rate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means 
what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
though the practice is as common as in any tramontane 
country whatever. 

Note 4, page 152, line 75. 
Raphael, who died in thy embrace. 

For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's 
death, see his Lives. 



M A Z E P P A, 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un gen- 
tilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le palatinat 
de Padolie ; il avait ete eleve page de Jean Casimir, et 
avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. 
Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme 
d'un gentilhomme Polonais, ayant ete decouverte, le 
mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le 
laissa aller en cat etat. Le cheval, qui etait du pays de 
I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de 
fatigue et de faim. duelques paysans le secoururent : 
il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs 
courses centre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses lu- 
mieres lui donna une grande consideration parmi les 
Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour, 
obUgea le Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." — Vol- 
taire, Hist, de Charles XII. p. 196. 

"Le roi fuyant et poursuivi eut son cheval tue sous 
lui; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son sang, 
lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, 
dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y monter pen- 
dant la bataille." — Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XII. 
p. 216. 

"Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques ca- 
valiers. Le carrosse, ou il etait, rompit dans la marche ; 
on le remit ci cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'e- 
gara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son courage ne 
pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces cpuisees,les douleurs 
de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fa- 
tigue, son cheval etant tombe de lassitude, il se coucha 
quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'etre 
surpris a tout moment par les vainqueurs qui le cher- 
chaient de tous cdtes." — Voltaire, Histoire de Charles 
XIL p. 218. 



^T WAS after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughter'd army lay, 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear. 
And a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name ; 



A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 

A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 



Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night through field and flood, 

Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour. 

When truth had naught to dread from power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well sustained, but vain fatigue ; 

And in the depth of forests, darkling 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff"— his limbs were stark — 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid, 
And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall. 
And made, in this extreme of ill. 
His pangs the vassals of his will : 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 



A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thlnn'd it ; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous : upon the clay 
Each sate him do^vn, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed. 
For danger levels man and brute, 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
The Ukraine's hetman, cahn and bold ; 
But first, outspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 



MAZEPPA. 



167 



And made for him a leafy bed, 
And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
But he was hardy as his lord, 
And little cared for bed and board ; 
But spirited and docile too ; 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
All Tartar-lilce he carried him ; 
Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
And knew him in the midst of all : 
Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow Uke a fawn. 



This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
Felt if his arms in order good 
The long day's march had well withstood — 
If still the powder fill'd the pan. 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man. 
From out his havresack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offer'd then 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show. 
And seem above both wounds and wo ; — 
And then he said — " Of all our band. 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa answer'd — "III betide 
The school wherein I learn'd to ride !" 
duoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore so, 
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?" 
Mazeppa said — « 'T were long to tell ; 
And we have many a league to go, 
With every now and then a blow, 
And ten to one at least the foe, 
Before our steeds may graze at ease 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest. 
And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop."—" But I request," 
Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep, 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies." 

" Well, sire, with such a hope, I '11 track 
My seventy years of memory back: 
I think 't was in my twentielh spring, — 
Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
John Casimir, — I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age ; 



A learned monarch, faith ! was he. 
And most unlike your majesty : 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
He reigned in most unseemly quiet; 
Not that he had no cares to vex, 
He loved the muses and the sex; 
And sometimes these so froward are, 
They made him wish himself at war ; 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book : 
And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
To gaze upon his splendid court, 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one. 
Who, being unpensioned, made a satire, 
And boasted that he could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes. 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once produced some verses, 
And sign'd my odes Despairing Thirsis. 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and high descent. 
Rich as a salt or silver nibe ;* 
And he was proud ye may divine, 

As if from heaven he had been sent ; 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look'd hke want of head, 

He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears. 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances. 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'T is said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these who have deserved them most. 



" I was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years I so may say, 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree. 
Could vie in vanities with me; 
For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
A port, not like to this ye see, 
But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 

For time, antl care, and war, have plough'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should bo disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere ago 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years yc know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 



♦ThU compariBon of a '• tnlt mine" mny perhitpi he pcrmittfd to i 
Pole, •! th* we»ilh of the country coutist* gi-vally in the loll mliiei. 



158 



MAZEPPA. 



Or at this hour I should not be 
TeUing old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 
But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
The memory is so quick and warm ; 
And yet I fhid no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well 
She had the Asiatic eye. 

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 

Hath mingled with our PoUsh blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender hght, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
All love, half languor, and half fire'. 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured loolis on high. 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake. 

Transparent with the sun therein. 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 

I loved her then — I love her still 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 

VI. 

*We met — ^we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
There are ten thousand tones and signs 
We hear and see, but none defines — 
Involuntary sparks of thought, 
Which strike from out the heart o'er^vrought, 
And form a strange intelligence, 
Alike mysterious and intense, 
Which Unk the burning chain that binds, 
Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 
Convejdng, as the electric \vire. 
We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 
I saw, and sigh'd — in sOence wept, 
And still reluctant distance kept, 
Until I was made known to her. 
And we might then and there confe 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak; 
But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremulous and weak, 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 
A frivolous and foolish play, 
Wherewith we while away the day ; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chance, which I forget: 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 
It was enough for me to be 
So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 
Until I saw, and thus it was. 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 
Then through my brain the thought did pass 



Even as a flash of hghtning there, 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth, 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was httle worth, 
But yet she listened — 't is enough — 

Who listens once will Usten twice 
Her heart, be sure, is not of ice. 
And one refusal no rebuff. 

VII. 

"I loved, and was beloved again — 

They tell me. Sire, you never knew 

Those gentle frailties ; if 't is true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
But all men are not born to reign, 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather was — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 

Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The lilvo control — But to resume: 

I loved, and )vas beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom, 

But yet where happiest ends in peun. — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour, which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 

No other hke itself — I 'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more — and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword. 
And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of youth and health.— 
We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My hfe but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

Till. 

"For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us ; — the devil 

On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I 'm loath to do him wrong, 

It might be some untoward saint, 
Who would not be at rest too long. 

But to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The Coimt was something more than wroth — 
I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
All cap-a-pie from head to heel. 
What 'gainst their numbers could I do? — 
'T was near his castle, far away 

From city or from succour near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another, 

My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two. 
As I resign'd me to my fate, 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 
Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
An angry man, ye may opine. 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine* 



MAZEPPA. 



159 



And he had reason good to be, 


They bound me to his foaming flank : 


But he was most enraged lest such 


At length I play'd them one as frank — 


An accident should chance to touch 


For time at last sets all things even — 


Upon his future pedigree ; 


And if we do but watch the hour, 


Nor less amazed, that such a blot 


There never yet was human power 


His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 


Which could evade, if unforgiven. 


While he was highest of his line ; 


The patient search and vigil long 


Because unto himself he seem'd 


Of him who treasures up a wrong. 


The first of men, nor less he deem'd 




In others' eyes, and most in mine. 


XI. 


'S death ! with a pa^-e— perchance a king 




Had reconciled him to the thing ; 


" Away, away, my steed and I, 


But with a stripling of a page — 


Upon the pinions of the wind, 


I felt— but cannot paint his rage. 


All human dwellings left behind ; 


We sped like meteors through the sky, 


IX. 


When with its crackling sound the night 


'"Bring forth the horse!'— the horse was brought; 


Is chequer'd with the northern light : 


In truth, he was a noble steed. 


Town — village — none were on our track, 


A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 


But a wild plain of far extent. 


Who look'd as though the speed of thought 


And bounded by a forest black ; 


Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 


And, save the scarce seen battlement 


Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 


On distant heights of some strong hold, 


With spur and bridle undefiled — 


Against the Tartars built of old. 


'T was but a day he had been caught ; 


No trace of man. The year before 


And snorting, with erected mane. 


A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 


And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 


And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 


In the full foam of wrath and dread 


The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 


To me the desert-born was led : 


The sky was dull, and dim, and gray. 


They bound me on, that menial throng, 


And a low breeze crept moaning by— 


Upon his back with many a thong ; 


I could have answer'd with a sigh — 


Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 


But fast we fled, away, away — 


Away ! — away ! — and on we dash !— 


And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 


Torrents less rapid and less rash. 


And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 




Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 


X. 


But, snorting still with rage and fear, 


" Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone- 


He flew upon his far career : 


I safw not where he hurried on : 


At times I almost thought, indeed, 


'T was scarcely yet the break of day, 


He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 


And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 


But no- .ny bound and slender frame 


The last of human sounds which rose. 


Was nothing to his angry might, 


As I was darted from my foes. 


And merely hke a spur became : 


Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 


Each motion which I made to free 


Which on the wind came roaring after 


My swoln hmbs from their agony 


A moment from that rabble rout : 


Increased his fury and affright : 


With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 


I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low,' 


And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 


But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 


Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 


And, starting to each accent, sprang 


And, writhing half my form about. 


As from a sudden trumpet's clang: 


Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 


Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 


The thunder of my courser's speed, 


Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er 


Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 


And in my tongue the thirst became 


It vexes me — for I would fain 


A something fierier far than flame. 


Have paid their insult back again. 




I paid it well in after days : 


XII. 


There is not of that castle gate, 




Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 


" We ncar'd the wild wood — 't was so wide, 


Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 


I saw no bounds on either side ; 


Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 


'T was studded with old sturdy trees. 


Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 


That bent not to the roughest breeze 


Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 


Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 


And many a time ye there might pass, 


And stri[)s the forest in its haste, — 


Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: 


But these were few, and far between. 


I saw its turrets in a blaze, 


Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 


Their crackling battlements all cleft, 


Luxuriant with their annual loaves. 


And the hot load pour down like rain 


Ere strowTi by those autumnal evc3 


From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 


That nip the forest's foliage dead. 


Whoso thickness was not vcngcancc-proof. 


Discolour'd with a lifeless rod, 


They little thought that day of pain, 


Wiiich stands tluTcon like stiffon'd gore 


When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 


Upon tlio slain when battle's o'er. 


They bade me to destruction dash. 


And some long winter's night hath shed 


That one day I should come again, 


Its frost o'or every tonibloss head, 


With twice five thousand horse, to thank 


So coKl and stark the ravin's beak 


The Count for his uncourteous ride. 


May pock un|)iorcod each frozen cheek : 


They play'd mo then a bitter prank, 


'T was a wild waste of undorwood, 


When, with the wild horse for my guide. 


And hero and there a chestnut stood, 



160 



MAZEPPA. 



The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By night I heard them on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hounds deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
Where'er we flew they foUow'd on. 
Nor left us with the mommg sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At day-break winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won ; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favour'd child 
Balk'd of its wash ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 

XIII. 

" The wood was past ; 't was more than noon. 
But chill the air, although in June ; 
Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; 
And I was then not what I seem, 
But headlong as a wintry stream. 
And wore my feelings out before 
I well could count their causes o'er: 
And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
The tortures which beset my path, 
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
And trodden hard upon, is like 
The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 
What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
The earth gave way, the skies roU'd round, 
I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 
And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 
The skies spun like a mighty wheel; 
I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
And a shght flash sprang o'er my eyes, 
Which saw no farther : he who dies 
Can die no more than then I died. 
O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
I felt the blackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 



My undulating life was as 

The fancied hghts that flitting pass 

Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 

Fever begins upon the brain ; 

But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much, 

Dying, to feel the same again ; 

And yet I do suppose we must 

Feel far more ere we turn to dust: 

No matter ; I have bared my brow 

Full in death's face — before — and now. 

XIV. 

' My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 
And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 

Life reassumed its lingering hold, 

And throb by throb : till grown a pang 
Which for a moment would convulse, 
My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill; 

My ear with uncouth noises rang. 
My heart began once more to thrill ; 

My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 

And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 

Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 

There was a gleam too of the sky. 

Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 

The wild horse swims the wilder stream! 

The bright broad river's gushing tide 

Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 

And we are half-way, struggling o'er 

To yon unknown and silent shore. 

The waters broke my hollow trance, 

And with a temporary strength 

My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 

My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 

And dashes off the ascending waves, 

And onward we advance ! 

We reach the slippery shore at length, 
A haven I but httle prized. 

For all behind was dark and drear, 

And all before was night and fear. 

How many hours of night or day 

In those suspended pangs I lay, 

I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 

If this were human breath I drew. 

XT. 

' With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onvi^ard, onward, onward, seems. 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the hght, 
As rose the moon upon my right. 

But naught distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star ; ^ 

Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes : 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then! 
Although detected, welcome still. 
Reminding me, through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 

XVI. 

" Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 
His savage force at length o'erspenL 



MAZEPPA. 



161 



The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me. 
His new-born tameness naught avail'd, 
My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolong'd their pain : 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning gray 
Would never dapple into day; 
How heavily it roll'd away 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars. 
And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
And fiU'd the earth, from his deep throne. 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 



" Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around — behind — before ; 
What booted it to traverse o'er 
Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute. 
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
The very air was mute; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn. 
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a worst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst, 
The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh. 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide ? 
A thousand liorse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying inane, 
Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
And feet that iron never shod. 
And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 

Came thickly thundering on. 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh. 

He answcr'd, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And recking limbs immoveable. 
His first and last career is done ! 
On came the trooji — liiey saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong 



They stop — they start — they snufF the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there. 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed. 
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed; 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 
And backward to the forest fly. 
By instinct, from a human eye.— 

They left me there, to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose hfeless hmbs beneath me stretch, 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay 

The dying on the dead ! 
I little deem'd another day 

"V»''ould see my houseless, helpless head. 

" And there from morn till twilight bound, 
I felt the heavy hours toil round, 
Wth just enough of hfe to see 
My last of suns go down on me. 
In hopeless certainty of mind. 
That makes us feel at length resign'd 
To that which our foreboding years 
Presents the worst and last of fears 
Inevitable — even a boon, 
Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 
As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 
At times both wish'd for and implored. 
At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery: 
For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nauglit to hope, and naught to leave ; 
And, save the future, (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good. 
But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With naught perhaps to grieve: — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, 
Arrived to rob him of iiis prize. 
The tree of his now Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all, 
Repaid his pangs, rcpair'd his fall ; 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or curst. 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling tiirough the mist of tears. 
Guerdon of many a painful hour; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave? 



'Tho sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chaui'd to the chill and slilloning steed, 
I thought to mingle there our day ; 
And my ilim eyes of death had need, 
No hope arose of being freed ; 



162 



MAZEPPA. 



I cast my last looks up the sky, 


She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 


And there between me and the sun 


But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 


I saw the expecting raven fly, 


With lip and finger signs that said, 


Who scarce would wait till both should die, 


I must not strive as yet to break 


Ere his repast begun : 


The silence, till my strength should be 


He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 


Enough to leave my accents free ; 


And each time nearer than before ; 


And then her hand on mine she laid, 


I saw his wing through twilight flit, 


And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 


And once so near me he alit 


And stole along on tiptoe tread. 


I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 


And gently oped the door, and spake 


But the slight motion of my hand, 


In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 


And feeble scratcliing of the sand. 


Even music follow'd her fight feet ; — 


The exerted throat's faint struggling noise. 


But those she call'd were not awake, 


Which scarcely could be called a voice. 


And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 


Together scared him off at length. — 


Another look on me she cast, ^^^ 


I know no more — my latest dream 


Another sign she made, to say, ^^^H 


Is something of a lovely star 


That I had naught to fear, that aU ^^H 


Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 


Were near, at my command or call, M 


And went and came with wandering beam, 


And she would not delay ■ 


And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 


Her due return: — while she was gone, ■ 


Sensation of recurring sense. 


Methought I felt too much alone. 9 


And then subsiding back to death. 


XX. 1 


And then again a little breath, 


^' She came with mother and with sire — fl 


A little thrill, a short suspense, 


What need of more ?— I will not tire ■ 


An icy sickness curdling o'er 


With long recital of the rest, f 


My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 


Since I became the Cossack's guest : "f 


A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 


They found me senseless on the plain — 


A sigh, and nothing more. 


They bore me to the nearest hut — 


XIX. 


They brought me into life again — 


" I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 


Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 


A human face look down on me ? 


Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 


And doth a roof above me close ? 


His rage, refining on my pain, 


Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 


Sent me forth to the wilderness, 


Is this a chamber where I lie ? 


Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 


And is it mortal yon bright eye. 


To pass the desert to a throne,— 


That watches me with gentle glance? 


What mortal his ovra doom may guess ?— 


I closed my own again once more, 


Let none despond, let none despair ! 


As doubtful that the former trance 


To-morrow the Borysthenes 


Could not as yet be o'er. 


May see our coursers graze at ease 


A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 


Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 


Sate watcliing by the cottage wall ; 


Had I such welcome for a river 


The sparkle of her eye I caught. 


As I shall yield when safely there. 


Even with my first return of thought 


Comrades, good night '."—The Hetman threw 


For ever and anon she threw 


His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 


A prying, pitying glance on me 


With leafy couch ah-eady made. 


With her black eyes so wild and free: 


A bed nor comfortless nor new 


I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 


To him, who took his rest whene'er 


No vision it could be, — 


The hour arrived, no matter where : 


But that I lived, and was released 


His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 


From adding to the vulture's feast: 


And if ye marvel Charles forgot 


And when the Cossack maid beheld 


To thank his tale, ke wondered not, — 


My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 


The king had been an hour asleep. 



MANFRED, 

A DRAMATIC POEM. 



" There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 
Abbot of St. Maurice. 
Manuel. 
Herman. 



Witch of the Alps. 
Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, &c. 



Tfte Scene of the Drama is among the Higher Alps — 
partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 
Mountains. 



ACT I. 

Scene I.— Manfred alone— Scene, a Gothic Gallery- 
Time, Midnight. 
Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most, 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself— 
But they avail not : I have done men good. 
And I have met with good even among men — 
But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
But this avail'd not: — Good, or evil, life. 
Powers, passions, all I sec in other beings, 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes. 
Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops • 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 
Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear ! 

[A pause. 
1 hey come not yet.— Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble— by the claims of him 
Who IS undying,— Riae ! appear ! Appear ! 

[A pause. 



If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell. 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demoUsh'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery ; it is 
and a voice is heard singing. 



First Spirit. 
Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd. 
From my mansion in the cloud. 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bow'd. 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd. 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains: 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced. 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass. 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavem'd base — 

And what with me wouldst Tfum ? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave lialh no strife. 
Where the wind is a strangor, 

And the sea-snake hath life. 
Where the mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Canio the sound of thy spells ; 
O'er my calni Hall of Coral 

The deep »^cho roU'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfohl! 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher ; 



164 



MANFRED. 



Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth; 
I have quitted my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide 1 

Fifth Spirit. 
I am the Rider of the wind. 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'T will sink ere night be past. 

Sixth Spirit. 
My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light ? 

Seventh Spirit. 
The star which rules thy destiny 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me ; 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air , 
Its course was free and regular. 
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse, 
The menace of the universe ; 
Still rolling on with innate force, 
Without a sphere, without a course ! 
A bright deformity on high, 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence bom — 
Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
Forced by a power, (which is not thine 
And lent thee bui, to make thee mine,) 
For this brief moment to descend. 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
And parley with a thing like thee — 
What wouldst thou, Onld of Clay ! with me ? 

The Seven Spirits. 
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star. 

Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay ! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say ? 

Man. Forgetfulness 

First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 

Man. Of that which is within me ; read it there — 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, m our skill ; 
But — thou mayst die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
We are eternal; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought 
ye here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 



The mind, the Spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The hghtning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own. 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd m clay I 
Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

Man. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath naught to do with us. 

Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 
What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ers thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days 

Man. Accursed ! v.'hat have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already. — Hence — ^begone ! 

Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our wiU would do thee 
service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we part— 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, m your accustom'd forms. 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come I 

Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape of a beautiful 
female figure.) Behold I 

Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
Art not a madness and a mockery, 
I yet might be most happy. I -mW clasp thee, 

And we again will be [The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless, 

(A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) 
When the moon is on the wave. 

And the glow-worm in the grass. 
And the meteor on the grave, 

And the wisp on the morass ; 
When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
And the silent leaves are still 
In the shadow of the hill, 
Shall my soul be upon thine, 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, i' 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone ; ! 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; ■: 

And for ever shalt thou dwell t 

In the spirit of tliis spell. f 

Though thou seest me not pass by, * 

Thou shalt feel me with thine eye j 

As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 



MANFRED. 



165 



Thou shall marvel I am not 

As thy shadow on the spot, 

And the power which thou dost feel 

Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 
Hath baptized thee with a curse 
And a spirit of the air _^ 
Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
In the vdnd there is a voice 
Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
And to thee shall Night deny 
All the quiet of her sky ; 
And the day shall have a sun, 
Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill ; 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring ; 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. 

By that most seeming virtuous eye. 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 

By thy delight in other's pain. 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die. 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee. 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 

Scene II. — The Mountain of the Jungfrmi. — Time, 
Morning. — Manfred done upon the Clrffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studi'ed balllc me — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured mc ; 
I lean no more on super-human aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulfd in darkness, 
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth! 
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, yo Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe. 
That opcnest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose exlreine edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever^whcrefore do I pause ? 
I feel ihe impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon mo which withholds. 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear within myself 



This barrenness of spirit, and to be 

My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 

To justify my deeds unto myself— 

The last infinnity of evil. Ay, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces do^vnward, onward, or above. 
With a pervading \-ision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world! 
How glorious in its action and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mlx'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride, 
Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the libera) air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from below a CuAMOis Hunter. 

Cliamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my breakneck travail. — What is here? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance — 
I will approach him nearer. 

Man. {not perceiving the other.) To be tlius — 
Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barklcss, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay— 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With v/rinkles, plough 'd by moments, not by years 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive ! — ye toppling crags of ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'crwhclming, come and crush me ! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath. 
Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass. 
And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley; 
I '11 warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
liike foam from the roiiscd ocean of deep Hell, 
^Vhoso every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Ileap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 

C. Hun. I musl ajiproach hiuj cautiously; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and ho 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. Mountains have fallen, 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 



166 



MANFRED. 



Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 

Man. {not hearing him.) Such would have been for 
me a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall be — 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not nieant for me — Earth! take these atoms! 
[As Manfred is in act to spring from the diff", 
the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains 
him with a sudden grasp. 

C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy life. 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art 

thou? 

C. Hun. I '11 answer that anon. — Away with me 

The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me — 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be ^ined within an hour — 
Come on, we '11 quickly find a surer footing. 
And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty^ the scene closes. 



ACT H. 
Scene I. — A Cottage among the Bernese Alps. 

Manfred and the Chamois Hunter, 
C. Hun. No, no — ^yet pause — thou must not yet go 
forth: 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide- 
But whither ? 

Man. It imports not: I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance. 
C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls. 
Carousing with the vassals; but the paths. 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood— which of these is thine ? 
Man. No matter. 

C Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question. 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; 
'T is of an ancient vintage : many a day 
'T has thawed my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away ! there 's blood upon the brim ! 
Will it then never — never smk in the earth ? 

C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander 

from thee. 
Man. I say 't is blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
(Stream 



Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed : but still it nses up. 
Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven. 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-mad- 
dening sin. 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there 's comfort yet — 

The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

Man. Patience and patience! Hence — that word 
was made 
For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven I 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 
Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I five. 
C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful Ufe. 
Blan. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 

C Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 

Man. Thmk'st thou existence doth depend on time ? 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert. 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks. 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he 's mad — but yet I must not leave 

him. 
Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Man. Myselfj and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
With cross and garland over its green turf. 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was scorch 'd already! 

C. Hun. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot 

for mine ? 
Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee nor 
exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream, 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain. 
Canst thou be black with evil? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 

My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest! 

And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 



MANFRED. 



167 



Man. I need them not, 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'T is time — farewell ! — Here 's gold and thanks for thee— 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril's past: 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

[Exit Manfred. 
Scene II. — A lower Valley in the Alps. A Cataract. 

Enter Manfred. 
It is not noon — the sunbow's rays^ still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And flmg its lines of foaming light along, 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of the water into the palm 
of his hand, and flings it in the air, muttering 
the adjuration. After a pause, tlie "Witch, of 
THE Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbeam 
of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit ! vdth thy hair of light, 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
Upon the lofty glazier's virgin snow. 
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, — 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
Which of itself shows immortaUty, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
At times to conmiune with them — if that he 
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus. 
And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what would'st thou with me ? 

Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Teike refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain. 

Witch. I Imow not that ; let thy lips utter it. 

Man. Well, though it torture me, 't is but the same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
Made mc a stranger ; though I wore the form. 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
Nor midst tho creatures of clay that girded mo 



Was there but one who but of her anon. 

I said wdth men, and with the thoughts of men, 

I held but slight communion ; but instead. 

My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 

The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 

Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 

Into the torrent, and to roll along 

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 

Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 

In these my early strength exulted ; or 

To follow through the night the moving moon, 

The stars and their development ; or catch 

The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dun ; 

Or to look, hst'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, 

While Autumn wmds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone; 

For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 

Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path. 

I felt myself degraded back to them, 

And was all clay again. And then I dived. 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust, 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught. 

Save hi the old time ; and with time and toil. 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air. 

And spirits that do compass air and earth. 

Space, and the people infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros,^ at Gadara, • 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my wocds^ 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
If I had such, they seem'd not sucb to me — 
Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed - 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty ; 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings. 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe: nor tliese 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own— 
I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 

Witch. With thy hand? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her 
hewt — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed— 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for this— 

A being of tho race thou dost despise, 
Tho order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
Tho gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
To recreant mortality Away I 

Man. Daughter of Air! 1 tell thco, since Uiat houir— 
But words are breath — look on mo in my sleep 



168 



MANFRED. 



Or watch my watchmgs — Come and sit by me ! 

My solitude is solitude no more, 

But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 

My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 

Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 

For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 

I have affronted death — but in the war 

Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 

And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 

Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 

Back by a single hair, which would not break. 

In phantasy, imagination, all 

The affluence of my soul — which one day was 

A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 

But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 

Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 

I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 

I sought in all, save where 't is to be found, 

And that I have to learn — my sciences, 

My long pursued and super-human art, 

Is mortal here— I dwell in my despair — 

And live — and hve for ever. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it niay help thee to thy wishes. 

Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom ? the spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

Witch. Is this all ? 

Hast thou no gentler answer? — ^Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 

Man. Retire ! 

[The Witch disappears. 

Man. (alone.) We are the fools of time and terror : 
Days 
Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain. 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be ; 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew. 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfilled.' 
If 1 had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been hving ; had I never loved. 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 



A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart, 
But I can act even what I most abhor, 
And champion human fears. — The night approaches. 

[Exit. 

Scene III. — TTie Summit of the Jungfrau Mounto 
Enter First Destiny. 
The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; 
And here on snow^ where never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea. 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam. 
Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image ; 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 
The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by- 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — 'tis strange ihey come not. 

A Voice without, singing. 
The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne. 
Lay buried in torpor, 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He 's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he '11 answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me ! 

First Destiny, answering. 
The city Ues sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it. 
May dawn on it weeping: 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish. 
And evil and dread. 

Envelope a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I 've done, and shall still be renewing ! 

Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 

The Three. H 

Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves; 
We only give to take again <f 

The spirits of our slaves \ 



MANFRED. 



169 



First Des. Welcome I — Where 's Nemesis ? 

Second Des. At some great work ; 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 

Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

JEnter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

JVem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date. 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves. 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have outstayed the hour — mount we our clouds I 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his 
JTirone, a Glci>e of Fire, surrounded by the Spiiits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 
Hail to our Master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazelh — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanos rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 

JVem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine, 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours. 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care. 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfiU'd to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 
A Spirit. What is here? 

A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magian of great power and fearful skill ! ; 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave ! — 
What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey ! 
All tlie Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy con- 
demned clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst, 

Man. I know it ; 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'T will be taught thee, 

Man. 'Tis taught already; — many a night on the 
earth, 
On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face. 
And strow'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
W 



The fulness of humiliation, for 

I sunk before my vain despair and knelt 

To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory — Crouch ! I say. 

Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let him kneel. 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits. Crush the worm 

Tear him in pieces ! — 

First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge and his powers and will, 
As far as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 
And they have only taught him what we know — 
That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt. 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not. 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 

JVem. What doth he here then? 

First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known; and without 
power 
I could not be among ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 

Nem. What would'st thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

JVem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 

Ari. Yea. 

iVen2. Whom would'st thou 

Uncharnel ? 

Man. One without a tomb— call up 
Astarte. 

Nemesis. 
Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art. 

Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 

Of the form of thy birth. 

Of the mould of tliy clay. 
Which return'd to the earth, 

Reappear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the as^poct thou worest 
Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — Appear I — Appear ! 
Who senJ thee there requires thee here ! 

[The Phantom 0/ Astarte rises and tlatuU 
in the midst. 
Mam. Can this be death ? there 's bloom upon her 
cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue. 
But a strange hectic — like Uie unnatural red 



170 



MANFRED. 



Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall'd thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

Man. She is silent. 

And m that silence I am more than answer'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of air ! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! 

Nem. Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrinlc from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest, 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs. 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name. 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wort silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 

Man. Say on, say on — 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farewell! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred! 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 

Nem. She 's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 

Her words will be fulfiU'd. Return to the earth. 

A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal. 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself] and 
makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 



Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

Nem. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 

Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ?— 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well! 

[Exit Manfred. 
(Scene closes.) 



ACT HI. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 



• 



i 



Man. AVhat is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready ; 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. [£xit Herman. 

Man. ((done.) There is a calm upon me — 

InexpUcable stillness ! wliich tiU now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motUest, 
The merest Word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon" found> 
And seated in my soul. It will not last. 
But it is w ell to have known it, though but once : 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so. Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. What would my reverend 
guest? 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age and zeal, my 
office. 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

3Ian. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'T is said thou boldest converse with the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death. 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy sohtude * 

Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

3Ian. And what are they who do avouch these things ? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 



II 



MANFRED. 



171 



Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to heaven — "Vengeance is mine alone" 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 
The innate tortures of that deep despair. 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned: 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 

Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near his last, 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late— is this fidelity ?" 

Abbot. And what of this ? " 

Man. I answer with the Roman — 

«It is too late!" 

Abbot. It never can be so, 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
'T is strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth. 
To which frail twig they cling Hke drowning men. 

Man. Ay — father! I have had those earthly visions 
And noble aspirations in my youth. 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The cnlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might bo to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
(Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,) 
Lies low but mighty still. But this is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 



Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could net tame my nature down ; for he 
Must serve who fain would sway — and sooth — and 

sue — 
And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing among the mean, and such 
The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not hve and act with other men? 

Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind. 
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought. 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man. Look on me! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age. 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness- 
Some of disease — and some insanity — 
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts ; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

[Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature : he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
IVlix'd, and contending without end or order, 
Ail dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I '11 follow him — but cautiously, though surely 

[Exit Abbot. 

Scene II. — Another Chamber. 
Manfred and Herman. 
Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset: 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth ho so? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred aitvances to the Window of the HaB. 
Glorious Orb! the idol 
Of cariy nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undisoased niaiikind, the gituit sons * 
Of the embrace of angfls, with a sex 



172 



MANFRED. 



More beautiful than they, which did draw down 

The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 

Most glorious orb ! that wert a worsliip, ere 

The mystery of thy makmg was reveal'd ! 

Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 

Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 

Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 

Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 

And representative of the Unknown — 

Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star! 

Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 

Endurable, and temperest the hues 

And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 

Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 

And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 

Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 

Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 

And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 

I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 

Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 

My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 

To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 

Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 

I follow. [Emt Manfred. 

Scene ILL— The Mmmtains—The Castle of Manfred 
at some distance — A Terrace before a Tower. — Time, 
Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of Manfred. 

Her. 'T is strange enough ; night after night, for years. 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been ofttimes ; but from it. 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter: I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years. 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'T were dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel I thou art elderly and wise. 
And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the 

castle — 
How many years is 't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in hke predicament. 
But wherein do they diiJer ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits: 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

Her. C ome, be friendly ; 

Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Wliich happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 



So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings*— her, whom of all earthly things 
That hved, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 

The lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here 
Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master ? 

Her. Yonder in the tower- 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'T is impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manual. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. [Exeuivi 

Scene IV. — Interior of the Tower. 
Manfred alone. 

Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I hnger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learn'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth. 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall. 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle \vind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bowshot — Where the Caesars dwelt, 
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 
And twines its roots willi the imperial hearths, 
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
While Caesars' chambers and the Augustan halls, 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 
As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries , 
Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
And making that which was not, till the place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 



MANFRED. 



173 



With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
Our spirits from their urns. — 

'T was such a night ! 
'T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord I 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch ihat^ with words or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not ; 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

Man. Not 1 : 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou mean? 

Man. Look there ! 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there, I say, 

And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest ? 

Abbot. That which should shake me, — but I fear it 
not — 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise 
Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds ; he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — 
but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend — 
What doth he here ? 

Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 

I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like these 
Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake ; 
Why doth he gaze on tliee, and thou on him ? 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
Avaunt ! 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer! — 
speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come! 'tis time. 

Man. I am prepared for all tilings, but deny 
The jjower which summons me. Who sent thee here? 

Spirit. Thou 'It know anon — Come! come! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than diine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence! 

Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come — Away! I say. 

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I 'II die as 1 have lived— alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise I 
[Other spirits rise up. 



Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt ! I say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. 
It were in vain ; this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 

Man. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by Umb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched! 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour 5 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew. 
But by superior science — penance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side. 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine; 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No colour from the fleeting things witliout; 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempi 

me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey- 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereaft;er. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

\The JDemons disappear. 

Abbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to heaven- 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

Man. 'T is over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
Give mo thy hand. 

Alihot. Cold — colli — even to the heart — 

But yet one prayer — alas ! how faros it with thoo ? — 

Man. Old man I 'tis not so iliflicult to die. 

[Manfred expires. 

Abbot. He 's gone — his soul hath ta'en its eorthlesa 
flight- 
Whither? I dread to think — but ho is gone. 



NOTES TO MANFRED. 



Note 1, page 167, lines 7 and 8. 
the sunbow's rays still arch 



The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 
lower part of the Alpine torrents: it is exactly hke a 
rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close that 
you may walk into it: — this effect lasts till noon. 
Note 2, page 167, lines 103 and 104. 
He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 
Eros and Anteros^ at Gadara. 
The philosopher lamblicus. The story of the raising 
of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life by Euna- 
pius. It is well told. 

Note 3, page 168, hnes 67 and 68. 

she replied 

In words of dubious import, but fulfiWd. 
The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who com- 



manded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and after- 
wards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacede- 
monians,) and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life ©F 
Cimon ; and in the Laconics of Pausanias the So- 
phist, in his description of Greece. 

Note 4, page 171, lines 142 and 143. 

the giant sons ■ 

Of the embrace of angels. 
" That the Sons of God saw the daughters of med 
that they were fair," &c. 

"There were giants in the earth in those days ; and 
also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the 
daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the 
same became mighty men which were of old, men of 
renown." Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The subsequent poems were written at the request of 

my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of 

Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the 

music, arranged, by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
And all that 's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
2. 
One shade the more, one ray the less. 

Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress. 

Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
3. 
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept. 
The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 

Which music hallow'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! 



It soften'd men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold. 
That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne! 



It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the montains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode I 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, 

In dreams that day's broad Ught can not remove. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 
1. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond. 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find all fears 

Lost ill ihy light — Eternity ! 



It must be so : 't is not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf. 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares^ 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs! 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



175 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 
1. 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 

May glance in tameless transport by : — 
2. 
A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone . 

3. 
More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace: 
It cannot quit its place of birth. 
It will not live in other earth. 

4. 
But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 
1. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 

Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 

Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 

.Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the Godless dwell ! 

2. 
' And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 

And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 

And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
I The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 

3. 
' Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 

How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 

The wdld-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 

Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 

ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 
1. 

On Jordan s banks the Arabs' camels stray. 
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray. 
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

' Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy thunders sleep : 
2. 

' There — where thy finger scorched the tablet stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 

' Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself— none living see and not expire ! 

3. 
Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! 
Sweep from his shivcr'd hand the oppressor's spear : 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worshiplcss, Oh God ! 



Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now! 



And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low. 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

3. 

And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure— 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
And the last thought that soothes me below. 

4. 
Though the virgins of Salem lament. 
Be the judge and the hero unbent I 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my Father and Country are free ! 

5. 
When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd. 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride. 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

1. 

Since our Country, our God — Oli, my Sire ! 
Demand that thy Daughter expire \ 



OH!' 



SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'! 
BLOOM. 



Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 

But on thy turf shall roses rear 

Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

2. 
And oft by yon blue gushing stream 

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 
And feed deep thought with many a dream, 

And lingering pause and Hghtly tread ; 

Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 
3. 
Away ! we know that tears are vain. 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
Will this unteach us to complain ? 

Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
And thou — who tcll'st me to forget. 
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 
1. 

My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear. 

That sound shall charm it forth again 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. 
2. 
But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy hoart will burst; 
For it hath bo(>n by sorrow nurst, 

And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 
1. 
I saw (hoo woop — the big bright tear 
Camo o'er that oyo of blue ; 



176 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the hving rays 

That fiU'd that glance of thme. 
2. 
As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow die, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
1. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

2. 
Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 

Thou shalt not taste of death I 
The generous blood that flow'd from thee 

Disdain'd to sink beneath : 
Within our veins its currents be, 

Thy spirit on our breath I 
3. 
Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong ! 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 

BATTLE. 

1. 

Warriors and Chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

2. 
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe. 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

3. 
Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 



SAUL. 



Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer !'^ 
Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, 
Like cavem'd winds, the hollow accents came. 



Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 



' Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, O king? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low. 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 



'ALL IS VANITY, SAITHTHE PREACHER^ 
1. 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 
And health and youth possess'd me ; 

My goblets blush'd from every vine, 
And lovely forms caress'd me ; 

I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendour. 

2. 
I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 

There rose no day, there roU'd no hour 

Of pleasure unimbitcer'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 
3. 
The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming ; 
But that which coils around the heart, 

Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore, 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFEI 
ING CLAY. 

1. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay. 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

2. 
Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing aU, 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years. 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



177 



Before Creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

FLx'd in its own eternity. 
4. 
Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; 
A nameless and eternal thing. 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZ^AR. 
I. 

The King was on his throne, 

The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deem'd divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine ! 

2. 
In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall. 

And wrote as if on sand ; 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran. 

And traced them like a wand. 



The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice; 
All bloodless wax'd his look. 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear. 

Which mar our royal mirth." 
4. 
Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

6. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth. 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that niglit, — 

The morrow proved it true. 
6. 
" Belshazzar's grave is made. 

His kingdom pass'd away. 
He, in the balance wcigh'd, 

Is UglU and worlliless clay. 

X 



The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone ; . 
The Mede is at his gate 1 
The Persian on his throne . 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 
Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far. 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays ; 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold. 
Distinct, but distant — clear — ^but, oh how cold ! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

1 
Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 
I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 
It was but abjuring my creed to efface 
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 

2. 
If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

3. 
I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
1. 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding 
Revenge is lost in agony. 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
Ah, couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now. 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 
2. 
And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my phrensy's jealous raving? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair: 

The sword that smote her's o'er me waving. — 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above. 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 
3. 
She 's gone, wlio shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
And mine's the guilt and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well, 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OP 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
I beheld thee. Oh Sion ! when rciuirrVl to Homo : 
'T was the last sun wont down, and llu; tlainos of thy fall 
Flaah'd back on tJio last glance I gave to Uiy wall. 



178 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 

And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 

I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 

And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 

3. 
On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decUne 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine, 

4. 
And now on that mountain I stood on that day. 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead. 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 

5. 

Bat the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT. 



We sat down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
Made Salem's high places his prey ; 

And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

2. 
While sadly we gazed on the river 

Which roU'd on in freedom belpw, 
They demanded the song ; but, oh never 

That triumph the stranger shall know ! 
May this right hand be wither'd for ever. 

Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

3. 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

L 
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

2. 
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strovm. 

3. 
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! 

4. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beatbg surf. 

5. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances imlifted, the trumpet unblo\vn. 

6. 
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the swortf, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



W 



FROM JOB. 

A spirit pass'd before me : I beheld 
The face of Immortality unveil'd — 
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — * 
And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
And as my damp hair stiifen'd, thus it spake : 
2. 
«Is man more just than God? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and bUnd to Wisdom's wasted light '.* 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



" Expende Annibalem :— quot libras In (luce summo. 
luveniea ?— — — " 

Juvenal, Sat. X. 



" The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Se- 
Tiate, by the Itcdians, and by the Provincials of Gatd ; 
his moral virtues, and miUtary talents, were loudly cele- 
brated ; and those who derived any private benefit from 
his government announced in prophetic strains the re- 
storation of public felicity. 

*»****♦ + 

+ + ♦* + ** + 

By this shameful abdication he protracted his life a few 

years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor 

and an exile, till " 

GibborCs Decline and Fall, vol. vi, p. 220. 



'T IS done — but yesterday a King ! 

And arm'd vvdth Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? > 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

2. 
Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 179 


By gazing on thyself grown blind, 


All Evil Spirit as thou art, 


Thou taught'st the rest to see. 


It is enough to grieve tMe heart, 


With might unquestion'd,— power to save 


To see thine own unstrung ; 


Thine only gift hath been the grave 


To think that God's fair world hath been 


To those that worshipp'd thee ; 


The footstool of a thing so mean ; 


Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 


10. 


Ambition's less than littleness ! 


And Earth halh spilt her blood for him. 


3. 

Thanks for that lesson— it will teach 


Who thus can-hoard his own I 


And Monarclis bow'd the trembling limb. 
And thank'd him for a throne ! 


To after- warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spall upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 


Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest gvrise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind! 

11. 
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 

Nor written thus in vain — 


Those Pagod things of sabre-sway. 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 


4. 


Thy triumphs tell of fame no more. 


The triumph, and the vanity. 


Or deepen every stain — 


The rapture of the strife — ' 


If thou hadst died as honour dies, 


The earthquake voice of "Victory, 


Some new Napoleon might arise. 


To thee the breath of life ; 


To shame the world again — 


The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 


But who would soar the solar height, 


Which man seem'd made but to obey, 


To set in such a starless night ? 


Wherewith renown was rife — 


12. 


All quell'd ! — Dark Spirit ! what must be 


Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 


The madness of thy memory ! 


Is vile as vulgar clay ; 


5. 


Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 


The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own ! 


To all that pass away ; 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay ; 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 


Is it some yet imperial hope 

That with such change can calmly cope ? 


Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 
13. 


Or dread of death alone ? 


And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 


To die a prince— or live a slave— 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 


Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour ? 


6. 


Still clings she to thy side ? 


He' who of old would rend the oak. 


Must she too bend, must she too share 


Dream'd not of the rebound ; 


Thy late repentance, long despair. 


Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke — 


Thou throneless Homicide? 


Alone — how look'd he round ? 


If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 


Thou in the sternness of thy strength 


'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 


An equal deed has done at length, 


14. 


And darker fate has found : 


Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 


He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; 


And gaze upon the sea; 


But thou must cat thy heart away ! 


That element may meet thy smile, 


7. 


It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 


Or trace with thine all idle hand 


The Roman,' when his burning heart 


In loitering mood upon the sand 
That earth is now as free I 


Was slaked with blood of Rome, 


Threw down the dagger— dared depart, 


That Corinth's pctlagogiie hath now 


In savage grandeur, home. — 


Transforr'd his by-word to thy brow. 
15. 


He dared depart in utter scorn 


Of men that such a yoke had borne, 


Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage » 
What thoughts will tli(>ro bo thine, 

While brooding in thy prison'il rage? 
But one — " Tlio world »«w mine !" 


Yet left him such a doom ! 


His only glory was that hour 


Of self-upheld abandon'd oower. 


8. 


Unless, like he of Babylon, 


The Spaniard, * when the lust of sway 


All sense is with thy scoptro gone. 


Had lost its quickening spell. 


Life will not long conline 


Cast crowns for rosaries away, 


That s|)irit pour'd so witioly forth — 


An empire for a cell ; 


So long obey'd — so little worth ! 


A strict accountant of his beads, 


16. 


A subtle disputant on creeds. 


Or like the thief of firo from heaven,* 


His dotage trifled well : 


Wilt thou withstand the shock? 


Yet better had he neither known 


And share with him, the unforgiven, 


A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throno. 


His vulture and his rock! 


9. 


Forcdooni'il by Ciod — by man accurst, 


But thou — from thy reluctant hand 


And that last act, though not thy worst, 


The thunderbolt is wrung — 


The very Fiend's areh mock ; ' 


Too late thou leav'st the high command 


He in his fall i)rosorved his priih', 


To which thy weakness clung ; 


And, if ft mortal, luul as proudly died ! / 



NOTES TO THE ODE. 



Note 1, page 179, line 18. 
The rapture of the strife. 
Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his 
harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Cha- 
lons, given in Cassiodorus. 

Note 2, page 179, line 35. 
He who of old would rend the oak. 



Milo. 



Sylla 



Note 3, page 179, line 44. 
The Romany when his burning heart. 



Note 4, page 179, line 53. 
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway. 
Charles V. 



Note 5, page 179, line 116. 

Thou Timour ! in his captivis cage. 

The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 

Note 6, page 179, line 125. 

Or like the thief of fire from heaven. 

Prometheus. 

Note 7, page 179, line 131. . 
The very fiend!s arch mock. 

" The fiend's arch mock — 
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." — 

Shakspeare. 



MONODY 



DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 



SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 



When the last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 

With a pure feeling which absdrbs and awes 

While Nature makes that melancholy pause. 

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 

Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime. 

Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep. 

The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, 

A holy concord — and a bright regret, 

A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 

'T is not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer wo, 

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 

Felt without bitterness — ^but full and clear, 

A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 

Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 

Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 

When Summer's day declines along the hills, 

So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 

When all of Genius which can perish dies. 

A mighty Spirit is eclips'd — a Power 

Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 

Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 

Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 

The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 

The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 

Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 

The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 

Fruits of a genial mom, and glorious noon, 

A deathless part of him who died too soon. 

But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 

These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 

Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all. 

To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 

From the charm'd council to the festive board. 

Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, [pride. 

The praised — the proud — who made his praise their 



When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan* 

Arose to heaven in her appeal from man, 

His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 

The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 

Which shook the nations through his hps — and blazed 

Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm 

The gay creations of his spirit charm. 

The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit. 

Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 

The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 

Home to our hearts the truth from vvhich they spring ; 

These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 

To fulness by the fiat of his thought. 

Here in their first abode you still may meet, 

Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; 

A halo of the light of other days. 

Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own, 
Still let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; 
Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy. 
The foe— the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
The envious who but breathe in others' pain, 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
Who track tlie steps of Glory to the grave. 



* See Fox, Burke, and Pill's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on th« 
charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. 
Pitt entreated the House to adiourn, to give time for a calmer consida. 
ration of the question than could then occur after the immediate e&ct 
of that oration. 



LAMENT OF TASSO. 



ISl 



I Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
i Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 
i Distort the truth, accumulate the he, 
: And pile the Pyramid of Calumny! 
: These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
; Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
; If the high Spirit must forget to soar, 
{ And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
I To sooth Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid Rage — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, 
[ The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness, — 
I If such may be the Ills which men assail, 
I What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
: Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
I Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, 
[ Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
i By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
j Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst [burst. 
j Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch — and 
But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be — if such have ever been 5 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask. 



To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three .'* 
Whose words were sparks of Immortahty ! 
Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
He was your Master — emulate him here ! 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
While Powers of mind, almost of boundless range, 
Complete in kind — as various in their change. 
While Eloquence— Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 
That humble Harmonist of care on Earth, 
Survive within our souls — while hves our sense 
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence. 
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 



Fox— Pitt— Burke. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



At Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original 
MSS.of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor 
Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto ; 
and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house of the 
latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for pos- 
terity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell 
where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St, Anna at- 
tracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the 
monument of Ariosto— at least it had this effect on me. 
There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
eecond over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the 
wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is 
much decayed, and depopulated ; the castle still exists en- 
tire ; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were 
beheaded, according to the armal of Gibbon. 



Long years! — It tries the thrilhng frame to bear 
And eagle- spirit of a Child of Song — 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
Imputed madness, prison'd sohtude. 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood. 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 
Stands scoffing through the never-opcn'd gate. 
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day 
And tasteless food, which I have cat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
And I can banquet like a beast of prey. 
Sullen and lonely, couciiing in the cave 
Whicli is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
All this hath somewhat worn mc, and may wear, 
But must be borne. 1 stoop not to despair; 
For I have battled with mine agony. 
And made mc wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from tlirall ; 



And revell'd among men and thmgs divine. 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honour of the sacred war for him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven. 

For he hath strength en'd me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I have employed my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 



But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done : — 

My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears. 

Know, that my sorrows have ^vrung from me none. 

But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 

Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 

And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight. 

Thou too art gone — and so is my deUght: 

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 

With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 

Thou too art ended — what is left me now 1 

For I iiave anguish yet to bear — and how ? 

I know not that— but in the innate force 

Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 

I have not simk, for I had no remorse. 

Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why ? 

Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 

I was indeed delirious in my heart 

To lift my love so lof\y as tliou art ; 

But still my phrensy was not of the mind ; 

I knew my fault, and feel my pimishment 

Not less because I suffer it unbent. 

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 

But let them go, or torture as tlioy will, 

My heart can multiply thine imago still ; 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretclied are tlie faithful ; 't is their fate 

To have all feeling save the one decay 

And every passion into one dilate. 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 

But ourt: is fathomless, and hatli no shore. 



182 



LAMENT OP TASSO. 



Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies iji captivity. 

And haxk ! the lash and the increasing howl, 

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 

There be some here with worse than phrensy foul, 

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind, 

And dim the little Ught that 's left behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrants will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd 

'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 

So let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 

I ^ad forgotten half I would forget, 

But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 

In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 

Where laughter is not mirth^ nor thought the mind, . 

Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 

Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 

And each is tortured in his separate hell — 

For we are crowded in our solitudes — 

Many, but each divided by the wall, 

Which echoes Madness in her bablsling moods ; — 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call — 

None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 

Who was not made to be the mate of these, 

Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 

Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? 

Who have debased me in the minds of men. 

Debarring me the usage of my own, 

Blighting my life in best of its career. 

Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear ? 

Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 

And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan ? 

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress. 

Which undermines our Stoical success ? 

No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 

Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 

I weed all bitterness from out my brejist. 

It hath no business where thou art a guest; 

Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ; 

Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 

V. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
As dwells the gather'd hghtning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Fht by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ; 



And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, 
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain, 
And look to thee with undivided breast 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 

VI. 

It is no marvel— from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 

Of objects all inanimate I made 

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 

And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 

Where I did lay me down within the shade 

Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 

Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 

Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 

Of such materials wretched men were made. 

And such a truant boy would end in wo, 

And that the only lesson was a blow ; 

And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 

But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 

Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 

The visions which arise without a sleep. 

And with my years my soul began to pant 

With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 

And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 

But undefined and wandering, till the day 

I found the thing I sought, and that was thee ; 

And then I lost my being all to be 

Absorb'd in thine — the world was past away— 

Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

VII. 

I loved all solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all, communion wth existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — mine is Jiere, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may hft his eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof. 

VIII. 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place. 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but man, 
But spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved? 



POEMS. 



183 



Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 



I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 

My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 

My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 

In mockery through them ; — if I bear and bore 

The much I have recounted, and the more 

Which hath no words, 't is that I would not die 

And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 

Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 

Stamp madness deep into my memory. 

And woo compassion to a blighted name, 

Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 

No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 

A future temple of my present cell. 

Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 

While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 

The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 

And crumbling piecemeal view thy heartless halls, 

A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 



A poet's dungeon thy most far renown. 

While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls ! 

And thou, Leonora ! thou — who wert ashamed 

That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 

To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 

Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 

By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 

A taint of that he would impute to me — 

From long infection of a den like this, 

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, 

Adores thee still; — and add — that when the towers 

And battlements which guard his joyous hours 

Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 

Or left untended in a dull repose, 

This — this shall be a consecrated spot! 

But Thou— when all that Birth and Beauty throws 

Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 

One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 

No power in death can tear our names apart, 

As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 

Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 

To be entwined for ever — ^but too late ! 



POEMS. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
1. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 

Some name arrests the passer-by ; 
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 

May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 
2. 
And when by thee that name is read. 

Perchance in some succeeding year. 
Reflect on me as on the dead, 

And think my heart is buried here. 

September 14fA, 



TO *** 

Oh Lady ! when J left the shore. 

The distant shore, which gave me birth, ' 
I hardly thought to grieve once more, 

To quit another spot on earth : 
Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

Where panting Nature droops the head, 
Where only thou art seen to smile, 

I view my parting hour with dread. 
Though far from Albin's craggy shore. 

Divided by the dark-blue main ; 
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er. 

Perchance I view her cliffs again : 
But whereeoe'er I now may roftm. 

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 
Though Time restore me to my home, 

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 
On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
Whom but to see is to admire. 

And, oh! forgive the word — to love. 
Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 

With such a word can more offend; 
And since thy heart I cannot share, 

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
And who so coid as look on thee. 

Thou lovely wand'rer, and bo less ? 



Nor be, what man should ever be. 

The friend of Beauty in distress? 
Ah ! who would think that form had past 

Through Danger's most destructive path, 
Hath braved the Death-wing'd tempest's blast, 

And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? 
Lady ! when I shall view the walls 

Where free Byzantium once arose; 
And Stamboul's Oriental halls 

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 
Thou mightiest in the lists of fame, 

That glorious city still shall be ; 
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim. 

As spot of thy nativity : 
And though I bid thee now farewell. 

When I behold that wond'rous scene. 
Since where thou art I may not dwell, 

'T will sooth to be, where thou hast been. 

September^ 1809. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN 

GULF. 



NOVEMBER 14, 



Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast; 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient world was won and lost. 



And now upon the scene I look. 
The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 



Florence ! whom I will love as well 
As ever yet was said or sung, 

(Since Orpheus sang his spouso from hell) 
Whilst thou art fair and I am yoimg ; 





4. 


n. 


Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 


Full swifdy blew the swift Siroc, 


When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 


When last I press'd thy lip ; 


Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 


And long ere now. with foaming shock, 


Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. 
5. 
Though Fate forbids such things to be, 


Impell'd thy gallant ship. 

12. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 


Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 


Hast trod the shore of Spain ; .^^ 


I cannot lose a world for thee. 


'T were hard if aught so fair as thou i^^H 


But would not lose thee for a world. 


Should linger on the main. .^^H 
And since I now remember thee ^^^H 




STANZAS 


In darkness and in dread, V 




As in those hours of revelry W 
Which mirth and music sped ; ■ 


composed' OCTOBER llTH, 1809, DURING THE NIGHT, IN 
A THUNDER-STORM, WHEN THE GUIDES HAD LOST THE 


ROAD TO ZITZA, NEAR THE RANGE OF MOUNTAINS FOR- 


14. ■ 


MERLY CALLED PINDUS, IN ALBANIA. 


Do thou amidst the fair white walls, JHH 


1 


If Cadiz yet be free, mjM 


Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 


At times from out her latticed halls ^^B 


Where Pindus' mountains rise, 


Look o'er the dark-blue sea ; . ^ 


And angry clouds are pouring fast 


15. j^M 
Then think upon Calypso's isles, S^B 


The vengeance of the skies. 


2. 


Endear'd by days gone by ; ^^H 


Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 


To others give a thousand smiles, 


And lightnings, as they play. 


To me a single sigh. 


But show where rocks our path have crost, 


16. 

And when the admiring circle mark 


Or gild the torrent's spray. 


3. 


The paleness of thy face, 


Is yon a cot I saw, though low? 


A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 


When lightning broke the gloom- 


Of melancholy grace. 


How welcome were its shade! — ah, no! 




'Tis but a Turldsh tomb. 


17 


4. 


Again thou It smile, and blushing shun 


Some coxcomb's raillery ; 


Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 


Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, 


I hear a voice exclaim — 


Who ever thinks on thee. d^H 


My way-worn countryman, who calls 


■ 


On distant England's name. 


Though smile and sigh alike are vain, ^^H 


5. 


When sever'd hearts repine, J^^H 


A shot is fired— by foe or friend? 


My spirit flies o'er mount and main, ^^^H 


Another — 'tis to tell 


And mourns in search of thine. ^^H 


The mountain-peasants to descend. 
And lead us where they dwell. 


^B 




6. 


WRITTEN AT ATHENS, 


Oh ! who in such a night will dare 


JANUARY 16, 1810. 


To tempt the mlderness ? 
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear 
Our signal of distress? 


The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
We madly smile when we should groan ; ^^ 


7. 


Delirium is our best deceiver. ^|H 


And who that heard our shouts would rise 


Each lucid interval of thought ^^H 


To try the dubious road ? 


Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, ^^B 


Nor rather deem from nightly cries 


And he that acts as wise men ought, ■ 


That outlaws were abroad. JJ 
8. ^ 


jfc But hves, as saints have died, a martyr. ^^M 


Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! 


WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 


More fiercely pours the storm! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 


SESTOS TO ABYDOS,» 


To keep my bosom warm. 


MAY 9, 1810. 

1. 

If, in the month of dark December, 


9. 

While wand'ring through each broken path, 


O'er brake and craggy brow ; 


Leander, who was nightly wont 


While elements exhaust their wrath, 


(What maid will not the tale remember ?) 


Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 
10. 
Not on the sea, not on the sea, 


To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 


2. 
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 


Thy bark hath long been gone : 


He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 


Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 


And thus of old thy cuirent pour'd, 


Bow down my head alone ! 


Fair Venus! how I pity both ! 



POEMS. 



185 



For me, degenerate modem wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 
And think I 've done a feat to-day. 

4. 
But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the doubtful story. 
To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside. 

And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

5. 

'T were hard to say who fared the best : 

Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you ! 

He lost his labour, I my jest : 

For he was drown'd, and I 've the ague. 



SONG. 

Zc5»7 ixov, ads ayavrS.? 

ATHENS, 1810. 

1. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Zwt] /xoy, ddg ayaTrQ. 

2. 
By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each JEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tuige ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zdrj fiov, adg dyanSi. 

3. 
By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers ' that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By Love's alternate joy and wo, 
Zw>7 nov, ads dya-nCo. 

4. 
Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet I when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol,* 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee? No! 
Za5>7 //o5, ads dyania. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 

WAR SONG, 
Ae^Tt naiSes tSiv 'EXX^Jvwj/, 

WRITTEN BY RIGA, WHO PERISHED IN THE ATTEMPT TO 
REVOLUTIONIZE GREECE. THE FOLLOWING TRANSLATION 
IS AS LITERAL AS THE AUTHOR COULD MAKE IT IN VERSE; 
IT IS OF THE SAME MEASUHS AS THAT OF THB ORIOINAIi. 
SEB PAGE 52. 



Sons of the Greeks, arise I 

The glorious hour 's gone forth, 

And, worthy of such ties, 
Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe. 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

2. 
Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country sec you rising, 
And all her chains arc broke. 
Y 



Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages. 

Oh start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the seven-hill'd * city seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we 're free. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 
3. 
Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou he ? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally ! 
Leonidas recalling. 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And like a lion raging. 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 

"MTTtyw /<£? ^Ta'' vepiPsXi 
'SlpaidraTT) Hdribfi" &C. 

THE SONG FROM WHICH THIS IS TAKEN IS A GREAT PA 
VOURITE WITH THE YOUNG GIRLS OF ATHENS, OP AH, 
CLASSES. THEIR MANNER OF SINGING IT IS BY VERSES 
IN ROTATION, THE WHOLE NUMBER PRESENT JOINING IM 
THB CHORUS. I HAVE HEARD IT FREQUENTLY AT OUB 
" ;t<{poi" IN THE WINTER OF 1810-11. THE AIR IS PUIIK- 
TIVB AND PRETTY. 

I. 

I enter thy garden of roses. 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 
2. 
But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful. 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 

Will deeply imbitter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will naught to my bosoin restore thee ? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

3. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for Uiy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell nic, my soul ! must I peritih 

By pangs whicli a sniilo would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st nM chorishf 

For torture repay mo too well ? 



186 



POEMS. 



Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 

1. 
Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though not of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

2. 
'T is said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 



ON PARTING. 
I. 

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has lefi^ 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 
2. 
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

3. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alcne ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast. 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
4. 
Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle words avail. 

Unless the heaa"t could speak? 
5. 
By day or night, in weal or wo. 

That heart, no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show 

And silent ache for thee. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot. 

And say, what truth might well have said. 
By all, save one, perchance forgot. 

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? 
By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again! 
Could this have been — a word, a look 

That softly said, " We part in peace," 
Had taught my bosom how to brook. 

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 
And didst thou not, since Death for thee 

Prepared a light and pangless dart, 
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see. 

Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 
Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here ? 

Or sadly mark'd diy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 
Till all was past? But when no more 

'T was thine to reck of human wo, 



Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 

Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 
Shall they not flow, when many a day 

In these, to me, deserted towers, 
Ere call'd but for a time away, 

Afl^ection's mingling tears were ours? 
Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
The kiss, so guiltless and refined 

That Love each warmer wsh forbore ; 
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 

Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 
The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 

When prone, unlike thee to repine ; 
The song, celestial from thy voice. 

But sweet to me from none but thine ; 
The pledge we wore — I wear it still. 

But where is thine? — ah, where art thou? 
Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 

But never bent beneath till now ! 
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of wo for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; ;' 
But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
Impart some portion of thy bliss. 

To ween me from mine anguish here. 
Teach me — too early taught by thee! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 



STANZAS. 

Away, away, ye notes of wo. 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence, for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But luU the chords, for now, alas! 
I must not think, I may not gaze 

On what I am — on what I was. 

2. 
The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art 5 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart! 
3. 
'T is silent all ! — but on my ear 

The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still : 
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To hsten, though the dream be flown. 

4. 

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep. 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
But he, who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wratn, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scattered gladness o'er his path. 



POEMS. 



187 



TO THYRZA. 
1. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
One last long sigh to love and thee 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before : 
Though every joy is fled below, 

What future grief can touch me more ? 
2. 
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring 

Man was not form'd to live alone : 
I 'U be that light unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear. 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 

Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now. 
3. 
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the wo that lurks beneath. 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill : 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 
4. 
On many a lone and lovely night 

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon. 

When sailing o'er the jEgean wave, 
*' Now Thyrza gazes on tliat moon — ' 

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 

5. 

When stretch d on fever's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
« 'T is comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot Imow my pains :" 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
Relenting Nature vainly gave. 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 
6. 
My Thyrza's pledge in better days. 

When love and life alike were new ! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

7. 
Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt prcst! 
Time tempers love, but not removes. 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 



EUTHANASIA. 

L 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sloop that lulls tlic dead. 



Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 



No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 

No maiden, with dishevell'd hair. 
To feel, or feign, decorous wo. 

3. 

But silent let me sink to Earth, 
With no officious mourners near : 

I would hot mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

4. 
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 

Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
Might then exert its latest power 

In her who lives and him who dies. 



'T were sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 

Thy features still serene to see : 
Forgetful of its struggles past, 

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 
6. 
But vain the wish — for Beauty still 

Will shrmk, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 
And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

7. 
Then lonely be my latest hour. 

Without regret, without a groan ! 
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 

And pain been transient or unknown. 



" Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living wo ! 



Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever tliou hast been 
'T is something better not to be. 



STANZAS. 

HEU Q,UANT0 MINUS EST CUM RELIQ,UIS VERSARI UUAM 
TUI MEMINISSB." 

I. 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare. 

Too soon return'd to l^^arth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye winch could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 



I will not ask whore thou liest low 

Nor gaze upon the spot; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
TImt what I loved and long must love 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there ni>ods no stone to toll, 
'T is NotliinL' that I loved so woU. 



188 



POEMS. 



3. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see, 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

4. 
The better days of life were ours ; 
' The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep, 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

5. 
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away: 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by lea^ 

Than see it pluck'd to-day; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

6. 
I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that foUow'd such a mom 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past. 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

7. 
As once I wept, if I couid weep, 

My tears might well be shed. 
To tliink I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

8. 
Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free, 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity, 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 



STANZAS. 
1. 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore. 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 



i 



Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile, 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy Memory ! 
Nor deem that memory less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 
3. 
If not the goblet pass unquafF'd, 

It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught. 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I 'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drown'd a single thought of thee. 
4. 
For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind, 

To honour thine abandon'd Urn? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'T is meet that I remember still. 
5. 
For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gende care for him, who now 
Unmoum'd shall quit this mortal scene. 

Where none regarded him, but thou ; 
And, Oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly love to merit thee. 

Mcarchl4th, 



1812. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
BROI^N. 



Ill-fated Heart . and can it be 

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? 
Have years of care for thme ajid thee 

Alike been all employ'd in vain ? 
2. 
Yet precious seems each shatter'd part. 

And every fragment dearer grovm. 
Since he who wears thee, feels thou art 

A fitter emblem of his own. 



A 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 
1. 

Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name, 
And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feeUngs long the same. 
2. 
But now, like me, too well thou knoVst 

What trifles oft the heart recall ; 
And those who once have lov'd the most, 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 
3. 
And such the change the heart displays, 

So frail is early friendship's reign, 
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 
4. 
If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine. 

Which made thee fickle as thou art. 



POEMS. 



189 



As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 

So human feelings ebb and flow ; 
And who would in a breast confide 

Where stormy passions ever glow 7 
6. 
It boots not, that together bred, 

Our childish days were days of joy: 
My spring of life has quickly fled ; 

Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 
7. 
And when we bid adieu to youth, 

Slaves to the specious world's control, 
We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 

That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

8. 
Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 

Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 
When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 

And sparkles in the placid eye. 
9. 
Not so in Man s maturer years, 

When man huTiself is but a tool ; 
When interest sways our hopes and fears, 

And all must love and hate by rule. 

10. 

With fools in kindred vice the same. 

We learn at length our faults to blend ; 
And those, and those alone, may claim 

The prostituted name of friend. 
11. 
Such is the common lot of man : 

Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 
Can we reverse the general plan, 

Nor be what all in turn must be ? 

12. 

No, for myself^ so dark my fate 

Through every turn of life hath been ; 

Man and the world I so much hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

13. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light. 
Wilt shine awhile and pass away ; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

14. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet, 

(For cherish'd first in royal halls. 
The welcome vices kindly greet,) 

15. 

Ev'n now thou 'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain, and court the proud. 

16. 
There dost thou glide from fair to fair. 

Still simpering on with eager haste, 
As flies along the gay parterre. 

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 
17. 
But say, what nymph will prize the flame 

Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 
To flit along from damo to dame. 

An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 

18. 
What friend for thee, howo'cr inclined, 

Will deign to own a kindred care ? 
Who will debase his manly mind. 

For fiiendihjp every fool may share ? 



19. 
In time forbear ; amidst the throng, 

No more so base a thing be seen; 
No more so idly pass along: 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 



TO ****** 

1. 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 

That I should thus be happy too; 
For still my heart regards thy weal 

Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
2. 
Thy husband 's blest — and 't will impart 

Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 

Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 
3. 
When late I saw thy favourite child, 

T thought my jealous heart would break ; 
But when th' unconscious infant smiled, 

I Idss'd it for its mother's sake. 



I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

5. 
Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art blest I '11 not repine ; 
But near thee I can never stay ; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 
6. 
I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 

Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; 
Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, save hope, the same. 

7. 
Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look, 
But now to tremble were al crime — 

We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
8. 
I saw thee gaze upon my face. 

Yet meet with no confusion there : 
One only feeling could'st thou trace ; 

The sullen calmness of despair 



Away ! away ! my early dream. 
Remembrance never must awake : 

Oh! where is IjCthe's fabled stream? 
My foolish heart be still, or break. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
In moments to delight devoted, 

"My hfe !" with tend'rest tone, you cry ; 
Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 
To death even hours like these must roll, 

Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 
Or change "my life!" into "my soul!" 

Which, like mv love, e.\ists for ever. 

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 
Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 

And o'er tJio changing aspect flits, 
And clouds the brow or fills the eye. 



190 



POEMS. 



Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 
My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 

Back to my breast the wanderers shrink. 
And droop within their silent cell. 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, 
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and mourn'd 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome. 
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with hghtnings awful as their own, 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle. 
Know the same favour which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — wortliy him and you ? 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene. 
And bids the Drama be where she hath been. 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say. How well ! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head! 
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead ! 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, 
"Vain of our ancestry, as they of tJieirs; 
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass. 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise. 
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame. 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To sooth the sickly taste it dare not mend. 



All past reproach may present scenes refute. 
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us vvith misplaced applause ; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide. 
Still may we please — long, long may you preside! 



TO TIME. 
Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 

The varying hours must flag or fly, 
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring. 

But drag or drive us on to die — 
Hail thou ! who on my mirth bestow'd 

Those boons to all that know thee known; 
Yet better I sustain thy load. 

For now I bear the weight alone. 
I would not one fond heai't should share 

The bitter moments thou hast given; 
And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 

All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
To them be joy or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shall press in yain ; 
I nothing owe but years to thee, 

A debt already paid in pain. 
Yet even that pain was some relief; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 
In joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 

Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 
Thy cloud could overcast the light, 

But could not add a night to wo 
For then, however drear and dark. 

My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
One star alone shot forth a spark 

To prove thee — not Eternity. 
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 

A blank ; a thing to count and curse 
Through each dull tedious trifling part, 

Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
One scene even thou canst not defonn ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 
And I can smile to think how weak 

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown. 
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 

Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 






TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 
1. 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 

The pang, the agony, the doubt. 

Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 

While day and night roll darkling by. 

2. 
Without one friend to hear my wo, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 

3. 
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net, 
Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 



POEMS. 



191 



Or circled by his fatal fire, 

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

4. 
A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 
But caught within the subtle snarcj 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

5. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance. 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

6. 
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

7. 
My light of Ufe ! ah, tell me why 
That pouting lip, and aller'd eye ? 
My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 

8. 
Mine eyes hke wintry streams o'erflow : 
What wretch with me would barter wo? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

9. 
My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
In silent anguish I sustain ; 
And stiU thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 

10. 
Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now ; 
I 've lived to curse my natal day, 
And love, that thus can lingering slay. 

n. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 
Alas ! too late, I dearly know, 
That joy is harbbger of wo. 



A SONG. 
1. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 

To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
The tears tliat thou hast forced to trickle 

Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest. 
Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

2. 
The wholly false the heart despises, 

And spurns deceiver and deceit; 
But she who not a thought disguises, 

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
When she can change who loved so truly, 
It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

3. 
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow. 

Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 
And ifj when conscious on the morrow, 

Wo scarce our fancy can forgive, 
That cheated us in slumber only, 
To leave the waking soul more lonely, 

4. 
What must they feel whom no false visi(jn, 

But truest, tendorost passion wann'd? 
Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 

As if a dream alone hud charni'd ? 



Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming. 
And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
"ORIGIN OF LOVE?" 
The " Origin of Love !"— Ah, why 

That cruel question ask of me. 
When thou may'st read in many an eye 

He starts to life on seeing thee ? 
And should'st thou seek his eTid to know: 

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 
He '11 linger long in silent wo ; 

But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, &c. 
1. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 
2. 
That yielding breast, that melting eye, 

Too much invited to be blest : 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reproved, represt. 

3. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 
4. 
Yet think of this when many a tongue. 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong. 
And brand a nearly bhghted name. 

5. 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou 

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : 
I bless thy purer soul even now. 

Even now, in midnight solitude. 
6. 
Oh, God! that we had met in time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 
When thou hadst loved without a crime. 

And I been less unworthy thee ! 
7. 
Far may thy days, as heretofore. 

From this our gaudy world be past ! 
And, that too bitter moment o'er, 

Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 
8. 
This heart, alas ! perverted long. 

Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 
To meet thee in the glittering throng. 

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 
9. 
Then to the things whose bliss or wo, 

Like mine is wild and worthless all, 
That world resign — such scenes forego, 

Where tliose who foci must surely fall. 
10. 
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 

Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 
From what oven hero hath past, may guess 

What tliero tl»y bosom must endure. 
11. 
Oh ! pardon Uiat imploring tear. 

Since not by Virtue shod in vain, 
My phrensy drew from oyos so dear ; 

For nio thoy shall not weep again. 



192 



POEMS. 



12. 

Though long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet : 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

13. 
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 

Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 
It felt not half so much to part. 

As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



LINES 

INSCEIBBD UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. 
1. 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 

In me behold the only skull, 
From which, unlike a Uving head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 
2. 
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee ; 

I died ; let earth my bones resign : 
Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 

The worm hath fouler hps than thine. 



Better to hold the sparkling grape, 

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood 
And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 
4. 
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas! our brains are gone, 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 
5. 
Ctuaff while thou canst — another race. 

When thou and thine Uke me are sped, 
May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 

And rhjmie and revel with the dead. 
6. 
Why not ? since through life's Uttle day 

Our heads such sad efl'ects produce ; 
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 

This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
Newstead Abbey, 1808. 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, 
BART. 

1. 
There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 
But nations swell the funeral cry. 

And Triumph weeps above the brave. 

2. 
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 
In vain their bones unburied Ue, 

All earth becomes their monument ! 

3. 
A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitaph on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age, 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

4. 
For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound ; 
While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 

The goblet's tributary round. 



5. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes. 
Who would not share their glorious lot ? 

Who would not die the death they chose ? 
6. 
And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 
And early valour, glowing, find 

A model in thy memory. 
7. 
But there are breasts that bleed with thee 

In wo, that glory cannot quell 
And shuddering hear of victory, 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

8. 
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness. 

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 
9. 
Alas ! for them, though not for thee. 

They cannot choose but weep the more ; 
Deep for- the dead the grief must be, 

Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 



TO A LADY WEEPING. 
1. 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 

A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 
Ah, happy ! if each tear of thine 

Could wash a father's fault away! 
2. 
Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 

Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 
And be each drop in future years 

Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 

March, 1812. 



FROM THE TURKISH. 
1. 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 

The lute I added sweet in sound ; 
The heart that offer'd both was true, 

And ill deserved the fate it found. 
2. 
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell 

Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
And they have done their duty well, 

Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 
3. 
That chain was firm in every link, 

But not to bear a stranger's touch 
That lute was sweet — till thou could'st think, 

In other hands its notes were such. 
4. 
Let him, who from thy neck unbound 

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp. 
Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 

Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
5. 
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 

The chain is broke, the music mute. 
'T is past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



POEMS. 



193 



SONNET. 

TO GENEVRA. 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 

Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colours blent, 
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 

(Except that thxm hast nothing to repent,) 
The Magdalen of Guido saw the mom — 

Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
With naught Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 



SONNET. 

TO GENEVRA. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush. 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending. 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



INSCRIPTION 

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 

" NEAR THIS SPOT 

ARE DEPOSITED THE REMAINS OP ONE 

WHO POSSESSED BEAUTY WITHOUT VANITY, 

STRENGTH WITHOUT INSOLENCE, 

COURAGE WITHOUT FEROCITY, 

AND ALL THE VIRTUES OF MAN WITHOUT HIS VICES. 

THIS PRAISE, WHICH WOULD BE UNMEANING FLATTERY 

IF INSCRIBED OVER HUMAN ASHES, 

IS BUT A JUST TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OP 

BOATSWAIN, A DOG, 

WHO WAS BORN AT NEWFOUNDLAND, MAY 1803, 

AND DIED AT NEWSTEAD ABBEY, NOV. 18, 1808." 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, 

And storied urns record who rests below ; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been : 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend. 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own. 

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all liis worth. 

Denied in heaven the soul ho held on earth: 

While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 

And claims himself a solo exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 

Degraded mass of animated dust ! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : 



To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
I never new but one, and here he lies. 

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air. 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell! — Farewell! 



1. 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control. 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine. 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine, 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

2. 
Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom, 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
Young flowers and an evergreen tree 

May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 

For why should we mourn for the blest? 



1. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years. 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

2. 
The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken. 

And share in its shame. 

S. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er mo — 

Why wert tho»i so dear? 
They know not I know thoo, 

Who know thoo too well : — 
Long, long «hall I rue thee. 

Too deeply to tell. 



194 



POEMS. 



In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 



1808. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC* 

♦• O Lachryrtiaxoim fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatenlem 
Pectore te, pia Nyrapiia, sensit." 

Gray's Poemata. 

1. 

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 

away, 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 

dull decay ; 
'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which 

fades so fast. 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 

be past. 

2. 
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 

happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 

vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 

again. 

3. 
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 

comes down; 
It carmot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its ovm ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice 

appears. 

4. 
Though yni may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
tract the breast. 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 

hope of rest ; 
'T is but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath. 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 

beneath. 

5. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 

vanish'd scene : 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be. 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 

flow to me. 

1815. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the luU'd winds seem dreaming. 



These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, Strand, who 
I pablisbed them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson 



And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



FARE THEE WELL. 

" Alas ! they had been friends in Youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
Aai constancy lives in realms above : 
And Life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the braia : 

But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart from paining— 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 

Like cliffs, which liad been rent asunder ; 

A dreary sea now flows between, 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 

Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been." 

Coleridge's Ckristdbtl. 

Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
Would that breast were bared before thee 

Where thy head so soft hath lain, 
While that placid sleep came o'er thee 

Which thou ne'er canst know again ; 
Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 

Every inmost thought could show ! 
Then thou would'st at last discover 

'T was not well to spurn it so. 
Though the world for this commend thee— 

Though it smile upon the blow. 
Even its praises must ofiend thee, 

Founded on another's wo — 
Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound? 
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 
Still thine own its life retaineth— 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
And the undying thought which paineth 

Is — that we no more may meet. 
These are words of deeper sorrow 

Th£in the wail above the dead ; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widow'd bed. 
And when thou would'st solace gather, 

When our child's first accents flow, 
Wilt thou teach her to say •* Father !" 

Though his care she must forego ? 
When her httle hands shall press thee, 

When her lip to thine is prest, 
Think of him whose prayer shall bless the^ 

Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
Should her lineaments resemble 

Those thou never more may'sf see. 
Then thy heart will softly tremble 

With a pulse yet true to me. 
All my faults perchance thou knowest, 

All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 

Wither, yet with thee they go. 
Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow,. 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now t 



I 



POEMS. 



195 



But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
Words from me are vainer still; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 

Force their way without the will. — 
Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, 

Tom from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted 

More than this £ scarce can die. 



A SKETCH.* 

" Honest— Honest lago I 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee,"—Skaks. 

Bom in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 

Next — ^for some gracious service unexprest, 

And from its wages only to be guess'd — 

Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 

Her wandering betters wait behind her chair. 

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Ctuick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 

The genial confidante, and general spy — 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess — 

An only infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herselfj by teaching, learn'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows, 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 

What she had made the pupil of her art, 

None know — but that high Soul secured the heart. 

And panted for the truth it could not hear. 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind. 

Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind. 

Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 

Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 

Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 

Nor Envy mffle to retaliate pain — 

Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow, 

Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live, 

But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 

Too shock'd at fauUs her soui can never know, 

She deems that all could be like her below : 

Foe to afl vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme : — now laid aside too long 

The baleful burden of this honest song — 

Though all her former functions are no more. 

She rules the circle which she served before. 

If mothers — none know why — before her quake ; 

If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake ; 

If early habits — those false links, which bind 

At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 

Have given her power too deeply to instil 

The angry essence of her deadly will ; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls, 

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 

If like a vi[)er to the heart she wind. 

And leave the venom there she did not find ; 

What marvel (hat this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints 

While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with 

smiles — 
A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; 



A plain blunt show of briefly spoken seeming, 

To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd schemmg ; 

A Up of lies — a face form'd to conceal ; 

And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 

With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 

A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone, 

Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 

Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 

Or darker greermess of the scorpion's scale — 

(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 

Congenial colours in that soul or face) — 

Look on her features ! and behold her mind 

As in a mirror of itself defined : 

Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 

There is no trait which might not be enlarged: 

Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made 

This monster when their mistress left off trade, 

This female dogstar of her little sky. 

Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 

Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 

The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 

Shalt feel far more than thou infllictest now ; 

Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain. 

And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 

May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 

Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 

And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 

As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 

Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 

Black — as thy will for others would create: 

Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 

And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 

Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 

The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 

prayer. 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
And festering in the infamy of years. 



TO 



When all aroimd grew drear and dark. 

And reason half withheld her ray — 
And hope but shed a dying spark 

Which more misled my lonely way; 
2. 
In that deep midnight of the mind, 

And that internal strife of heart. 
When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 

The weak despair — the cold depart; 
3. 
When fortune changed — and lovo flod fai; 

And hatred's shalls flew thick and fast, 
Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose and set not to the last. 

4. 

Oh ! blest bo thino unbroken light ! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's oyo, 
And stood between mo and tlie night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 



Mil. Charlmont. 



Hii littor, Mrt. Leigh. 



196 



POEMS. 



And when the cloud upon us came. 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray- 
Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

6. 
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 

And teach it what to brave or brook — 
There 's more in one soft word of thine 

Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

7. 
Thou stood'stj as stands a lovely tree, 

That still unbroke, though gently bent, 
Still waves with fond fidelity 

Its boughs above a monument. 
8. 
The winds might rend — the skies might pour, 

But there thou wert — and still would'st be 
Devoted in the stormiest hour 

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 
9. 
But thou and thine shall know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind — and thee the most of all. 
10. 
Then let the ties of baffled love 

Be broken — thine will never break ; 
Thy heart can feel — ^but will not move ; 

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 
11. 
And these, when all was lost beside, 

Were found and still are fix'd in thee — 
And bearing still a breast so tried. 

Earth is no desert — ev'n to me. 



ODE. 

[prom the FRENCH.] 
I. 

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; 
There 't was shed, but is not sunk — 
Rising from each gory trunk. 
Like the Water-spout from ocean. 
With a strong and growing motion — 
It soars, and mingles in the air. 
With that of lost Labedoyere — 
With that of him wliose honour'd grave 
Contains the "bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return to whence it rose ; 
When 't is full 't will burst asunder — 
Never yet was heard such thunder 
As then shall shake the world with wonder- 
Never yet was seen such lightning 
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'mngt 
Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
By the sainted Seer of old, 
Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
Turning rivers into blood.^ 

II. 
The Chief has fallen, but not by yoH, 
Vanquishers of Waterloo! 
When the soldier citizen 
Sway'd not o'er his fellow men — 
Save in deeds that led them on 
Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son— 
Who, of all the despot's banded, 

With that youthful chief competed? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 



Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The Hero sunk into the King? 
Then he fell : — So perish all, 
Who would men by man entiiral . 



And thou too of the snow-white plimie ! 
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; ' 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as he of Naples wears, 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 

On thy war-horse through the ranks, 

Like a stream which burst its banks, 
While hebnets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee : 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide, 
It roU'd in air, the warrior's guide 5 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight. 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 
And, as it onward rolling rose. 
So moved his heart upon our foes, 
Th<!re, where death's brief pang was quickest, 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 

TVTio could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
While the broken Une enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ! 

IV. 

O'er glories gone the invaders march. 

Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice. 

With her heart in her voice ; 

But, her hand on her sword. 

Doubly shall she be adored ; 

France has twice too well been taught 

The "moral lesson" dearly bought — 

Her safety sits not on a throne, 

With Capet or Napoleon! 

But in equal rights and laws. 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven, 

With their breath, and from their birth. 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand 5 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ] 



But the heart and the mind, 
And the voice of mankind, 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union ? 
The time is past when swords subdued- 
Man may die — the soul 's renew'd : 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir j 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit— 



POEMS. 



197 



When once more her hosts assemble, 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



I> 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

• ALL WEPT, BUT PARTICULARLY SAVARY, AND A POLISH 
OFFICER WHO HAD BEEN EXALTED FROM THE RANKS BY 
BUONAPARTE. HE CLUNG TO HIS MASTER'S KNEES J 
WROTE A LETTER TO LORD KEITH, ENTREATING PER- 
MISSION TO ACCOMPANY HIM, EVEN IN THE MOST 
MENIAL CAPACITY, WHICH COULD NUT BE ADMITTED." 

1. 

Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 

Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Maddening o'er that long adieu? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 

Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel. 

With a soldier's faith for thee? 
2. 
Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, but mightiest now: 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 
When their dying shout was heard. 

Blessing him they served so well." 
3. 
Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see ; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free! 

Oh! although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me. 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 
4. 
Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrow'd glories dim. 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign. 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine ? 
5. 
My chief, my king, my friend, adieu! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 

As his foes I now implore: 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAR OF « THE LEGION OF 
HONOUR." 

[prom the FRENCH.] 

Star of the bravo ! — whoso beam hath shed 
Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 
WiUl meteor of immortal birth ! 
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 

2. 
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blazo ; 



The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here 
And thy light broke on human eyes, 
Like a Volcano of the skies. 

3. 
Like lava roU'd thy stream of blood. 
And swept down empires with its flood 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst lighten through all space : 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air. 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 



Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue 

Of three bright colours,^ each divine, 

And fit for that celestial sign ; 

For Freedom's hand had blended them, 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

6. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, thS blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light : 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

6. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale. 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away. 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

7. 
And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

[prom THE FRENCH.] 
1. 

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of ray Glory 
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
She abandons me now — but the page of her story, 
The brightest or blackest, is fiU'd with my fame. 
I have warr'd with a world which vanquished me 
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far •, 
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 

2. 
Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd me, 
I made thee tlie gem and the wonder of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
Oh ! for tlio veteran hearts that were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won— . 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in tliat moment was blasted, 
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 

3. 
Farewell to thee. Franco! — but when Liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
Tlie violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again — 
Yet, yet, I may balHe tiie hosts tliat surround us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awako to my voice— 
There are links which must break in the chain that 

has bound us. 
Then turn thcc and call on tho Chief of U»y choice ! 



198 



POEMS. 



WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF « THE 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee, 

My friend, what magic spells belong ! 
As ail can tell, who share, like me, 

In turn thy converse, and thy song. 
But when the dreaded hour shall come 

By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh. 
And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 
How fondly will she then repay 

Thy homage ofFer'd at her shrine, 
And blend, while ages roll away. 

Her name immortally with thine ! 

AprU 19, 1812. 



SONNET. 
Rousseau — ^Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stael — 

'° Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore, 

Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 
Their memory thy remembrance would recall ; 
To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous ; but by thee 
How much more. Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 

In sweetly gliding o'er thy chrystal sea. 
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 

Which of the heirs of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 



STANZAS TO 



Though the day of my destiny 's over, 

Ajad the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 
2. 
Then when nature around me is smiling. 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 
3. 
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd. 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

'T is of tJiee that I think — not of them. 
4. 
Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parted, it was not to fly. 
Though watchful, 't was not to defame me, 

Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 



His lister, Mrs. Leigh. 



Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'T was folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me. 

It could not deprive me of thee. 
6. 
From the \vreck of the past, which hath perish'd. 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing. 

In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speajcs to my spirit of ikee. 



DARKNESS. 
I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 
Mom came, and went — and came, and brought no dajj 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
Were chUl'd into a selfish prayer for light: 
And they did five by watchfires — and the thrones. 
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
The habitations of all things which dwell. 
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes, 
To look once more into each other's face ; 
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ; 
Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and loo^d up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
The pall of a past world ; and then again 
With curses cast them dovm upon the dust. 
And gnash'd their teeth and howled : the wild birdi 

shriek'd. 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And War, which for a moment was no more, 
Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was death. 
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay. 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 



POEMS. 



199 



And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 

Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 

The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 

Of an enormous city did survive, 

And they were enemies ; they met beside 

The dying embers of an altar-place 

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 

For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 

Blew for a little life, and made a flame 

Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died— 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 

The populous and the powerful was a lump, 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, Ufeless — 

A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. 

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. 

And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 

They slept on the abyss without a surge — 

The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave. 

The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air. 

And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 

Of aid from them-^She was the universe. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 

On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 

With name no clearer than the names unknown, 

Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 

That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 

And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do not know 

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; 

He died before my day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 

And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality ? and crave 

I know not what of honour and of light 

Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 

So soon and so successless? As I said. 

The Architect of all on which we tread, 

For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 

To extricate remembrance from the clay, 

Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought 

Were it not tiiat all life must end in one, 

Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 

As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 

Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 

Was a most famous writer in his day. 

And therefore travellers step from out their way 

To pay him honour, — and myself vvhate'er 

Your honour pleases," — then most pleased Pshook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 

Some certain coins of silver, which as 't wero 

Perforce I gave tliis man, though I could spare 

So much but inconvonienlly ; — Ye smile, 

I see ye, yo profane ones ! uU the while. 

Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 

You arc the fools, not I — for I did dwell 



With a deep thought, and with a soflen'd eye, 
On that Old Sexton's natural homily. 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame, 
The Glory and the Nothmg of a Name. 

THE DREAM. 

Our hfe is twofold ; Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reaUty, 
And dreams in their developement have breath. 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — ^what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so ? 
Is not the past all shadow? What are they? 
Creations of the mind ? — The mmd can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 
I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
But a most Uving landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd. 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed 'on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth. 
And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
lie had no breath, nor being, but in hers ; 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight. 
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw vvitli hers. 
Which colour'd all his objects : — ho had ceased 
To live williin himself; sho was his life. 
The ocean to the river of his tljoughts, 
Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. 
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
Unknowing of its causo of agony. 
But sho in those fond feelings had no share : 
Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
Even as a brother — but no more ; 't was much 
For brothorloss sho was, save in the naiuo 



200 



POEMS. 



Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not— and why 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another ; even now she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again. 
And vdth his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
Was darken'd wilh her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his" face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood ; in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all : and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountam ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
So cloudless, clear, ajid purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 

T. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love was wed wth One 

Who did not love her better : — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt wdth growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife. 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her griefbe?— she had all she loved, 



And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil vpish. 
Or ill-repress'd afiliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be?— she had loved him not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind— a spectre of the past. 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was retum'd. — I saw him stand 

Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The StarUght of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 

That in the antique Oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fittmg vows, but heard not his own words, 

And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have bee: 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 

And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade. 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light: 

What business had they there at such a time ? 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love ;— Oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd fi-om its dwelling, and her eyes 
They had not their o«ti lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls phrensy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth? 
Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness. 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

VIII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore. 

The beings which surrounded him were gone. 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

In all which was served up to him, until. 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days," 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power. 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men. 

And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



J! 



POEMS. 



201 



PROMETHEUS. 



Titian ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were not as things that gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent suffering, and intense; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain. 
The agony they do not show. 
The suffocating sense of wo, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 



Titian ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate, 
Refused thee even the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee, 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack; 



ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 

DEL 

SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA. 
El qual dezia en Aravigo assi. 

1. 

Passeavase el Rey Moro 
Por la ciudad de Granada, 
Desde las puertas de Elvira 
Hasta las de Bivarambla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

2. 
Cartas le fueron venidas 
Que Alhama era ganada. 
Las cartas echb en el fuego, 

Y al mensagero matava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

3. 

Descavalga de una mula, 

Y en un cavallo cavalga. 
Por el Zacatin arriba 
Subido se avia al Alhambra. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

4. 

Como en cl Alhambra estuvo. 
Al miemo punto mandava 
Q,ue so toqucn las trompetas 
Con aflafilcs do plata. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 



Y quo atambores do guerra 
Apricsaa toquen alarma ; 
Por quo lo oygan sus Moros, 
Los do la Vega y Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
2 A 



The fate thou didst so well foresee. 
But would not to appease him tell ; 
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
And evil dread so ill dissembled 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

III. 
Thy Godlike crune was to be kin(^ 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness. 
And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
But bafiled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy. 
In tlie endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself— an equal to all woes. 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concenter'd recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making Death a Victory. 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 

ON THK 

SIEGE AND CONaUEST OF ALHAMA. 

Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport. 

[Theeffect of the original ballad (whir.h existed both in Spanish and 

Arabic) was such that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, oa 

pain of death, within Granada.] 

1. 

The Moorish King rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is mo, Alhama ! 



Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell ; 
In the fire the scroll he threw. 
And the messenger he slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

3. 
He quits his mule, and mounts liis horse, 
And through the street directs his course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

4. 
When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
Witli the silver clarion round. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 



And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afur. 
That tiio Moors of town and jiloin 
Might answer to tho martial strain, 

Wu IS nu\ Alhama 



202 



POEMS. 



liOS Moros que el son oyeron, 
due al sangriento Marte llama, 
Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
Un gran esquadron forinavan. 

Ay de mi, Alhamal 

7. 
Alii habl6 un Moro viejo ; 
Desta manera hablava: — 
Para que nos llamas, Rey ? 
Para que es este llamada? 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

8. 
Aveys de saber, amigos, 
Una nueva desdichada : 
Glue Christianos, con braveza, 
Ya nos nan tornado Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



Alii hablb un viejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crecida y cana : — 
Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, 
Buen Rey ; bien se te empleava. 
Ay de mi, Alhama! 

10. 

Mataste los Bencerrages, 
Que era la flor de Granada ; 
Cogiste los tornadizos 
De Cordova la nombrada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

11. 

For esso mereces, Rey, 
Una pene bien doblada ; 
Q,ue te pierdas tu y el reyno, 

Y que se pierda Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

12. 

Si no se respetan leyes, 
Es ley que todo se pierda j 

Y que se pierda Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

13. 

Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyer a. 

Y como el otro de leyes 
De leyes tambien hablava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

14. 
Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto.— 
Esso dize el Rey Moro 
Relinchando de colera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

15. 
Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la vellida barba, 
El Rey te manda prender, 
Por la perdida de Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

16. 

Y cortarte la cabeza, 

Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea, 

Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



Then the Moors by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 



Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
"Wherefore call on us, oh King? 
What may mean this gathering ?" 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 



" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow. 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 

Wo is me, Alhama I 

9. 
Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
" Good ICing ! thou art justly served, 
Good King! this thou hast deserved. 

Wo is me, Alhama I 

10. 
* By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Wo is me, Alhama I 

11. 

"And for this, oh King! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

12. 

" He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be wc«i. 
And thyself with her undone." 

Wo is me, Alhama I 

13. 
Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes, 
The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answer'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

14. 

" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings :" — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

15. 

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! 
Though thy beard so hoary be. 
The King hath sent to have thee seized. 
For Alhama's loss displeased, 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

16. 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 



POEMS. 



17. 

Cavalleros, hombres buenos, 
Dezid de mi parte al Rey, 
Al Rey Moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

18. 

De averse Alhama perdido 
A mi me pesa en el alma. 
due si el Rey perdib su tierra, 
Otro mucho mas perdiera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 



Perdieran hijos padres, 

Y casados las casadas 
Las cosas que mas amara 
Perdib 1' un y el otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

20. 
Perdi una hija donzella 
due era la flor d' esta tierra, 
Cien doblas dava por ella, 
No me las estimo en nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

21. 
Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Le cotaron la cabe^a, 

Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
Assi come el Rey lo manda. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

22. 
Hombres, nifiosy mugeres, 
Lloran tan grande perdida. 
Lloravan todas las damas 
duantas en Granada avia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

23. 
Por las calles y ventanas 
Mucho luto parecia ; 
Llora el Rey como fembra, 
du' es mucho lo que perdia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. 



PER MONACA. 



Sonctto compoato in nome diunKenltore, acui era morta poco innanzi 
una figlia appena maritata ; i diretto al genitore della sacra sposa 



Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte 
Lieti miscri padri il ciel ne feo, 
II ciel, che degne di piu nobil sorts 
L' una e 1' altra vcggendo, ambo chiedeo. 

La mia fu tolta da velocc morte 
A le fumanti tede d' imcnco : 
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porta 
Etema prigionicra or si rendeo. 

Ma tu almeno potrai do la gelusa 
Irremoabil soglia, ove s' asconde, 
Ln sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 

lo verso un fiume d' nmarissim' onda, 

Corro a quel njarnio, in cui la fifjlia or posa, 
Batto, e ribatto, ma ncssun nspondo. 



17. 

" CavaUer, and man of worth! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe ; 

Wo is me, Alhama 

18. 

" But on my soul AUiama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the King his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

19. 

"Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 



" I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay. 
And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

21. 

And as these things the old Moor said, 
They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'T was carried, as the King decreed. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

22. 

And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 



And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ; 
The King weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLL 

ON A NUN. 

Sonnet composed In the name of a father whose daughter had recently 
died shortly after her marriage ; and addressed tolhe fatlier of her wtra 
liud lately talteu the veil. 

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, 

Heaven made us happy ; and now, wretched sires, 
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires. 
And gazing upon either, both required. 

Mint>, wivilo the torch of ilynien newly fired 
Becomes exiinguislvd, soon — too so<"»n — tixpires : 
But thine, within the closing grate retired, 
Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 

But thou at least froni out the jealous door, 
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more: 

I to tlie marble where my dnutihtcr lies, 
Rush, — the swolu Hood of bicerness I pour 
And knock, and knock, and knock— but none replies. 



204 



POEMS. 



ODE. 
I. 

Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep : 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast Math their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
Is with the dashing of the springtide foam 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, 
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. 
Oh! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; 
And every monument the strEinger meets. 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 
And even tlie Lion all subdued appears, 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overheating of the heart. 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
Prom the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors. 
The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, 
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away 
Yet so reheving the o'er-tortured clay. 
To him appears renewal of his breath. 
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; — 
And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak. 
And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy. 
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled stream, 
And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 



There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page 

Of many thousand years — the daily scene. 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age. 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us naught or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 
For 't is our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
What have they given your children in return? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage, whore your hire is blows. 



What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 

O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, 

And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; 

Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 

And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 

All that your sires have lefl; you, all that Time 

Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, 

Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read, 

Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 

Save the few spirits, who, despite of all. 

And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 

By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 

And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, 

Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 

Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, 

And trample on each other to obtain 

The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 

Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 

The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 

'T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, 

And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — 

Yes ! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 

Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 

Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, 

Which, like the pestilence nnd earthquake, smite 

But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 

With all her seasons to repair the blight 

With a few summers, and again put forth 

Cities and generations — fair, when free — 

For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 



Glory and Empire I once upon these towers 

With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate ! 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate. 
But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 
AH were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved theii- hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 
Were of the softer order — bom of Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
HaUow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common wo, 
And call'd the " kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we know— 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 



The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe 5 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time. 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown. 
And in its own good season tramples do\vn 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
Are kept apart and nursed m the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
And proud distinction from each other land. 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 



POEMS. 



205 



Full of the magic of exploded science — 

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 

Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 

Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 

The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 

May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 

Rights cheaply eam'd with blood. — Still, still, for ever 

Better, though each man's life blood were a river, 

That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 



Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
Three paces, and then faltering : — better be 
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh,— or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had. 
One freeman more, America, to thee ! 



NOTES TO POEMS. 



Note 1, page 184. 

JVritten after swimming from Sestos to AJbydos. 

On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain 
Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant 
Ekenhead of that frigate, and the writer of these 
rhymes, swam from the European shore to the Asiatic 
— by-the-by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been 
more correct. The whole distance from the place 
whence we started to our landing on the other side, 
including the length we were carried by the current, 
was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards 
of four Enghsh miles ; though the actual breadth is 
barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that 
no boat can row directly across, and it may in some 
measure be estimated from the circumstance of the 
whole distance being accomplished by one of the par- 
ties in an hoiir and five, and by the other in an hour 
and ten, minutes. The water was extremely cold from 
the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks 
before, in April, we had made an attempt, but having 
ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, 
and the water being of an icy chilness, we found it 
necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate 
anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, 
as just stated ; entering a considerable way above the 
European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Che- 
valier says that a young Jew swam the same distance 
for his mistress ; and Oliver mentions its having been 
done by a Neapolitan ; but our consul, Tarragona, re- 
membered neither of these circumstances, and tried 
to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the 
Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a 
greater distance ; and the only thing that surprised me 
was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth 
of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured 
to ascertain its practicability. 

Note 2, page 185. 

Ziirj jxov, ffds iLyanZ. 

Zoe mou, sas agapo, or ZoIj? ixou, adg aymirS, a Ro- 
maic expression of tenderness : if I translate it, I shall 
affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I suppose 
they could not ; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. 
For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter 
I shall do so, beggin^ pardon of the learned. It means, 
" My life, I love you '." which sounds very prettily in all 
languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this 
day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words wore among 
the Roman ladies, whoso exotic expressions were all 
Hellenized. 

Note 3, page 185, line 27. 

By all the token-flowers that tell. 

In the East (whore ladies are not taught to write, 
lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, 
pebbles, &c. convoy the sentiments of the parlies by 
that universal deputy of Mercury— an old woman. A 



cinder says, " I burn for thee ;" a bunch of flowers tied 
with hair, " Take me and fly ;" but a pebble declares— 
what nothing else can. 

Note 4, page 185, line 33, 
Though I fly to Istambol. 
Constantinople. 

Note 5, page 185, line 55. 
And the seven-hiWd city seeking. 
Constantinople. " 'ETrraXo^os." 

Note 6, page 196, line 49. 
Turning rivers into blood. 

See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, &c. « The first angel 
sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with 
blood," &c. 

Verse 8. " And the second angel sounded, and as it 
were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into 
the sea ; and the third part of the sea became blood," 

Verse 10. " And the third angel sounded, and there 
fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; 
and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon 
the fountains of waters." 

Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called JVortn- 
wood : and the third part of the waters became worm- 
wood ; and many men died of the waters, because they 
were made bitter." 

Note 7, page 196, line 65. 

Whose realm refused thee even a tomb. 

Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the 
grave and burnt. 

Note 8, page 197, line 20. 
Blessing him they served so well. 
" At Waterloo one man was seen, whose left arm 
was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off" with 
the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to 
his comrades, 'Vive TEmpcreur, jusqu'Ji la mort !* 
There were many other instances of the like ; this you 
may, however, depend on as true." — A private Letter 
from Brussels. 



Note 9, page 197, line 65. 
Of three bright colours, each divine. 
The tri-colour. 

Note 10, page 198, line 14. 
Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore, 
Geneva, Ferney, Coppet, Lausanne. 

Note 11, page 200, line 126. 
Like to the Pontic Monarch of old daye, 
Mithridates of Pontus. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



'T is the scmset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before." 
Campbell. 



DEDICATION. 
Ladv ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 

Where was I born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copy of the South s subhme. 

Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 

Fall short of his immortal harmonv, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 

Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 

Spak'st ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, cuid such charms display'd, 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 
Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



PREFACE. 

bx the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna m the 
summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that hav- 
mg composed something on the subject of Tasso's con- 
finement, he should do the same on Dante's exile — the 
tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of in- 
terest in that cit}-. both to the native and to the stranger. 

■On this hint I spake," and tlie result has been the 
following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the 
reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my 
purpose to continue the poem in varous other cantos to 
its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is 
requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the 
interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia 
and his death, and shordy before the latter event, foretell- 
ing the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centu- 
ries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the 
Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by 
Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The 
mejisure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am 
not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, ex- 
cept it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I 
never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to CaUph 
Vathek ; so that — if I do not err — this poem may be 
con.sidered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are 
short, and about the same length of those of the poet, 
whose name I have borrowed, and most probably taken 
in vain. 

Among the inconveniences of authors in the present 
day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, 
to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the 
fourth canto of Childe Harold translated into Itahan versi 
sciolti — that is, a poem written in the Spenserean stanza 
into blank verse, without regard to the natural divisions of 
the stanza, or of the sense. If the present poem, being on 
a national topic should chance to undergo the same fate, 
I would request the ItaUan reader to remember that 
when I have failed in the imitation of his great " Padre 
Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which all study 
and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet 
settled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first 
canto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious 



and probable. conjecture may be considered as having 
decided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not 
quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, 
since the Italicins, vrith a pardonable nationality, are par- 
ticularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation — their 
hterature ; and in the present bitterness of the classic and 
romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a fbreigneri 
even to approve or imitate them without finding soe 
fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily' 
enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in Eng- 
land of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of_ 
Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to th« 
rising generation as a model for their future poeticcil essaj 
But I perceive that I am de\'iating into an address to the 
Italian reader, when my business is with the English on^J 
and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. 



and 
)ne,| 



CANTO I. 

Once more in man's frail world ! which I had feft 
So long that 't was forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay agam, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 

My eartlily sorrows, and to Gtxi's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal. 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
IVIidst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd' 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 

IVIysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 

So long hath prest, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone. 

That naught on earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, 

Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete.* 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my hfe, the essence of my thought, 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 

Still in these dim old eyes, now ovenvTought 

Widi the world's war, and years, and banishment, 

.. And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd ; 
Aid though tlie long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my minds eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 



PROPHECY OP DANTE. 



207 



Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Ctuench'd the old exile's spirit, stem and high. 

But the sun, though not over-cast, must set, 
And the night cometh ; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 

The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure ; 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure, 

Though such was not my ambition's end or aim. 
To add to the vainglorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, J 

And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
/^ would have had my Florence great and free : ' 
Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, " but thou would'st not ;" as the bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee ^ 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce. 
Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce. 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who /or that country would expire, 
But did not merit to expire by her, . 

And loves her, loves her even in her ire. J 

The day may come when she will cease to err. 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer * 

Of him whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth Is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 

No, — she denied me what was mine — my roo^ 
And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 

Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation proof. 

The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part 
Of a true citizen fulfiU'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelf 's ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgetfulness, 
Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less. 

Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thino 
My own Beatrice', I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land which once was mine. 
And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 
Which would protect tho murderess like a shrine, 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
Though, like old Marius from Minturnas's marsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er-arch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
Who long have sufTcr'd more than mortal wo, 

And yet being mortal still, have no repose 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream fjf blood, and waking glows 



With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change. 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Aie range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks Great God' 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield I 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain. 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 

For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee ! 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign. 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now, 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things come back. 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack. 
Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black. 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary aad hopeless, but less hard to bear, 
For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 

On the lone rock of Desolate Despair 
To lift my eyes more to the passinor sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
I am not of this people, nor this age. 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage. 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 

Worthless as they who wrought it : 't is the doom 
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
Then future tlioiisands crowd around their tomb. 

And pilgrims come from climes where they have known 
The name of him — who now is but a name. 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone. 

Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 
And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame 

My mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common sight to every common eye, 

A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
That make communion sweet, and soften pain- 
To feel me in the soHtude of kings 
Without the power that makes tliem bear a crown- 
To envy every dove his nest and wings 

Wliich waft him where the Apenninc looks doAvn 
On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 
Within my all inexorable town. 

Where yet my boys arc, and that fatal she,' 

Their mother, the cokl partner who hath brought 
Destruction for a dowry — tliis to see 

And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
A bitter lesson ; but it loaves mo froo : 
I have not vilely found, nor basely souglU, 

Thoy maiie an Exile — not a slave of mo. 



CANTO II. 

The Spirit of tiic fon'cnt days of Old, 

When words wore tilings that aiuw to pass, and 
thought 

Flaah'd o'er the future, bidding nion bolmld 
Tlii'ir children's children's doom nlroiidy brought 

Forth from the abyss of lime which is lo bo, 

Tho rhaoB of ovonts, where lie half-^vrought 



208 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 

What the great Seers of Israel wore within, 
That spirit was on them, and is on me. 
And ij^ Cassandra- like, amidst the din 
Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 
This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 
Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
The only guerdon I have ever known. 
Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 
Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
In thine irreparable wrongs my ovm ; 
We can have but one country, and even yet 
Thou 'rt mine — my bones shall be within thy breast. 
My soul within thy language, which once set 
With our old Roman sway in the wide West ; 
But I will make another tongue arise 
As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 
The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs, 

Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
That every word, as brilliant as thy slues, 
Shall realize a poet's proudest dream, 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 
So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess its barbarism, when compared with thine. 
This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 
Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd GhibelJine. 
Wo ! wo ! the veil of coming centuries 
Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 
Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
Float from eternity into these eyes ; 
The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station. 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 
But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
The elements await but for the word, 
"Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomo! 
Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword, 
Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : 
Ah I must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 
Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 
For the world's granary ; thou whose sky heaven gilds 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 
Her palace, in whose cradled Empire grew, 
And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew ; 
Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy paints. 
And finds her prior vision but portray 'd 

In feeble colours, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 
Of desert-loving pine, whose emeraUrscalp 

Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 
And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help 
To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, 
Thou — Thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 

The Goth hath been,— the German, Frank, and Hun 
Are yet to come, — and on the imperial hill 
Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 
Rome at her feet Ues bleedmg ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 
And deepens into red the safl^ron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter 



Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 
And bird, wolfj vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 
But those, the human savages, explore 
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, 
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 
Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set f 
The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, 
Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
Tho hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 
Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance 
But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 

Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, and fori 
ever! 
Why sleep the idle avalanches so. 

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey 
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 
Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — ^why 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 
And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die. 
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 
The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew. 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 
Their passes more alluring to the view 
Of an invader ? is it they, or ye. 

That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, 
And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 
WJiy, Nature's self detains the victor's car. 
And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Could be so; but alone she will not war, 
Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 

In a soil where the mothers bring forth men ; 
Not so with those whose souls are little worth; 
For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 
The hearts of those wdthin are quivering. 
Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring 
Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil. 
While still Division sows the seeds of wo 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 
Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 
To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops. 
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee, 
And join their strength to that which with thee copes 
What is there wanting then to set thee free 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we. 
Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite. 



CANTO HI. 

From out the mass of never-dying ill. 

The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword, 

Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 
And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth 

And ocean written o'er would not afford 
Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 



I 



II 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



909 



Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven. 
There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, 
Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven. 
The bloody scroll of our millennial v/rongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athwart the sounds of archangelic songs. 
And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 

Lilce to a harpstring stricken by the wind, 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's dust by immortality refined 
To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff, 
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
Before the storm because its breath is rough, 

To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
I loved emd love, devote the mournful lyre 
And melancholy gift high powers allow 

To read the future ; and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 

Think not that I would look on them and live. 
A spirit forces me to see and speak, 
And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 

My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break: 
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 

Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy night, 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb 

Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot bhght ; 
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
To give thee honour, and the earth delight ; 

Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise. 

The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 

Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,' 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ;^ 
For thee alone they have no arm to save, 

And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 

Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
The being— and even yet he may be born — 
The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 

And see thy diadem so changed and worn 
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced , 
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn. 

Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 
And noxious vapours from Avernus risen, 
Such as all tliey must breathe who are debased 

By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
Yet through this centuricd eclip.^e of wo 
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 

Poets shall follow hi the path I show. 

And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, 

And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shall sing 
Many of love, and some of liberty. 

But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 
And look in the si:n's face with eagle's gaze 
All free and fearless as the feathcr'd king, 

But fly more- near the earth ; how many a phrase 
Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince 
In all the prodigality of nraisc ! 

And language, eloquently false, cvinco 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 
Too ofl forgets its own self-revercnco, 

And looks on prof^litution as a duty. 
"He who once enters in n tyrant's hall 
As guest is slave, his thoui^hts hecime a booty, 

And the. first day which sees the eliain ei'lhral 
2R 



A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — '° 

The soul's emasculation saddens all 
His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the throne 

duails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 

How servile is the task to please alone ! 
To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 

And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 

Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 
Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's trebles, 

He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 

Should rise up in high treason to his brain. 

Ho sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 
In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain. 

But out of the long file of sonneteers 

There shall be some who will not sing in vain. 
And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers,' > 

And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 

Shall make an immortality of tears. 
And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 

Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 

Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 
But in a farther age shall rise along 

The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 

The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong 
Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 

The first will make an epoch with his lyre. 

And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire. 

Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 

Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire: 
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 

Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 

And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 
By the transparency of his bright dream. — 

The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 

Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 

Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 

Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 

And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 

The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 

Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, 
Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 

Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame 

Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 

And call captivity a kindness, meant 

To shield him from insanity or shame. 
Such shall be his meet guerdon I who was sent 

To be Christ's Laureat — they reward him well! 

Florence dooms me but death or banishment 
Ferrara him a pittance and a coll. 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 

Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; 
But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 

Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign 

To embalm with his celestial flattery 
As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 

What will he do to merit such a doom? 

Perhaps he'll lone, — and is not lovo in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb? 

Yet it will ho so — he and his compeer, 

The Hard of C^hivalry, will both consume 
In penury and pain too many a year, 

Ami, dying in despondency, bequeath 

To tlie kind workl, which scarce will yield a tear, 
A lu'ritage enriching all who breathe 

With the wealth of a genuine poei'p s(m-|, 

And to their country a redoebled \\T<'n*li, 
Uninalch'd by time ; not HelUis enn unroll 



210 



PROPHECY OP DANTE. 



Through her olympiads two such names, though one 
Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 
Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries run, 
Their body's self turn'd soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 
Conduct? shall their' bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scatter'd ? Yes, and it must be, 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 
These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 
And die or are degraded, for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
And vulture pasions flying close behind. 
Await the moment to assail and tear ; 

And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-bird's triumph, then they share 
The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 
Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have been, 
And if my name among the number were. 
That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 
Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 

Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung. 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
breast 
A temporary torturing flame is wrung. 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 
The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO IV. 

Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets but vnthout the name, 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate. 

And be the new Prometheus of new men. 
Bestowing fixe from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower. 
Who having lavish'd his high gift in vain. 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the seashore ? 
So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 

Which still recoils from its incumbering clay 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay, 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking brow 
Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear : 

One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 
Or deify the canvass till it shine 
With beauty so surpassing all below, 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 

Of poesy, which peoples but the air 



With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
Can do no more: then let the artist share 
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair and Genius are too oft connected. 
Within the ages which before me pass 

Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 
And Roman souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrought by Itahan hands. 
And temples, loftier than the old temples, give 
New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A dome, ^^ its image, while the base expands 
Into a fame surpassing all before, 
Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 
As this, to which all nations shall repair, 

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven 
And the bold Architect unto whose care 
The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, 
Whether into the marble chaos driven 
His chisel bid the Hebrew, ^^ at whose word 
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne,'* 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see. 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me,*" 
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 
Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 
Calamity the nations with distress, 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 
Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, 
Fragrant as fair, and recc^gnised afar, 
Wafting its native uicense through the skies. 
Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvass or on stone ; and they who mar 
All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 

Shall feel the power of that which they destroy, 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 
To tyrants, who but take her for a toy. 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud, '^ who but employ 
The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burden, and to serve a need. 
To sell his labours and his soul to boot. 
Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 

But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd 
Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest ! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 
Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine. 
Tread on the universal necks that bow. 
And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 
From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
Must pass their days in penury or pain. 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame. 
And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
Or if their destiny be bom aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 
In their own souls suetain a harder proof^ 



PROPHEOY OF DANTE. 



211 



The inner war of passions deep and fierce? 

Florence ! when thy harsh sentence ra/.ed my roof; 
I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse, 

The hate of injuries which every year 

Makes greater, and accumulates my curse. 
Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear. 

Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that. 

The most infernal of all evils here, 
The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 

For such sway is not limited to kings 

And demagogues yield to them but in date 
As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things 

Which make men hate themselves, and one another. 

In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 
From Death the Sin-bom's incest with his mother, 

In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 

The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother. 
And the worst despot's far less human ape : 

Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 

Yeam'd, as the captive toiling at escape, 
To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 

An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 



Seas, mouutainsj and the horizon's verge for bars, 
Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 
"VVhere — whatso'er his fate — he still were hers. 

His country's, and might die where he had birth — 
Florence! when this lone spirit shall return 
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth 

And seek to honour with an empty urn 
The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain— Alas \ 
« What have I done to thee, my people ?" " Stem 

Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
The limits of man's common mahce, for 
All that a citizen could be I was ; 

Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me.— 'T is done: 
I may not overleap the eternal bar 

Built up between us, and will die alone, 
Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 
The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, 

Fortelling them to those who will not hear 
As in the old time, till the hour be come 
When Truth shall strike their eyes through many 
a tear, 

And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 



NOTES TO PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Note 1, page 206, line 11. i 

Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless d. 
The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pro- 
nunciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 

Note 2, page 206, line 27. 
My paradise hxul still been incomplete. 
« Che sol per le belle opre 
Che fanno in Cieloil sole e 1' altre stelle 
Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso^ 
Cosi se guardi fiso 

Pensar ben d6i ch' ogni terren' piacere. 
Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Bea^ 
trice, Strophe third. 

Note 3, page 207, line 20 

/ umdd have had my Florence great and free. 

" L'Esilio che m' b dato onor mi tegno. 

♦ ♦ * * * 

Cader tra' buoni b pur di lode dcgno." 

Sonnet of Dante, 
in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Tempe- 
rance as banished from among men, and seeking refuge 
from Love, who inhabits his bosom. 

Note 4, page 207, line 36. 
The dust she dooms to scatter. 
« Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in foitiamdicli 
communis pervenerit, tcUlis perveniens igne comburatur, 
tic quod moriatur." 

Second sentence of Florence against Dante, and the 
fourteen accused with him.— The Latin is worthy of 
the sentence. 

Note 5, page 207, line 133. 
IVhereyet my hoys are, and that fatal she. 
This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one 
of the most powerful Guelf families, named Dt'iiali. 
Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Uln- 
bellinea. She is described as being ''Admodum viorosa, 
ut de Xantippe Socratisphilosophi couju^r.scriptu77icssc 
legimus" according to Glannozzo Mmietli. Hut Lio- 
nardo Aretino is scandalized with Boecacc, in lus life of 
Dante, for saying that literary men should nut iimrry. 
«« Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le^ mogli 
esser conlrarie agli studj ; e non si ri(;orda che Socrate 
ilp ill nobile filoaofo cho mai fosse, ebbo uioglie e ligli- 



uoli e uffici della Repubblica nella sua C'lUk ; e Aristo- 
tele che, &c. &c. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe 
fialiuoh, e ricchezze assai.— E Marco Tullio— e Ca- 
t(?ne— e Varrone— e Seneca— cbbero moglie," &c. &c. 
It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the ex- 
ception of Seneca, and for any thing I know of Aris- 
totle, are not the most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, 
and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to 
their husbands' happiness, whatever they might do to 
their philosophy— Cato gave away his wife— of Var- 
ro's we know nothing— and of Seneca's, only that she 
was disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived 
several years ailerwards. But says Lionardo, « L uo- 
mo b animale civile, secondo piace a tutti i filosoh. 
And thence concludes that the greatest proot ot the 
animaVfi civism is " la prima congiunzione, dalla quale 
multiplicata nasce la Citta." 

Note 6, page 208, hne 65 

Nine moons shall rise o^er scenes like this and set. 

See " Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guic- 

ciardini. Tliere is another written by a Jacopo 

Buonaparte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si trov6 

presente 

Note 7, page 209, lino 39. 
Conciucrors on foreign shores, and the far wave 
Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of 
Savoy, Montecucco. 

Note 8, page 209, line 40. 

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 

Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. 

Note 9, page 209, line 73. 

He who once enters in a tyranCs hall, ^c. 

A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which 

Pomney took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in 

whicli he was slain. 

Note 10, page 209, lines 75 and 76. 

And thejirst day which sees the chain ruthral, ^c. 

The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

Note 11, page 209, line 93. 

Ami he, their prince, shall rank among my peers. 

Petrarch. 



212 



CAIN. 



Note 12, page 210, line 87. 
A. dome, its image. 
The cupola of St. Peter's. 

Note 13, page 210, line 97. 
His chisel bid the Hebrew. 
The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. 
SONETTO 
Di Gwrnnrd Battisia Zappi. 
Chi h costui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
Siede gigante ; e le piii illustre, e conte 
Prove dell' arte avvanza, e ha vive, e pronte 
Le labbia si, che le parole ascolto ? 
Q,uest' 6 Mose ; ben me '1 diceva il folto 
Onor del mento, e '1 doppio raggio in fronte, 
duest' 6 Mose, quando scendea del monte, 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 
Tal era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste 
Acque ei sospese a se d' intorno, e tale 
Gluando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba altrui. 
E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate ? 
Alzata aveste imago aquesta eguale! 
Ch' era men fallo I' adorar costui. 



Note 14, page 210, line 100. 
Over the damri'd before the Judgment throne. 
The Last Judgment in the Sistine chapel 

Note 15, page 210, line 103. 
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me. 
I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot 
recollect %vhere) that Dante w^as so great a favourite of 
Michel Angiolo's, that he had designed the whole of 
the Divina Commedia; but that the volume containing 
these studies was lost by sea. 

Note 16, page 210, Une 123. 
Her charms to porUiffs proud, who but emphy, 4rc. 
See the treatment of Michel Angiolo by Julius II. 
and his neglect by Leo X. 

Note 17, page 211, line 32. 

" What have I done to thee, my people 7^ 

"E scrisse piii volte non solamente a particolari 

cittadini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra 

1' altre una Epistola assai lunga che comincia: — *Po- 

pide mi, quid fed tibi ?' " 

Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aretino. 



CAIN; 

A MYSTERY. 



••Now the Serpent waa more aubtUe than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made."— Oen. liL 1. 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

THIS "MYSTERY OF CAIN" IS INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 

The following scenes are entitled « a Mystery," in 
conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
similar subjects, which were styled " Mysteries, or Mo- 
raUties." The author has by no means taken the same 
liberties with his subject which were conunon formerly, 
as may be seen by any reader curious enough to refer 
to those very profane productions, whether in English, 
French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavoured 
to preserve the language adapted to his characters ; and 
where it is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual 
Scripture, he has made as little alteration, even of words, 
as the rhythm would permit. The reader will recollect 
that the book of Genesis does not state that Eve was 
tempted by a demon, but by " the Serpent ;" and that only 
because he was " the most subtile of all the beasts of the 
field." Whatever interpretation the Rabbins and the 
Fathers may have put upon this, I must take the words 
as I find them, and reply with Bishop AVatson upon simi- 
lar occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, as 
Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, "Behold the 
Booj. i" — holding up the Scripture. It is to be recollected 
that my present subject has nothing to do with the New 
Testament, to which no reference can be here made with- 
out anachronism. With the poems upon simUar topics I 



have not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty I 
have never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
before, that this may make little difference. Gesner's 
" Death of Abel" I have never read since I was eight 
years of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of 
my recollection is delight ; but of the contents I remember 
only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's 
Thirza : in the following pages I have called them " Adah" 
and " Zilla," the earliest female names which occur in 
Genesis ; they were those of Lamech's wives : tliose of 
Cain and Abel are not called by their names. Whether, 
then, a coincidence of subject may have caused the same 
in expression, I know nothing, and care as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few 
choose to recollect) that there is no allusion to a future 
state in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the Old 
Testament. For a reason for this extraordinary omission 
he may consult " Warburton's Divine Legation ;" whether 
satisfactory or not, no better has yet been assigned. I 
have therefore supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope, 
any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult 
for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon the same 
subjects : but I have done what I could to restrain him 
within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of the 



CAIN. 



213 



Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has not 
the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, but 
merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 

jyfote. — The reader will perceive that the author has 
partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that the 
world had been destroyed several times before the crea- 
tion of man. This speculation, derived from the different 
strata and the bones of enormous and unknown animals 
found in them, is not contrary to the Mosaic account, but 
rather confirms it ; as no human bones have yet been 
discovered in those strata, although those of many knovm 
animals are found near the remains of the unknown. The 
assertion of Lucifer, that the pre-adamite world was also 
peopled by rational beings much more intelligent than 
man, and proportionably powerful to the mammoth, &c. 
&c. is, of course, a poetical fiction to help him to make 
out his case. 

I ought to add, that there is a « Tramelogedie" of Al- 
fieri, called « Abel."— I have never read that nor any other 
of the posthumous works of the writer, except his Life. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
MEN. WOMEN. 

Adam. Eve. 

Cain. Adah. 

Abel. Zillah. 

SPIRITS. 
Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — The land withmit Paradise. — 2\Vne, Sunrise. 



Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah 

Sacri/ice. 

Adam. God, the Eternal! Infinite! All-wise! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firnjament — all hail ! 

Abel. God! who didst call the elements into 
Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
And night, and worlds which these illuminate 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them. 
And love both them and thee — all hail ! all hail ! 

Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Let me love thee and them: — All hail! all hail! 

ZUlaJi. Oh, God ! who loving, making, blessing all, 
Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in, 
And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from fiirlhor evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 

Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thou 
silent ? 

Cain. Why should I speak ? 

Adam. To pray. 

Cain. Have ye not pray'd'' 

Adam. Wo have, most fervently. 

Cain. And loudly: I 

Have heard you, 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen ! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest-born, art silent still. 

Cain. 'T is better I should be so. 

Adain. Wherefore so ? 

Cain. I have naught to ask. 

Adam. Nor aught to thank (orl 

Cain. No. 



Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve. Alas ! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall. 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of knowledge ? 

Cain. And wherefore plucked ye not the tree of life ? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

Adam. Oh! my son. 

Blaspheme not : these are serpent's words. 

Cain. 'VVTiy not? 

The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of knowledge ; 
It was the tree of life : knowledge is good. 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 

Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke in sin, 
Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son ! 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let ys hence. 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labour. 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resigned. 
And do as he doth. [Exeunt Adam and Eve. 

Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 

Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy brow 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger? 

Adah. My beloved Cam, 

Wilt thou frown even on me ? 

Cain. No, Adah ! no ; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I 'm sick at heart ; but it will pass : 
Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And yon, too, sisters, tarry not behind 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I '11 follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I wiU 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel. The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother ! 

[Exeunt Abel, Zillaii, and Adah. 

Cain, (solus.) And this is 

Life !— Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ?— because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had / done in this ? — I was unborn, 
I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or. 
Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew 
The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
One answer to all questions, "'twas his will, 
And /«; is good." How know I that ? Because 
Ho is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow? 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not nune. 
Whom have wo here ? — A shape like to the angels, 
Yet of a sterner ami a sadder aspect 
Of spiritual essence : why do I (piake ? 
Why should I fear him more than othor spiril.s. 
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
before iho gates round which I linger ofl. 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritunco, 
Km the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
And the immorlal trees which overtop 



214 



CAIN. 



The cherubim-defended battlements ? 

If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 

Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? 

Yet he seems mightier far than they, nor less 

Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 

As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 

Half of his immortality. And is it 

So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 

He Cometh. 

ErUer Lucifek. 
Lucifer. Mortal ! 

Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? 

Jjucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

Cain, How ! 

You know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

Worthy of thought ; — ^"t is your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part? 

This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death! 
Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. 
Cain. I live. 

But Uve to die : and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A loathsome and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 

Lucifer. Thoulivest, and must Uve forever: think not 
The earth, which is thine outward coVring, is 
Existence — ^it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

Cain. No less! and why 

No more ? 

Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we 
Cain. And ye ? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting. 

Cain. Are ye happy ? 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 
Cain. Are ye happy ? 

Lucifer. No: art thou? 

Cain. How should I be so? Look on me ! 
Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 

Cain. I am: — and thou, with all thy might, what 

art thou ? 
Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. I am none : 

And having fail'd to be one, would be naught 
Save what I am. He conquer'd; let him reign ! 
Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's. 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 
Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, 
on pain 
Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain. And what is that? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made. 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 



But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 

We are immortal ! — nay, he 'd have us so, 

That he may torture :— let him! He is great— 

But, in his greatness, is no happier than 

We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 

Evil; and what else hath he made? But let him 

Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 

Creating worlds, to make eternity 

Less burdensome to his immense existence 

And unparticipated solitude ! 

Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 

Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ! 

Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best boon 

He ever granted : but let him reign on, 

And multiply himself in misery ! 

Spirits and men, at least we sympathise ; 

And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 

Innumerable, more endurable, 

By the unbounded sympathy of all — 

With all ! But He ! so wretched in his height, . 

So restless in his wretchedness, must still 1 

Create, and re-create 

Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which long have 
swum 

In visions through my thought : I never could 

Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 

My father and my mother talk to me 

Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 

The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim. 

Which shut them out, and me : I fee the weight 
Of daily toil, and constant thought ; I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things :— but I thought alone 
This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she too understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
Now met I aught to sympathise with me. 

Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 
Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by thine own 
soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am: a serpent j 

Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
Cam. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 
Lucifer. T tempt none^ 

Save with the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful? Did /bid her pluck them not? 
Did / plant things prohibited within 
The reach of beings irmocent, and curious 
By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye 
Because «ye should not eat the fruits of life. 
And become gods, as we." Were those his words? 
Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who 
heard them, 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge ? 

Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither ! 

Lucifer. One is yours already. 

The other may be still. 



CAIN. 



215 



Cain. How so? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
duench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sway. 

Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents ? 

Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 

Lucifer. Who 

Sailh that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and Uttle vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
In nature being earth also — more in unsdom, 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that die ? 

Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 

Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
Have roU'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him, who made things but to bend 
Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou Icnow'st not. 

With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not loiow, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 

Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou to look on Death ? 

Cain. He has not yet 

Been seen. 

Lucifer. But must be undergone. 

Cain. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth. 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

Lucifer. And thou? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah! 

I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being? 

Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. The Maker— call him 

Which name thou wilt : ho makes but to destroy. 

Cain. I know not that, yet thought it, since I heard 
Of death : although I know not what it is, 
Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 



In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 

And when I saw gigantic shadows in 

The umbrage of the waOs of Eden, chequer'd 

By the far-flashing of the cherub's swords, 

I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; for 

With fear rose longing in my heart to know 

What 't was which shook us all — but nothing came. 

And then I tum'd my weary eyes from off 

Our native and forbidden Paradise, 

Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 

Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ! 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and 
thee. 

Cain. I 'm glad of that ; I would not have them die, 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
I cannot compass: 'tis denounced against us, 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
What iU ? 

Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it ? 

Lucifer. As I know not death, 

I cannot answer. 

Cain. Were I quiet earth 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust ! 

Lnidftr. That is a grov'ling wish, 

Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
The life-tree? 

Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error! 

Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing-, 
see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me aD? 

iMcifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships 

Lucifer. No. 

Cain. His equal? 

Lucifer. No; — I have naught m common >vith him! 
Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou among tlie first. 

Cain. I never 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
Why should I bow to tliee ? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him? 

Cain. Have I not said it? — need I say it? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 

Lucifer. Ho who bows not to him has bow'd to mc I ' 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the loss. 

Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine tho same. 

Cain. And what is tliat ? 

Lucifer^ Thou It know here — and hrroafli'r. 

Cain. Let m<* but 

Bo taught tho mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

WluTo I will lead thoo. 

Viiin. But I must rt-tiro 
To till the earth — for I had promised 



216 



CAIN. 



Lmnfer. What? 

Cain, To cull some first-fruits. 
Lucifer. Why? 

Cain. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar. 

Ludfer. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee? 

Cain. Yes 

But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 

The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 

Limfer. Why dost thou hesitate. 
Cain. She is my sister, 

Born on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; and 
Rather than see her weep, I would, methinks, 
Bear all — and worship aught. 

Liucifer. Then follow me ! 

Cain. I will. 

Enter Adah. 
Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 
This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
Come away. 

Cain. See'st thou not ? 

Adah. I see an angel ; 

We have seen many ; will he share our hour 
Of rest ? — he is welcome. 

Cain. But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others ? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
To be our guests — will he ? 

Cain^ {to Ludfer.) Wilt thou ? 

LwAfer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us ? 
Cain. Ay ? 

Adah. And me 1 

Cain. Beloved Adah! 

Adah. Let me go with thee ? 
Ludfer. No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 
Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 
Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 
Ludfer. Thou errest, Adah !— was not the tree that 
Of knowledge ? 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 

Ludfer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he Ued 
not: 
And if he did betray you, 't was with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill: expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which Cometh not. Cain! walk not with this spirit. 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
Love thee. 

Ludfer. More than thy mother, and thy sire? 
Adah. 1 do. Is that a sin, too ? 
Ludfer. No, not yet ; 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. What ! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 
iMdfer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 
Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that love. 



Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 
Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other ? and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them?— And as I love thee, my Cain! go not 
Forth \vith this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

Ludfer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 

Of 

Ludfer. Higher things than ye are slaves : and higher 
Than they or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smooth agonies of adulation 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love. 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Ludfer. Was it so in Eden ? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not wdth beauty ; thou art 
fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Ludfer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother: bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 

Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than to thyself; thou at the least hast past 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits ; 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden. 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear, 
And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near. 
Nearer and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me from him ! 
Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 
Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
Like them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 

The archangels. 
Ludfer. And still loftier than the archangels. 

Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
Lvxnfer. If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 

Ludfer. And if the higher knowledge quenches love, 
What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
That they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
No other choice : your sire hath chosen already ; 
His worship is but fear. 

Adah. Oh, Cain ! choose love. 



CAIN. 



217 



Ccdn. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
Bom with ftie — but I love naught else. 

Adc^. *^ Our parents ? 

Cain. Did'i^ey love us when they snatch'd from the 
tree -j^v. 
That which h'a|| driven us all from Paradise? 

Adah. We \^e not born then — and if we had been, 
Should we not love them and our children, Cain? 

Cain. My little Enoch ! and his Usping sister 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 
Shall men love the remembrance of the man 
Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 
In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree of science 
And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 
Begot me — thee — and all the few that are. 
And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 
Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 
To inherit agonies accumulated 
By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ! 
Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 
The rapturous moment and the placid hour 
All we love in our children and each other. 
But lead them and ourselves through many years 
Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 
Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 
To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of know- 
ledge 
Hath not fulfiU'd its promise : — ^if they sinn'd. 
At least they ought to have known all things that are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy then alone— 

I will have naught to do with happmess. 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not, 

Nor wouM be happy : but with those around us, 
I think I could be so, despite of death, 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

hudfer. And thou couldst not 

Aimve^ thou say'st, be happy ? 

Adah. Alone! Oh, my God! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 

Laicifer. Yet thy God is alone, and is he happy ? 
Lonely and good ? 

Adah. He is not so ; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy : 
What else can joy be but the spreading joy? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 
Or of his first-born son ; ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 

Are you of heaven ? 

tudfer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
Maker of life and living things ; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
And some of us resist, and both in vain. 
His seraphs say: but it is worth the trial, 
Since better may not be without : there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming tlie morn. 
2C 



Adah. It is a beautiful star; I love it for 
Its beauty. 
Lucifer. And why not adore ? 
Adah. Our father 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the sjTnbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen him ? 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer. But in his being ? 

Adah. No — 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming : as the silent sunny noon. 
All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds' 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing. 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy: do not make us so, 
And I will weep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed 

Adah. By me? 

Lucifer. By all. 

Adah. What all? 

Lucifer. The million millions— 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. O Cain ! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Ludfer. Did not your Maker mako 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work. 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy'd in few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he 

In sooth return within an hour? 

Ludfer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour. 
Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
We breathe not by a mortal measurement— 
But that 's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 

Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One) — shall come back to thee 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present tliero 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Wliere dwellest thou? 

Ludfer. Throughout all space. Where should I 
dwell ? Where are 
Tliy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 



218 



CAIN. 



Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
Mis, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I were not that which I have said, 
Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 

Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst 5 nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 

[Exeunt Lucifer and Cain. 

Adah {follows, exclaiming) Cain! my brother! Cain ! 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — The Abyss of Space. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt — and perish 
thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things. 
Which, knowing naught beyond their shallow senses, 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced, for doubts beyond thy httle life. 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me. 
And walk the waters ;" and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe. / will not say. 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny, the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth ? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not, recognise 

The dust which form'd your father ? 

Cain. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether. 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 
Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
And they who guard them? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller. 
And as it waxes little, and then less. 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them. 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 



Though multipUed to animated atoms. 

All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 

What wouldst thou think? 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Wliich loiew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 
Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and. 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
As frail, and few so happy 

Cain. Spirit! I 

Know naught of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
Tf I may judge till now. But, spirit ! if 
It be as thou hast said, (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth,) 
Here let me die: for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death. 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

AU die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

Lucifer. I am angelic: wouldst thou be as I am? 

Cain. I know not what thou art: I see thy power. 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
Beyond all power of my bom faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they, which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but since it must be. 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Cain. How ? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must torture be immortal ? 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, behold \ 
Is it not glorious ? 

Cain. Oil, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion, at which my soul aches to think. 
Intoxicated with eternitv ? 



CAIN. 



219 



Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die, 
(If that they die) or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
Spirit! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine earth ! 
Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

iMcifer. Look there! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. What, yonder ! 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 

Why I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds. 
Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them ? 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
The little shming fire-fly in its flight, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Show me. 

Lucifer, Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold ? as yet, thou hast shown naught 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 

Cain. Why, what are things ? 

Lucifer. Both partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ? 

Cain. The things I have not seen. 

Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which have 
cUed, 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die? 

Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade 
from us ! 
The earth ! where is my earth ? let me look on it. 
For I was made of it. 

Ludfer. 'T is now beyond thee. 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it : 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust ; 
'T is part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cain What ! is it not then new ? 

Ludfer. No more than life is ; and that was ere thou 
Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as moan 
As thou ; and mightcr things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than wo can 
Surniiso ; for momenta only and tho apace , 

Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
But changes make not death, cxccipt to clay ; 
But tliou art clay — and canst but coinprohond 
That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 



Cain. Clay, spirit! What thou \vilt, I can survey. 

Ludfer. Away, then ! 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fast, 

And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

Ludfer. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men? 

Ludfer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay? and serpents too ? 

Ludfer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? must 
no reptiles 
Breathe, save the erect ones ? 

Cain. How the Ughts recede ! 

Where fly we? 

Ludfer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. But it grows dark, and dark — the stars are 
gone ! 

Ludfer. And yet thou seest. 

Cain. 'T is a fearful light! 

No sun, no moon, no Ughts innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary tviilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses ; but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of hfe even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took 
Like them the features of fair earth : — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Ludfer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things? 

Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold ! 

Cain. ' T is darkness. 

Ludfer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapours roll 

Apart — what 's this ? 

Ludfer. Enter! 

Cain. Can I return ? 

Ludfer. Return! be sure: how else should death be 
peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be. 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round us. 

Ludfer. Advance! 

Cain. And thou ! 

Ludfer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 

[They disappear Uirough the douds. 

bcENE II. — Hades. 
Enter Lucifer and Cain. 

Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim worlds ! 
For they soein more than ono, and yet more peopled 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swiuig 
So thickly in tho ujipor air, that I 
Had dooni'd (lioin rather tho bright populace 
Of some all uniniaginablo hoavon 
Than things to be inhabited themsolvea, 
Rut that on drawing near them I behold 
'rinir swelling into palpablo immonsity 
Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell oa, 



220 



CAIN. 



Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death. — Wouldst have it present ? 

Cain. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing — 
Oh God! I dare not think on't! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death ! 
Or the dull mass of Ufe, that being life 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it- 
Even for the innocent ! 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father? 

Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

Luafer. Thou say'st well : 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother ? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
Bequeath'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and aJl 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
Live ye, or have ye Uved ? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death? 

Luqfer. What? hath not he who made ye 

Said 't is another life ? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

Lueifer. Perhaps 

He one day will unfold that further secret. 

Cain. Happy the day ! 

Lucifer. Yes, happy ! when unfolded 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only ! 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I see 
Floating around me ? — they wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adam's and in Abel's, and in mine. 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my cluldren's : 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like somethmg, which, 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Ccdn. Where? 

Lucifer. Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When? 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee— but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And 'what are they? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou Shalt be. 



Cain. But what were they ? 

Lucifer. Living, Fugh, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things. 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could ere have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ;— and how weak they are, judge 
By thy own flesh. 

Ccdn. Ah me! and did they perish? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from 
thine. 

Cain. But was mine theirs ? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. • But not as now. 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 

Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

Cain. But how ? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 

Destruction and disorder of the elements. 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such thmgs, 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 1 

Cain. 'T is awful! I 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! they ' 
were once 
Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them? 

Lucifer. Let He who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are. 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shail have — death ; the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness— 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which ^- 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were ; ^ 

Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — I '11 waft thee there in safety. 

Cain. No : I '11 stay here. 

Lucifer. How long? 

Cain. For ever ! since 

I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
A vision tliat which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwellmg, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou see'st have 

pass'd — 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gate have we enter'd 

Even now? 

Lucifer. By mine I but, phghted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repass 
To earth again? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever— 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 



CAIN. 



Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 't was — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it was ! 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st, 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd. 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cam. But 

None on it? 

Lucifer. No: for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it useless — 
'T would be destroy'd so early. 

Cain. But why war ? 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
Which drove your race from Eden — war with all things, 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

Did they too eat of it, that they must die ? 

Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made for you. 
As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Coin. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge ! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knowledge still : but what knows man? 

Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest know- 
ledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain. 
At least leads to the surest science : therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
To know there are such reahns. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Ijucifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this mom. 

Cain. But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality, 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid spaco 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I shouki deem 



The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it ? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 't is the phantasm of an ocean. 

Cain. 'T is like another world ; a liquid sun— 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface? 

Lucifer. Are its habitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on— 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
Had more of beauty. 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him? 

Cain. Many of the same kind, (at least so call'd,) 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 

Lucifer. Your father saw him not? 

Cain. No : 't was my mother 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 

Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons' 
wives. 
Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange. 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late: there is no more 
For serpents to tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt man to^ 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it! 
My council is a kind one ; for 't is even 
Given chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 
'Twill not be foUow'd, so there 's little lost. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 

Thy world and thou art still too young ! Thou thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so ? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou suflferest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st be ; and that state again, 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust, (which they 
In fact but add to,) shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Yes ; 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

Wlien he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the samo 
A part of all things. 

Cain. Not of all tlungs. 

I'll not boliove it — for I thirst for rjoiHi. 

Luc\fer. And who aiul what doth not? 



as being 



No: 

[evil 
Who covets 



CAIN. 



For its own bitter sake? — N(me — nothing! 'tis 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which we behold, 
Distant and dazzling, and innumerable, 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 

Cain. And what of that? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they 
When nearer must be more ineffable. 

Lnidfer. Approach the things of earth most beautiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest, 

LudfeT. Then there must be delusion — what is that, 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 

Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven, 
The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eyes wdth pleasant tears as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
Along that western paradise of clouds — 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's voice — 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love. 
And mingles with the song of cherubim. 
As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'T is frail as fair mortality, 

In the first dawn and bloom of young creation 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents. 
Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

My brotherhood's with those who have no children. 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist? 

Why art thou wretched 1 why are all things so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy, 
And yet my sire says he 's omnipotent : 
Then why is evil — he being good ? I ask'd 
This question of my father ; and he said, 
Because this evil only was the path 
To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 
Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving Umbs with joy. 
Behold, my son ! said Adam how from evil 
Springs good ! 

LuxAfer. What didst thou answer ? 
Cain. Nothing; for 

He is my father : but I thought, that 't were 
A better portion for the animal 
Never to have been stung at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saicbt 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her 



Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy chil(lren 

Cain. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. What am I ? 

Cain. Dost thou love nothing? 

Lucifer. What does thy God love? 

Cain. All things, my father says ; but I confess 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see if I love 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
To which particular things must melt like snows. 

Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

"What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter ! 

Cain. But dost thou not love something like thyself? 

Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself? 

Cain. Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable. 
And is more than rayselfj because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful, 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like jmy other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautifiil? how can that be? 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 

In them and her. 

Cain. I'm sorry for it; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
He who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 

Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must perish. 

Cain. And 1 thee who loVst nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy brother — 

Sits he not near thy heart ? 

Cain. Why should he not? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does thy God. 

Cain. And so do I. 

Lucifer. 'T is well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly! 

Lucifer. He is the second bom of flesh, 

And his mother's favourite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's 

Cain. What is that 

To me ? should I not love that which all love ? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord 
And bounteous planter of bairr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother ; 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this ? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now, 

Cain. And 

I have thought, why recall a thought that {he pauses, 

as agitated) — Spirit! 
Here we are in thy world ; speak not of miTie. 
Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hast shown me those 
Mighty Pre- Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the vvreck ; thou hast pointed out 
Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 



Jt 



CAIN. 



223 



Is the dim and remote companion, in 

Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 

Of that existence with the dreaded name 

Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast shown 

me much — 
But not all ; show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In his especial Paradise — or thine : 
Where is it? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 

Ccdn, But ye 
Have some allotted dwelling — as all things; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
All temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou 

say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together ? 

Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but were it not so, 
Is spirit like to flesh? can it fall out? 
Infinity with Immortality ? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen, 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless? 

Laidfer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is there not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which? 

Cain. Thou ! for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made? /made ye not; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

ITis creatures, as thou say'st wo are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come tliou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Cain. And why not now ? . 

Ludfer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
To the great double Mysteries! the two Principles I 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see tliem ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cum. Of death? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
Whore thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 



Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd, 
Taught thee to know thyself? 

Cain. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness ; 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'T will spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit! 

Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proud, 
Hast a superior. 

Lucifer. No ! By heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — No ! 
I have a victor — -true ; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from me : 
I battle it agamst him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space. 
And the infinity of endless ages. 
All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world. 
And star by star, and universe by universe 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease. 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
And what can quench our immortality. 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
Eml ; but what will be the good he gives ? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deera'd 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce-born mortals, what have been his gifts 
To you already in your little world ? 

Cain. But few ; and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to ye and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essence. 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it mijie, 
Till ye know better its true fount : and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason : — let it not be oversway'd 
By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling: 
Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
So shall your nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

[They disappear. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — The Earth, near Eden, as in Act L 
Enter Cain and Adah. 

Adah. Hush! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will; but wherefore? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bod 
Of leaves, beneath tlie cypress. 

Cain. Cypress ! 't is 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O Vr what it shadows ; wherefore diibt thou choose it 
For our child's canopy? 

AdcA. Because its branch** 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seom'd 



224 



CAIN. 



Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Cain. Ay, the last— 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'T is closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 

My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
And smile, tliou Uttle, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
Thou know'st not thou art naJted ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on.! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles. 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy ! 'T is but a dream ; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Adah. Dea.^^.]Sa|tn ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melanch^lpj^arnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, 1 feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thse, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is among the debts we owe 
her. 

Adah. Cam! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee 
hence. 
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind in'to the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him. 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon 

Adah. 'T is scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time. 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit. 
That I was nothing ! 



1 



Adah. 
Jehovah said not that. 



Wherefore said he 



Cain. No: he contents him 

Wiih making us the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Adah. Thou know'st— 

Even for our parents' error. 

Cain. What is that 

To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thougl 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life. 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow. 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 
Adah. How know we that some such atonement one 
day 
May not redeem our race ? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent ; what have we 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Adah. Alas ! thou sirmest now, my Cain : thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah. Never,' 

Though thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how Icnew he, that / would be so ready 
With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator ? 
Adah. Surely, 't is well done. 

Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 
Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fioiits ; 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun 
According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
For what should 1 be gentle ? for a war ^ 

With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat? For what must I be grateful 
For being dust, and' grovelling in the dust, 
Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite. 
And seem well-pleased with pain ? For what should I 
Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him ? better 't were 
I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
The rocks, than let him live to— 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 

Cain. Fear not! for all the stars, and all the power 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech? 
Cain. 1 said, 

'T were better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 



« 



CAIN. 



22» 



That saymg jars you, let us only say — 

'T were better that he never had been born. 

Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the joys, 
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 
And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 

[She goes to the child. 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy. 
How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are all alike ; is 't not so, Cain ? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain! 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine. 
To hail his father ; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee. 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shaU. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert. 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 

Adaft. Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Abel. 

Abel. Welcome, Cam ! My brother, 

The peace of God be on thee ! 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been wandering 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our father ? 

Cain, No. 

Abel. Why then commune with him ? he may be 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 

Abel. Term him ! your words are strange to-day, my 
brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

[Exit Adah, with her cliild. 

Abel. Where hast thou been? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 

Cain. The dead. 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things. 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse: leave me, Abel. 

Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light — 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean ? 

Cain. it means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together. 

Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jthovah loves thee well. 

2D 



Abel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain.' But thee the better : I care not for that ; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am: 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
A least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If as my elder I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 't is thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'er 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The more my grief; I pray thee 

To do so now : thy soul seems labouring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

Abel. Neither \ we must perform our task together. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so well, then, 

What shall I do ? 

Abel. : Choose one of those two altars 

Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. Choose thou ! 

Cain. 1 have chosen. 

Abel. 'T is the highest 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thme? 

Abel. Behold them here— 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof— 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks ; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 

[He gathers fruita. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 

[They dress their altars, and kindle ajlam€ 
upon them. 

Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

Abel, (kneeling.) Oh God I 

AVho made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is thy dehght, as to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light ! 
Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fiilfill'd — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
In itself nothing — as what offenng can be 
Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

Cain, (standing erect during thui speech.) Spirit ! whal» 
e'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Sliown in the exemption of tliy deeds from evil; 
Jehovah upon earth I and God in heaven ! 



226 



CAIN. 



And it may be with other names, because 

Thine attributes seem many, as thy works: — 

If thou must be propitiated with prayers. 

Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 

And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 

Two beings here erect them unto thee. 

If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smokes 

On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 

In the first of his flock, whose hmbs now reek 

In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 

Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth. 

And milder seasons, wliich the unstain'd turf 

I spread them on now (Jffers in the face 

Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 

Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 

SufFer'd in limb or life, and ratlicr firm 

A sample of thy works, than supplication 

To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim. 

And altar without gore, may win thy favour. 

Look on it! and for him who dressefh ii, 

He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothing 

Which must be won by kneeling : if he 's evil. 

Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st — 

For what can he oppose ? If he be good, 

Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 

Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 

To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 

And whether that be good or ill I know not, 

Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 

Omnipotence, but merely to endure 

Its mandate; which thus far I have endured. 

[Thejire upan the altar of A^etl kindles into a 
column of the brightest f.ame, and ascends to 
heaven ; while a whirlwind throws doiun the altar 
q/" Cain, and scatters the fruits abroad upon the 
earth. 

Abd, (kneeling.) Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah 's wroth 
with thee. 

Cain. Why so ? 

■Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
Thy burnt flesh-off'ring prospers better ; see 
How Heav'n licks up the flames, when thick with blood! 

Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 

Nor suffer any. — 

Abel, (rising.) Cain ! what meanest thou? 

Cain. To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of the clouds. 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids. 
Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 

Abel, (opposing him.) Thou shalt not .-—add not im- 
pious works to impious 
Words ! let that altar stand— 't is hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 
'• Cain. His! 

His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorchhig flesh and smoking blood, 
To the pain ©f the bleating mothers, wliich 
Still yearn for their dead offspring? or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife? Give way ! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

Abel. Brother, give back ! thou shalt not touch my 
altar 
With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it. 
To try another sacrifice, 't is thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou ? 

Ccdn. Give- 



Give way ! — thy God loves blood I — then look to it: — 
Give way, ere he hath more ! 

Abel. In Hts great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself, 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
Its native soil : — else 

Abd, (opposing him.) 1 love God far more 
Than life. 

Caiji, (striking him with a brand, on the temples, which 
he snatches from the altar.) Then take thy life unto 
thy God, 
Since he loves lives. 

Abd, (falls.) What hast thou done, my brother? 

Cain. Brother! 

Abd. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and tell 
Poor Zillah 

Cain, (after a moments stupefadion.) My hand! 'tis 
all red, and with — 
What? 

[A long pause. — Looking shwly round. 
Where am I ? alone ! Where 's Abel ? where 
Cain ? Can it be that I am he ? My brothe* 
Awake! — why best thou so on the green earth? 
'T is not the hour of slumber : — why so pale ? 

What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 

Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 

Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 

Would'st thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 

And only done to daunt me : — as a blow — 

And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 

Why, so— that's well!— thou breath'st! breathe upon 

me ! 
Oh, God ! Oh, God ! 

Abel, (very faintly.) What's he who speaks of God? 

Cain. Thy murderer. . i 

Abel. Then may God forgive him! Cain,*' 

Comfort ^oor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel dies. 

Cain. And T none ! — Who makes me brotherless ? 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ; 
And yet I feel it not.— His heart ! his heart !— 

Let me see, doth it beat ? — methinks No ! — no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 

The native of another and worse world. 

The earth svdms round me:— what is this? 'tis wet; 

[Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at it. 
And yet there are no dews ! 'T is blood— my blood— 
My brother's and my own ; and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life, 
Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 
But he cannot be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
No ; he will wake : then let me watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly !— he hath spoken to me since— 

What shall I say to him ? — My brother ! No ; 

He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillah. 
Zillah. I heard a heavy sound : what can it be ? 
'T is Cain; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh ! heav'n ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream? — No! no! 
It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel ! what 's this ?— who hath done this ? He moves 

not; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop down from mino 



CAIN. 



227 



With stony lifelessness ! Ah! cruel Cainl 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save hirn from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and shoiild'st have stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression! Father! — Eve! — 

Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit ZiLLAH, calling on her Parents, ^i 
Cain, {solus.) And who hath brought him there? — 1 — 
who abhor 

The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 

Impoison'd all my life, before I knew 

His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 

My brother to his cold and still embrace, 

As if he would not have asserted his 

Inexorable claim without my aid. 

I am awake at last — a dreary dream 

Had madden'd me ; — but lie shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 

Adam. A voice of wo from Zillah brings me here. — 
Wlmt do I see? — 'T is true! — My son! — my son! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 

Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 

Adam. Who, 

Or what hath done this deed? — speak, Cain, since thou 
Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah? or some wfld 
Brute of the forest? 

Eve Ah ! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand, 
Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my son ! 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
That we are not more miserable still. 
^ Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 
' Eve- It was. 

I sec it now — he hangs his guilty head. 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Ileal-, Jehovah ! 

May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
May all his days be desolate ! May 

Adah. Hold ! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother. 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 

Zillah no husband — me no son! — for thus 
I curse hirn from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 

'I'hat of his nature, in yon Oh death ! deatli ! 

Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now ? 

Adam. Eve ! let not this, 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forcspoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it bo borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that wo 
Are faitliful servants to his holy will. 

Eve, {pointing to Cain.) His will!! the will of yon 
incarnate spirit 
Of d(!aih, whom I have brought upon (ho earth 
To strew it wilh the dead. May all the curses 
Of life bo on him! and his agonies 
Drivo him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till his cliildron do bv him 



As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And v.ings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night, — snakes spring up in his path- 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them with his raging Up ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die with! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To liim who first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide! henceforth that word is* Cain, 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire ! 
May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thoe shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his Ught ! and heaven her God ! 

[Exit Eve. 

Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell no more 
together. 
Depart ! and leave the dead to me — I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 

Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 

Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah! * 

Zillah. Yet one Iciss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart ! 

[Exeunt Adam and Zillah weeping. 

Aiah. Cain! thou hast heard, we must go forth. I 
am ready. 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me ! 

Adah. Why, all have lefl thee. 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not 
fear 
To dwell with one^vho hath done this? 

Adah. I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, Cain! Cain! 

Adah. Hear'st tliou that voice 1 

The Voice loithin. Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 

Enter the Angel of the Ijord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 

Cain. Am I then 

My brother's ko('i)or? 

Angel. Cain! what hast thou done? 

The voice of tliy slain brother's blood cries out, 
l''.von from the ground, r.iito the Lord !— Now art thou 
('ursed from the oarlh, which opcn'd late her moutli 
To drink thy broLlier's blood from thy rash hand, 
llencefjrth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall not 
Yield ihoo her strength; a fugitive sluilt thou 
LJo from this day, and vagabond on earth! 

Adah. This punishment is more than ho can bear. 
Behold, thou drivest him from Uie face of carlli, 
And from the liice of God slmll ho bo hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on oartli, 
'T will come to pass, that whoso findeth him 

Sl;..l| ^|,V hi„l. 



228 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE- 



Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 

Shall slay me ? where are these on the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled ? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 
Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 

Angel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmear'd with blood ? 
The fratricide might well engender parricides.— 
But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 

Cain. What 

Would'st thou with me ? 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 
Cain. No, let me die ! 
Angel. It must not be. 

[The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow. 
^ f^<^"'- It burns 

My brow, but naught to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 

Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from the 
womb, 
As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 
Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from° 
The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 

With my own death redeem him from the dust 

And why not so ? let him return to-day. 
And I he ghastly ! so shall be restored' 
By God the life to him he loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear, 

Angd. Who shall heal murder? what is done is done 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last ! [The Angel disappears. 

Adah. He 's gone, let us go forth ; 

1 hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! Uttle knows he what he weeps for ! 

And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 



But the four rivers* would not cleanse my soul. 
Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 

Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would 

Cain.^ {interrupting her.) jq-^ 

No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
Go to our children ; I will follow diee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
Let us depart together. 

Cain. Oh ! thou dead 

And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art, ] 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, J 

I^ think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God I 

Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell! \ 

I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou should'st have done 
For me — compose thy hmbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But who hath dug that grave? Oh, 'earth! Oh, earth! 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
Give thee back this.— Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops doum and kisses the body of Abel. 
Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, mv brother 
Has been thy lot! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them ; 
But yet of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thyself; but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way; 
T is the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may our 
God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 

Cam. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gende race. 
Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 
Uniting with our children Abel's ofFspring 
OAbel! ^ ^ 

Adah. Peace be with him ! 
Cain. 



I 



But with me . 



tl 



[Exeunt. 



The " four risers" which flowed round Eden, and consequently tba 
only waters with which Cain was acquainted upoi the earth. ^ 



MARINO FALIEEO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



' Z>ux inquieti turbidua Adri.s. 



PREFACE. ^and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes 

_ * . I which can be founded upon the subiect. 

The conspiracy of the Doge Manno Faliero is one of j Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents 

and of courage. I find him commander in chief of the 
land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King of 
Hungary and his army of 80,000 men, killmg 8000 men, 
and keeping the besieged at the same time in check • an 



the most remarkable events in the annals of the most sin- 
gular government, city, and people of modern history. It 
occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice is, 
or was, extraordinary— her aspect is like a dream, and 
her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge is 
to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed 
in the " Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is 
given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related. 



exploit to which I know none similar in history, except 
that of Ccesar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Bel- 
grade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the 
same war. He took Capo d'lstria. He was arabassa- 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE. 



229 



dor at Genoa and Rome, at which last he received the 
news of his election to the dukedom ; his absence being a 
proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was ap- 
prized of his predecessor's death and his own succession 
at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an 
ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his 
having, many years before, when podesta and captain at 
Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat 
tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto " sad- 
dles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square; 
but he does not tell us whether he was punished or re- 
I baked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its com- 
mission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at 
peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at 
Rome, and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the 
march of Treviso, and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo 
Count-Bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authori- 
ties are Sanuto, Vettor Sand), Andrea Navagero, and the 
account of the siege of Zara, first published by the inde- 
fatigable Abate Morelli, in his " Monumenti Veneziani di 
varia Letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have 
looked over in the original language. The moderns, Daru, 
Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient 
chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his_;ea- 
lousy ; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national his- 
torians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that " Altri scrissero 

che dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto 

(Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," &c. &c. ; but this 
appears to have been by no means the general opinion, 
nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Navagero, and Sandi 
himself adds, a moment after, that " per altre Veneziane 
memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo 
dispose alia congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambi- 
zion sua, per cui anelava a farsi principe independente." 
The first motive appears to have been excited by the gross 
affront of the words written by Michel Steno on the ducal 
chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the 
Forty on the offender, who was one of their "tre Capi." 
The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been di- 
rected towards one of her damsels, and not to the "Doga- 
ressa" herself, against whose fame not the slightest insinu- 
ation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and re- 
marked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (un- 
less the hint of Sandi be an assertion) that the Doge was 
actuated by jealousy of his wife ; but rather by respect for 
her, and for his own honour, warranted by his past services 
and present dignity. 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in 
English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. His 
account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old 
men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect 
from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an ob- 
server of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder 
at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water 
spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marl- 
borough of his command, and led to the inglorious peace 
of Utrecht — that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most 
desolating wars because his minister was nettled at his find- 
ing fault with a window, and wished to give him another oc- 
cupation — that Helen lost Troy — that Lucrelia expelled 
the Tarquins from Rome — and that Cava brought the 
Moors to Spain — that an insulted husband led the Gauls to 
Clusium, and thence to Rome — that a single verse of Fre- 
derick II. of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, anda jeston 
Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach — 
that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with Mac Murchad 
conducted the English to the slavery of Ireland — that a 
personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Diike 
of Orleans precipitated the first cx[)ulsion of tho Bour- 
bons — and, not to multij)ly instances, that Commodus, Do- 
mitian, and Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, 
but to private vengeance — and that an order to make 
Cromwell disembark from tl»o ship in which ho would have 
Bailed to America destroyed both king and commonwealth. 
After these instances, on tho least reflection, it is indeed 



extraordinary in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man 
used to command, who had served and swayed in the most 
important offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an 
unpunished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a 
man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little 
to the purpose, unless to favour it. 

" The young man's wratti is like straw on fire, 
But like red hot steel is tlie old man's ire," 

" Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical : — " Tale fti 
il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nascitk, la sua 
eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni 
produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per lungo 
tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacity 
sperimentata ne' governi e nolle ambasciate, gli avevano 
acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano 
uniti i suffragj per coUocarlo alia testa della republica. In- 
nalzatp ad un grado che terminava gloriosamenta la sua 
vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinub nel suo 
cuore tal veleno che bastb a corrompere le antiche sue 
qualitci, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati ; serio esem- 
P40, che prova non esservi eta, in cui la prudenza umana sia 
sicura, e che neW uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a dis- 
onorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso." — Laugier, ItU' 
lian translation, vol. iv. page 30, 31. 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged 
his life ? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing 
of the kind ; it is true that he avowed all. He was con- 
ducted to the place of torture, but there is no mention made 
of any application for mercy on his part ; and the very cir- 
cumstance of their having taken him to the rack seems 
to argue any thing but his having shown a want of firm- 
ness, which would doubtless have been also mentioned by 
those minute historians who by no means favour him : such, 
indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to 
the age in which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to 
the truth of history. I know no justification at any dis- 
tance of time for calumniating an historical character : 
surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate, 
and they who have died upon a scaffold, have generally 
had faults enough of their own, without attributing to them 
that which the very incurring of the perils which conducted 
them to their violent death renders, of all others, the most 
improbable. The black veil which is painted over the 
place of Marino Faliero amongst the doges, and the 
Giants' Staircase where he was crowned, and discrowned, 
and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagination, as 
did his fiery character and strange story. I went in 1819, 
in search of his tomb more than once to the church San 
Giovanni e San Paolo, and as I was standing before the 
monument of another family, a priest came up to me and 
said, " I can show you finer monuments than that." I told 
him that I was in search of that of the Faliero family, 
and particularly of the Doge Marino's. "Oh," said he, 
"I will show it you;" and conducting me to the outside, 
pointed out a sarcophagus in tho wall with an illegible in- 
scription. He said that it had been in a convent adjoin- 
ing, but was removed after the French came, and placed 
in its present situation ; that he had seen the tomb opened 
at its removal; there were still some bones remaining, 
but no positive vestige of the decapitation. The eques- 
trian statiieof which I have made mention in the third act 
as before that church is not, hovve\ er, of a Faliero, but of 
some other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. 
There were two other Doges of this family prior to Ma- 
rino: Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara in 1117, (where 
his descendant afterwards conquered tin- Huns.) and Vi- 
tal Faliero, who reigned in 108'.'. Tin- family, originally 
from Fano, was of the most illustrious in li'ood and wealth 
in the city of onc.i the most weallliy and still the most 
ancient families in Europe. The length I have gone into 
on this subject will show the interest I have taken in it. 
Whether 1 have succ.M>d»^l or not in f!ie tragedy, I have at 



230 



MARINO PALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



least transferred into our language an historical fact wor- 
thy of commemoration. 

It is now four years that I have meditated this work, and 
before I had sufficiently examined the records, I was rather 
disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in Faliero. 
But perceiving no foundation for this in historical truth, 
and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in the 
drama, I have given it a more historical form. I was 
besides well advised by the late Matthew Lewis on that 
point, in talking with him of my intention at Venice in 
1817. " If you make him jealous," said he, " recollect that 
you have to contend with established writers, to say no- 
thing of Shakspeare, and an exhausted subject; — stick to 
the old fiery Doge's natural character, which will bear you 
out, if properly drawn ; and make your plot as regular as 
you can." Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the 
same counsel. How far I have followed these instruc- 
tions, or whether they have availed me, is not for me to de- 
cide. I have had no view to tlie stage ; in its present 
state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambition ; 
besides I have been too much behind the scenes to have 
tliought it so at any time. And I cannot conceive any man 
of irritable feeling putting himself at the mercies of an 

audience : the sneering reader, and the loud critic, and 

the tart review, are scattered and distant calamities ; but 
the trampling of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience 
on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a men- 
tal labour to the v/riter, is a palpable and immediate griev- 
ance, heightened by a man's doubt of tlaeir competency to 
judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing 
them his judges. Were I capable of writing a play which 
could be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no 
pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this reason tliat 
even during the time of being one of the committee of one 
of the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never will.* 
But surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where 
Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and John Wilson exist. The 
" City of the Plague" and the "Fall of Jerusalem" are full 
of the best " maierieV for tragedy that has been seen 
since Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and 
De Montfort, It is the fashion to underrate Horace Wal- 
pole ; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and secondly, 
because he was a gentleman ; but to say nothing of the 
composition of his incomparable letters, and of the Castle 
of Otranto, he is the " Ultimus Romanorum," the author of 
the Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and 
not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first ro- 
mance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely 
worthy of a higher place than any living writer, be he who 
he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot to 
mention that the desire of preserving, though still too re- 
mote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, 



which is the reproach of the English theatrical composi- 
tions, permits, has induced me to represent the conspiracy 
as already formed, and the Doge acceding to it, whereas in 
fact it was of his own preparation and that of Israel Ber- 
tuccio. The other characters, (except that of the duchess,) 
incidents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully 
short for such a design in real life, are strictly historical, 
except that all the consultations took place in the palace. 
Had I followed this, the unity would have been better 
preserved ; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full 
assembly of the conspirators, instead of monotonously 
placing him always in dialogue with the same indiv 
duals. For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix. 



* While I was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane Theatre, I can vouch 
for my colleagues, and I hope for myself, that we did our best to hring back 
the legitimate drama. I tried what I could to get" De Montfort" revived, 
butin""ain, and equally in vain in favour of Sotheby's " Ivan," which 
was thought an acting play ; and I endeavoured also to -wake Mr. Cole- 
ridge to write a tragedy. Those who are not in the secret will hardly 
believe that the " School for Scandal" is the play which has brought least 
money, averaging the number of times it has been acted since its produc- 
tion ; so Manager Dibdin assured me. Of what has occurred since Ma- 
lurin's " Bertram," I am not aware ; so that I maybe traducing, through 
ignorance, some excellent new writer ; if so, 1 beg their pardon. I have 
been absent from Kngland nearly five years, and, till last year, I never 
read an English newspaper since my departure, and am now only aware 
of theatrical matters through the medium of the Parisian Gazette of Galig- 
nani, and only for the last twelve months. Let me then deprecate all 
offence to tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish well, and of whom I 
know nolhing. The long complaints of the actual state of the drama 
arise, however, from no fault of the performers. I can conceive nothing 
better than Kemble, Cooke, and Kean in their very different manners, or 
than EUiston in gentleman's comedy, and in some parts of tragedy. 
Miss O'Neill I never saw, having made and kept a determination to see 
nothing which should divide or disturb my recollection of Siddons. 
Siddons and Kemble were the ideal of tragic action ; I never saw any 
thing at ail resembling them even in person ; forihis reason, we shall 
never see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is blamed for want 
of dignity, we should remember that it is a grace and not an art, and not 
to be attained bv study. In all, nor super-natural parts, he is perfect ; 
even his very defects belong, or seem to belong, to the parts themselves, 
«nd appear truer to nature. But of Kemble we may say, with reference 
to his acting, what the Cardinal de Retz said of the Marquis of Mon- 
troie, " thai he was the only man he ever saw who reminded him of the 
fceroes of Plutarch." 



DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 

MEN. 
Mariisto Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
LiONi, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, One of the three Capi of the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief of ^ 
the Arsenal, I 

Philip Calendaro, > Conspirators. 

Dagolino, 
Bertram, J 

( " Signore di Notte," one of"! 
SigncfT of the Night, s Officers belonging to the iJe- 

( public. 
First Citizen. 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 

ViNCENZO, ) 

PiETRO, > Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
Battista, ; 

Secretary of the Council of Ten. 

Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Teny\ 
The Giunta, ^c. ^c. 

WOMEN. 
Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marianna, her Friend. 

Female Attendants, ^c. 
Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace. 



ill 



Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger retum'd ? 

Bat. Not yet ; 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the Signory is deep in council, 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense? 

Pie. With struggling patience. 

Placed at the ducal table, cover'd o'er 
With all the apparel of the state ; petitions. 
Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
And seat liimself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon «ome edict ; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 

Bat. 'T is said he is much moved, and doubtless 'twas 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



231 



Pie. Ay, if a poor man: Steno's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. Then you think 

He wiQ not be judged hardly ? 

Pie. 'T were enough 

He be judged justly ; but 't is not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

Boa. And here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo ? 

JEnter Vincenzo. 
Vin. 'T is 

Decided ; but as yet his doom 's unknown : 
I saw the president in act to seal 
The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [Exeu7it. 

Scene II. — The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge ; and his Nephew, Ber- 

trccio Faliero. 

JBer. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 

Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 

Ber F. His peers will scarce protect him ; such an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
Forty? 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber. F. (addressing Vincenzo, then entering.) 
How now — what tidings ? 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that the court 
Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wondVous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is past, you say ? 

Vin. It is, your highness : 

The president was sealing it, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. 

Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have per- 
ceived, 
Df their decbion ? 

Vin. No, my lord ; you know 

The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Ber. F. True ; but there still is something given to 
guess, 
Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at ; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men — most worthy men. 
And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant — 
And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects — 
At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

Vin. My lord, I came away upon the moment, 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which psiss'd among the judges, even in seeming ; 
My station near the accused, too, Michel Steno, 
Made me 

Doge, {abruptly.) And how look'd he ? deliver that. 
Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood rcsign'd 
To the decree, whate'er it were ; — but lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretarv of the Forty. 

Sec. The high tribunal of tho Forty sends 



Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief Magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence past on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
Contain'd, together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

Doge. Retir6, and wait without. 

[Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo. 
Take thou this paper 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. (reading.) "Decreed 

In council, v^ithout one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words " 

Doge. Would'st thou repeat them ? 

Would'st thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
Dishonour'd in its chief — that chief the prince 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey— 
(Reads.) "That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
In close arrest." 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finish'd. 

Doge. How, say you? — finish'd! Do I dream? — 'tis 
false — 
Give me fne paper — (Snatches the paper and reads) — 

" 'T is decreed in council 
That Michel Steno" Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nay, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is imcall'd for — 
Let me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not — 

'T is past. 

Ber. F. 1 cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence — 
It is not honourable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 'lis not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
So fix'd ? You heed me not : — I pray you, hear me '. 

Doge, (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 
trample upon it, exclaims, as he is withheld by his 
nephew,) 
Oh ! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. F. For the sake 
Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'T is not well 

In Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice? lot mo sco him, 
That ho may do mo right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Rrnioinhor that of man, and curb tiiis passion. 
Tho Duke of Venice 



232 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Doge, {interrupting him.) There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless wretch. 
Who begs his bread, if 't is refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he 's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 

JBer. F. The law, my prince 

Doge, {interrupting him.) You see what it has done — 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I calfd no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects. 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign. 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and service. 
Honours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
Tlie blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting 1 
And this is to be borne ! 

Ber. F. I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's son ? 
A scion of the house of Faliero 'I 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice ? 
But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 

Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too much 
moved : — 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation. 
Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 
We will ask justice ; if it be denied. 
We '11 take it ; but may do all this in calmness — 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
I love our house, I honour you, its chief. 
The guardian of my youth, and its instructer — 
But though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 

Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee — what thy father 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soul — 
No pride — ^no passion — no deep sense of honour ? 

Ber. F. 'T is the first time that honour has been 
doubted. 
And were the last, from any other skeptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this born villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon. 
Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel. 
And on the honour of— Oh God ! — my wife. 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour, 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all course foul comments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie — ^you knew it false, 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 



Said, " Caesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. True — but in those days 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not suffer. 
That a Venetian prince must bear 1 Old Dandolo 
Refused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
Because 'tis now degraded. 

Ber. F. 'T is even so. 

Doge. It is — it is : — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slander'd 
Because she took an old man for her lord, 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on her. 
But craved my country's justice on his head, 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
Who hath a name whose honour 's all to him, 
When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 

Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the state- 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband ? scom'd 
As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
Stampt the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had stabbed him on the instant. 

Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 

He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

Ber. F. What mean you? is not the offence re- 
doubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunished ? 

Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him : 
The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
We must obey the Forty. > 

Ber. F. Obey them I 

Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

Doge. Why yes ; — boy, you perceive it then at last : 
Whether as fellow- citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it. 
They have defrauded me of both my rights, 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen ;) 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me^ 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me, 
I never meant this miscreant should escape. 
But wish'd you to suppress such gusts of passion, 
That we more surely might devise together 
His takmg off. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 

At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim. 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your w^ishes are my law : and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honour of our house must ever be. [proof: 

Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



233 



But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. AVhy that's my uncle ! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself ! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 
Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The sun and you, as an ill omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : 
So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
'T is fit I were alone. 

Ber. F. {taking up and placing the ducal bonnet on 
the table.) Ere I depart, 

I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd, 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring you 
In all things to rely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, 
And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

[Eodt Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge^ (solus.) Adieu, my worthy nephew. — Hollow 
bauble ! [ Taking up the ducal cap. 

Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 
Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puisiton. 
How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Could I not turn thee to a diadem? 
Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
Making the people nothing, and the prince 
A pageant? In my life I have achieved 
Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them, 
WTio thus repay me! — C^n I not requite them? 
Oh for one year ! Oh ! but for even a day 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
I would have dash'd among them, asking few. 
[n aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 
But now I must look round for other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 
In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, though as yet it is but a chaos 
Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
In her first work, more nearly to the light 
Holding the sleeping images of things 
For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
The troops are few in 

Enter Vincenzo. 
Vin. There is one without 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. I'm unwell— 

I can see no one, not oven a patrician — 
Let him refer his business to the council. 
fkr Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
It cannot much import — he 's a plebeian. 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Doge. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit Vincenzo 

Doge^ (solus.) This patron may bo soundad ; I will 

try him, 

I know the people to be discontented -, 

2E 



They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 

When Genoa conquer'd : they have further cause 

Since they are nothing in the state, and in 

The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 

To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 

The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 

And murmur deeply — any hope of change 

Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 

With plunder : — but the priests — I doubt the priesthood 

Will not be with us ; they have hated me 

Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 

I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
duickening his holy march ; yet, ne'ertholess, 
They may be won, at least their chief at Rome 
By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
All things, I must be speedy ; at my hour 
Of twilight little light of life remains. 
Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 
Next moment with my sires ; and, wantmg this, 
Better that sixty of my fourscore years 
Had been already where — how soon, I care not— 
The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 
They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make me. 
Let me consider — of efficient troops 
There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 

Vin. ^ May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

Doge. Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincenzo. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you? 

I. Ber. Redress. 

Doge. Of whom ? 

/. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

/. Ber. 'T were in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There 's blood upon thy face — how came it 
there ? 

I. Ber. 'T is mine, and not the first I 'v© shed (or 
Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

/. Ber. Not long^ 

But for the hope I had and have, that you. 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not (o protect himself; — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would do- 

Is it not so? 

/. Ber. I am a man, my lord 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

I. Ber. HeiscaU'dso; 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
Bill since he hath forgotten that I am one, 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn— 
'Tis said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — liis name and lineage 1 

I. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was tiie cause? or the pretext? 

/. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, cmploy'd 
At present in repairing certain galleys 
But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
Full of reproof, because our artisan.s 
Mad left some frivolous order of his house, 
I To execute tiio state's decree ; I dared 



234 



MARINO FALIERO. DOGE OF VENICE. 



To justify the men — he raised his hand ; — 
Behold my blood! the first time it e'er flow'd 
Dishonourably. 

Doge. Have you long time served ? 

I. Ber. So long as to remember ^^Zara's siege, 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 
Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 

Doge. How 1 are we comrades ? — the state's ducal 
robes 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognised you not. Who placed you ? 

/. Ber. The late Doge ; keeping still my old com- 
mand 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as a reward of certain scars, 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say :) 
I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ? 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 

/. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will do. 

Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 

/. Ber. I come for justice, 

Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fill'd the ducal throne. 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me ! 
The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it-^'T was denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago. 

/. Ber. How says your highness ? 

Doge. Steno is condemn'd 

To a month's confinement. 

/. Ber. What ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words. 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the arsenal, 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink 
As a good jest to jolly artizans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
In the vile tune of every galley-slave, 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 

1. Ber. Is 't possible? a month's imprisonment ! 
No more for Steno? 

Doge. You have heard the offence. 

And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me/ Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
They '11 do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 

/. Ber. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 

Doge. Give them breath. 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow. 
However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — 
But the base insult done your state and person. 

Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

/. Ber. Wouldst thou be king ? 

Doge. Yes — of a happy people. 

/. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty, 
Bo that nor they nor I were further slaves 



To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 

The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 

Have breathed a pestilence upon us aU, 

/. Ber. Yet, thou wast bom and still hast lived 
patrician. 

Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honour were my guerdon. 
1 have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and conquer'd , 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies. 
As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty. 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more ; but not for any knot of men. 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this ? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice, 
She 'd tell thee 'twas for all her httle ones. 

/. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 

Doge. They made me so ; 

I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not. 
At these late years, decline what was the highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myseF nor thee. 

I. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess the will , 
And many thousands more not less oppress'd. 
Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 

Doge. You speak in riddles. 

I. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

At peril of my life ; if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

Doge. Say on. 

I. Ber. Not thou. 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the whole people 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners, and civic troops. 
Feel with their friends ; for who is he among them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters. 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further: 
Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus. 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 

Doge. And suffering what thou hast done — fear'st thou 
death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

I. Ber. No, I will speak 

At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 
Than T. 

Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it I 

/. Ber. Know then, that there are met and sworn in 
secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
To do so ; having served her in all chraes. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



235 



And having rescued her from foreign foes, 

Would do the same from those within her walls. 

They are not numerous, nor yet too few 

For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 

And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage. 

Doge. For what then do they pause ? 

/. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doge, {aside.) Saint Mark's shall strike that hour ! 

/. Ber. I now have placed 

My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause. 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so. 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 

Doge. How many are ye ? 

/. Ber. I '11 not answer that 

Till I am answer'd. 

Doge. How, sir ! do you menace ? 

/. Ber. No ; I affirm. I have betray'd myself; 
But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 
Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
Not less appalling cells, the " leaden roofs," 
To force a single name from me of others. 
The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain; 
They might wring blood from me, but treachery never. 
And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
Joyous that mine must be the last tliat e'er 
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Those who would live to think on't, and avenge me. 

Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come 
here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right ? 

/. Ber. Because the man, 

Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd. 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

Doge. What was that ? 

/. Ber, Some rumours that the Doge was greatly moved 
By the reference of the Avogadori 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reach'd me. I had served you, honour'd you, 
And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite tenfold both good and evil: 't was 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all ; and that 1 speak the truth, 
My peril be tho proof 

Doge. You have deeply ventui'ed ; 

But all must do so who would greatly win : 
Thus far I '11 answer you — your secret 's safe. 

/. Ber. And is this all ? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted, 

What would you have mo answer? 

/. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, and 
numbers ; 
The last may then be doubled, and tlio former 
Matured and strengthcn'd. 

/. Ber. We're enough already; 

You are the solo ally wo covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to tho knowledge of your chiefs. 

/. Ber. That shall bo dono upon your formal pledge 
To keep the faith that wo will pledge to you. 



Doge. When ? where ? 

/. Ber. This night I 'U bring to your apartment 

Two of the principals ; a greater number 
Were hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself among you, 
And leave the palace ? 

/. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephew. 

/. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He died 
in arms 
At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
Oh ! that he were ahve, and I in ashes ! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes I 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

/. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou 
doubtest 
But will regard thee with a fihal feeling, 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting? 

/. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. At what hour arises 

The moon ? 

/. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and dusky, 
'T is a sirocco. 

Doge. At the midnight hour, then. 

Near to the church where sleep my sires; the same, 
Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul; 
A gondola, ^ with one oar only, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
Be there. 

I. Ber. I will not fail. 

Doge. And now retire 

/. Ber. In the full hope your highness will not falter 
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Israel Bertuccio. 

Doge, (soltis.) At midnight, by the church Saints 
John and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 
Where lie two doges who preceded me. 
And pluck me down among them? Would tliey could 
For I should rest in honour with the honour'd. 
Alas ! I must not tliiiik of (hem, but those 
Who have made me thus unwortliy of a name 
Noble and bravo as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 
By sweet revenge on all that 's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calunmies of time, 
Which never spare the fume of him who fails^ 
But try the Cissar, or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert— success. 



ACT II. 

Scene 1. — An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 

Angiolina {wife of the Doge) and Mauianwa. 

Ang. What was the Doge's answer ? 

Mar. That ho was 

That moment suuimon'd to a conference ; 
Hut 'l is by this time ended. I perceived 
Nut long ago the senators embarking; 
And the last gondola mav now be seen 
(jiliding into the throng of barks which stud 
riu- glittering waters. 



236 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Ang. "Would he were return'd ! 

He has been much disquieted of late ; 
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
Which seems to be more nourish 'd by a soul 
So quick and restless that it would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who. 
In the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
An aspect of eternity : his thoughts. 
His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 
Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
Has been more agitated than his wont. 
Would he were come ! for I alone have power 
JJpon his troubled spirit. 

Mar. It is true, 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause ; 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

Ang. 'T was a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself. 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me: I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

Mar. Assuredly 

The Doge can not suspect you ? >, 

Ang. Suspect me ! 

Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie. 
Groveling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light. 
His own still conscience smote him for the act. 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar. 'T were fit 

He should be punish'd grievously. 

Ang. He is so. 

Mar. What! is the sentence past? is he condemn'd? 

Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected. 

Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 

Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I knov/ what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno; 
But if his insults sinL no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 

Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
The dying Roman said, " 't was but a name :" 
It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Yet full many a dame, 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Ang. This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts. 
And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 



Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame 

Ang. And yet they were my father's 5 with his name 
The sole inheritance he left. 

Mar. You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 

Ang. I should have sought none though a peasant's 
bride. 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend. 
The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 

Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your heart 

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 

Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers. 
Might make the world doubt whether such an union 
Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 

Ang. The world will think with worldlings ; but my 
heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 

Mar. And do you love him? 

Ajig. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 
To single out what we should love in others, 
And to subdue all tendency to lend 
The best and purest feelings of our nature 
To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 
Upon Faliero : he had known him noble, 
Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 
Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
Such have I found him as my father said. 
His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 
Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, 
And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 
The uses of patricians, and a life 
Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 
From the quick sense of honour, which becomes 
A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 
And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 
Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 
In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him, 
From his first fight to his last embassy, 
From which on his return the dukedom met him. 

Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your henrt 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth. 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty hke yours ? or smce have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give. 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter? 

Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said 
I married. 

Mar. And the second? 

Ang. Needs no answer. 

Mar. I pray your pardon, if I have offended. 

Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they notu might choose, 
Or augJit save their past choice. 

Mar. 'T is their past choice 

That far too oflen makes tliem deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 

Mar. Here comes the Doge— shall I retire ? 

Ang. It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seems rapt 
In thought.— How pensively he takes his way ! 

[Exit Mariaitwa 

Enter the Doge and Pietro. 
Doge, (musing.) There is a certain Philip Calendar© 
Now in the Arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



237 



Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular, 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 't would 
Be well that he were won: I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him. 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breakmg in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman. 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see- 
Say in the second hour of night. [£^xit Pietro. 

Aug. My lord ! 

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
So long approaching me? — I saw you not. 

Ang. You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now 
Has parted from you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

Doge. From the senate? 

Ang. 1 would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty! you mistake; 

'T is we who owe all service to the senate. 

Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in Venice. 

Doge. He shall. — But let that pass. — We will be 
jocund. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favours the gondoUer's light skimming oar; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
Or has your music made you soUtary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
Speak, and 't is done. 

Ang. You 're ever kind to me — 

I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer? 

Ang. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 

Do you still keep apart, and walk alone. 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much? 

Doge. Disclose too much I — of what ? 

What is there to disclose ? 

Ang. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'T is nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without, 
And malecontents within — 't is this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have rendered light, nay, a necessity, 
To kecj) your mind from stagnating. 'T is not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shako you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And climb'd up to the piUnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
Were civil fury raging in St. Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an tmaller'd brow — 



Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

Doge. Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 

A7ig. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 

Doge. I had the pride of honour, of your honour. 
Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 

A7ig. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kindness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress: were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would sooth you back to what you were. 

Doge. To what I was ! — Have you heard Steno's 
sentence ? 

Ang. No. 

Doge. A month's arrest. 

Ang. Is it not enough? 

Doge. Enough I — yes, for a drunken galley slave, 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were Ught unto 
His loss of honour. 

Doge. Such men have no honour ; 

They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 

Ang. You would not have him die for this offence? 

Doge. Not now : — being still alive, I 'd have him live. 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Ang. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for 
blood ? 
And he who ta'mts kills more than he who sheds it. 
Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 
That makes such deadly to the sense of man? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honour ? 
And, loss than honour, for a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason? 
Is 't nothing to have fiU'd these veins with poison 
For their once healthful current? is it nothing 
To have staiu'd your name and mine — the noblest names ? 
Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people ? to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man? 
To virtue m your sex, and dignify 
In ours ? — but let them look to it who have saved him. 

Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Satan saved 
From wrath eternal? 

Ang. Do not speak thus wildly — 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

Ang. And will you ? 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

Aug. And not till then ? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness'' an old man's, 
Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and worthless? I have lived too long.— 
But let us change the argument. — .My child 



238 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



My injured wife, the child of Loredano. 

The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 

Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 

That he was linking thee to shame I — Alas ! 

Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou 

But had a different husband, any husband 

In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 

This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 

So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 

To suffer this, and yet be unavenged I 

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trust, and honour me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

Doge. 'T is well, 

And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

Ang. Why speak you thus ? 

Doge. It is no matter why ; 

But I would still, whatever others think, 
Have your respect both nov/ and in my grave. 

Ang. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? 

Doge. Come hither, child ; I would I word with you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly : when, opprest 
With his last malady, he will'd our union,' 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honourable safety from the perils. 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
Which soothed his death-bed. 

Ang. I have not forgotten 

The nobleness with which you bade me speak 
If my young heart held any preference 
Wliich would have made me happier ; nor your offer 
To make my dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
My father's last injunction gave you. 

I^oge. Thus, 

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite. 
Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very last 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helpless to refuse a state that 's honest, 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
Your father's choice. 

•^"^- I did so ; I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 

Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you harshly; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long ; 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend^ 
His worthy daughter, free to choose again, 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom ' 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right ; my best friend's child 
Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 



And not less truly in a faithful heart 

Ang. My lord, I jook'd but to my father's wishes, 
Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replying 
With failh to him with whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 

Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true : 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
Rashly, but win you from them ere you Icnew 
You had been won, but thought the change your choice; 
A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — 
A trust in you — a patriarchal love, 
And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 
Such estimation m your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 

Ang. And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father taught you — 
To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
To your own faith and honour, for my own. 

Ang. You have done well.— I thank you for that trust, 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honour you the more for. 

Doge. Where is honour, 

Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart. 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'T were hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood, 
Although 't were wed to him it covets most: 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood. 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it: 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fall'n woman must for ever fall ; 
For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

Ang. And seemg, feeling thus this truth in others, 
(I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno? 

Doge. You mistake me. 

It is not Sleno who could move me thus ; 
Had it been so, he should — .-but let that pass. 

Ang. What is 't you feel so deeply, then, even now ? 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

Ang. Alas ! why will you thus consider it? 

Doge. I have thought on 't till but let me lead 

you back 
To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



239 



I wedded you; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise: 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 

Ang. To what does this conduct ? 

Doge. To thus much — that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his sweltering heart. 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honour, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Ang. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 

Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I 've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

Ang. With me, my lord? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life cannot be long ; and fain would have you 
Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll {Giving her a paper) Fear not ; they are 

for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 

Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honour'd still by me : but may your days 
Be many yet — and happier than the present! 
This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 

Doge. 1 will be what I should be, or be nothing ; 
But never more — oh ! never, never more, 
O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet Q,uiet shed her sunset! Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, 
Mellowing the last liours as the night approaches, 
Shall sooth me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but little more to task, or hope. 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat. 
And the soul's labour through which 1 had toil'd 
To make my country honour'd. As her servant — 
Her servant, though her chief— I would have gone 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 
Would I had died at Zara ! 

Ang. There you saved 

The state ; then live to save her still. A day. 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an ago ; 
My life is little loss than one, and 't is 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
That which scarce one more favour'd citizen 
May win in many slates and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I rememl)or it ? — Fruowell, 
Sweet Angiolina! I must to my cabinet ; 
There 's much for me to do— and the liour hastens. 

Ang. Remember what you wore. 



Doge. It were in vain ! 

Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 

Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore 
That you will take some little pause of rest: 
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 
That it had been relief to have awaked you. 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

Doge. I cannot — 

I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no matter. 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

Ang. Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion ! 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then, 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within — above — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I am nothing, let that which I was 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 

Which would not have thee mourn it, but^ remember; — 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 

Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 

Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint ? 

/. Ber. Why, weU. 

Cal. Is 't possible ! will he be punish'd ? 

I. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 

I. Ber. With death!— 

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 

I. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate, forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 
My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For their requital But not only his ; 

We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

Cal. You have more patience than I caro to boast 
Had I becn^prcsent when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain ertbrt to repress my wrath. 

/. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not — all had else 
been marr'd : 
As 't is, our causo looks prosperous stil!. 

C(tl. You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave ho ? 

/. Brr. That there waa 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'l was idle 
To think of justice from such hands. 

/. lirr. At least, 

It lull'il suspicion, showing confultMice. 
Had I boon silent, not a sbirm l)iit 
Had kf-pf me in his oye, as meditating 



240 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

Ccd. But wherefore not address you to the Council ? 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 

/. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 

Cal. Why not now? 

/. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your musters, 
And bid our friends prepare their companies : — 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
It may be, of to-morrow's sun : delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 

Cal. These brave words have breathed new life 

Into my veins ; T am sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : day on day 
Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves. 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, \vhich must be death or freedom ! 
I 'm weary to the heart of find ng neither. 

/. Ber. We will be free in life or death! the grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty ? 

Cal. All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

/. Ber. No matter ; we can do without , Whose are they? 

Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

I. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
Who are not restless cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them, 

Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
To enterprise like ours : I 've seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own, though greater; 
And ill a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

/. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes. 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not breathe 
A soul more full of honour. 

Cal. It may be so: 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us: 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber. Such ties are not 

For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
We must forget all feelings save the one — 
We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
We must behold no object save our country— 
And only look on death as beautiful, 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven, 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cd. But if we fail 

/• Ber. They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; 
Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs 
Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom. 



They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 
Which overpower all others, and conduct 
The world at last to freedom : What were we, 
If Brutus had not hved ? He died in giving 
Rome hberty, but lefl a deathless lesson — 
A name wliich is a virtue, and a soul 
Which multiplies itself throughout aU time, 
When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
Turns servile : he and his high friend were styled 
" The last of Romans !" Let us be the first 
Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
To owTi a thousand despots in his place. 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters! 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
As with a spell. 

/. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 

You say that all things are in readiness ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round, 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent coimcil to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair colour to the intioduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment, 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms ? 

Cal. All who were deem'd trust- worthy : there are i 
Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and then supply them: 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause, 
But needs must on with those who will surround them. 

I. Ber. You have said well. Have you remark 'd all such? 

Cal. I 've noted most ; and caused tlie other chie& 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 't is 
Commenced to-morrow ; but, till 't is begun. 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand periJs. 

/. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at tlie wonted hour, 
Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
Within the arsenal and hold all ready, 
Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 

Cal. We will not fail. 

/. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 

I have a stranger to present to them. 

Cal. A stranger I doth he know the secret ? 

/. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not? 

I. Ber. 1 have risk'd no man's life except my own—. 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid; and if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power: he comes alone witli me, 
And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve. 

Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him : 
Is he one of our order ? 

/. Ber. Ay, in spirit, 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great changes 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
Valiarjt in war, and sage in council ; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions. 
That if once stirr'd and baffled, as be has been 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



24) 



Upon the tenderesl points, there is no Fury 
In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grows capable of all things for revenge ; 
And add too, that his mind is liberal. 
He sees and feels the people are oppress'd. 
And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all. 
We have need of such, and such have need of us. 

Cat. And what part would you have him take with us ? 

/. Ber. It may be, that of chief, 

Cal. What! and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

/. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well. 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness. 
And, covetous of brief authorit}'. 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leading qualities? No, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge. — 
Away! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with you, as I have ever been. 
In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Scene, the Space between the Canal and the 
Church of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian 
Statue before it. — A Gondola lies in the Canal at some 
distance. 

Enter the Doge alone, disguised. 
Doge, {solus.) I am before the hour, the hour whose 
voice. 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottering. 
And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 
Of indistinct but awful augury 
Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 

thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not; 
And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
Patrician pestilence spread on and on, 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall fane! 
Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 
The floor which doth divide us from the dead. 
Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 
Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
In one shrunk heap, what once made many heroes, 
When what is now a handful shook the earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 
"Vault where two Doges rest — my sires ! who died 
The one of toil, the other in the field, 
With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
And sages, whose great labours, woimds, and state 
I have inherited, — let the graves gap*', 
Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
And pour them from tliy portals to gaze on mc! 
2F 



I call them up, and them and thee to witness 

What it hath been which put me to this task— 

Their pure high blood, their blazon roll of glories, 

Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 

Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 

We fought to make our equals, not our lords: — 

And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 

Who perish'd in the field, where I since conquer'd, 

Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 

Of thine and Venice' foes, there ofTer'd up 

By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 

Spirits ! smile down upon me ; for my cause 

Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 

Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 

And in the future fortunes of our race ! 

Let me but prosper, and 1 make this city 

Free and immortal, and our house's name 

Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio. 

/. Ber. Who goes there ? 
Doge. A friend to Venice. 

/. Ber. 'T is he. 

Welcome, my lord, — you are before the time. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 
/. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased to see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd? 

Doge. Not so — but I have set my Uttle lefl 
Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not I 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. When 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

/. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ! 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

Doge. IVe — Wei — no matter— -you have eam'd the 
right 
To talk of «s. — But to the point. — If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
Conducts her generations to our tombs, 
And makes her children with their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
The annals of hereafter; but if not, 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 
And secret plot, although to a good end, 
Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
No less than ho who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

/. Ber. 'T is not the moment to consider thus^ 
Else I could answer. — Let us to tlie meetings 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Doge. We are observed, and have been. 

/. Ber. We observed ; 

Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up ; 

Here are no human witnesses : look tliere^ 
What see you 1 

I. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statu© 

Bestriding a proud steed, in tlie dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge. That warrior was the sir* 

Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by tlio twice rescued city:— 
Think you that he looks down on us or no ? 

/. Ber. My lord, tliese are mere phantasies ; there are 
No oyea in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death. 



242 



MARINO PALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



I tell ihee, man, there is a spirit in 
Such things that acts and seeSj unseen, though felt ; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'T is in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deern'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief^ 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
With stung plebeians ? 

/. Ber. It had been as well 

To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embark'd 
In our great enterprise. — Do you repent ? 

Doge. No — but I/eeZ, and shall do to the last. 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once, 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be. 
And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause : 
Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling. 
And Icnowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
Which is your best security. There 's not 
A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
To his redress : the very means I am forced 
By these fell tyrants to adopt is such, 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 

/. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes. 

Doge. On — on — 

It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. 

/. Ber. Say rather, \ is her freedom's rising peal 

Of triumph This way — we are near the place. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — The House where the Conspirators meet. 

Dagolino, Doko, Bertram, Fedele Trevisano, 
Calendaro, Antonio delle Bende, &c. &c. 

Cal, (entering.) Are all here ? 

Dag. All with you ; except the three 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

Cal. Where 's Bertram ? 

Ber. Here! 

Cal. Have you not been able to complete 

The number wanting in your company ? 

Ber. I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

Cal. There is no need 

Of trusting to their faith : who. save ourselves 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent ? they think themselves ' 
Engaged in secret to the Signory, 
To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in tlieir excesses ; 
But once drawn up, and their new swords well-flesh'd 
In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
They will not hesitate to follow up 
Their blow upon the others, when they see 
The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for very shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perish'd. 

Ber. How say you ? all ! 

Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

^^' I spare? 

I have no power to spare. I only question'd. 
Thinking that eveji among these wicked men 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

^'^- Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pieces. 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
In the last energy of venomous life. 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swolu serpent, as 
Cf saving one of th^se : they form but links 



1 



Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one body 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, 
So let them die as one I 

Dag. Should one survive, 

He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'T would fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

Cal. Look to it well, 

Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

Ber. Who 

Distrusts me ? 

Cal. Not I ; for if I did so. 

Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust: 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

Ber. You should know 

Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen me 
Put to the proof i or, if you should have doubts, 
I '11 clear them on your person ! 

Cal. You are welcome, 

When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 

Ber. 1 am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
As far among the foe as any he 
Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
IVithout some sense of shuddering; and the sight 
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers; but 
If there were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honour, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, v/hich else pollutes it wholly 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

Dag. Calm thee, Bertram ; 

For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
Such actions from our hands : we '11 wash away 
All stains in freedom's fountain ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio and the Doge, disguised^ 

Dag. Welcome, Israel. 

Consp. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou art 
late — 
Who is this stranger ? 

Cal. It is time to name him. 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet hira 
In brotherhood, as 1 have made it known 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself 

/. Ber. Stranger, step forth '. 

[The Doge discovers himself. 

Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the Doge ! 
Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to. 

Cal, (drawing his sword.) Hold! Hold! 

Who moves a step against them dies. Hold! hear 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



243 



Bertuccio — What ! are you appall'd to see 

A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 

Among you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this mystery 

/. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their own 
bosoms, 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 

Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death more fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I should not now be here : — Oh, noble Courage ! 
The eldest bom of Fear, which makes you brave 
Against this solitary hoary head ! 
See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
At sight of one patrician ! — Butcher me. 
You can ; I care not. — Israel, are these men 
The mighty hearts you spoke of? look upon them ! 

Cal. Faith! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was this your trust in your true Chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

/. Ber. I disdain to speak. 

They might and must have known a heart like mine 
Incapable of treachery ; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
By me into this council had been led 
To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 

Doge. And which am I to be? your actions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 

/. Ber. My lord, we would have perish'd here together. 
Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold. 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse. 
And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
As I described them — Speak to them. 

Cal. Ay, speak ; 

We are all hstening in wonder. 

/. Ber. (addressing the Conspirators.) You are safe. 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then, 
And know my words for truth. 

Doge. You see me here, 

As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd, 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state, 
Ai)parcnt sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine, 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there you know or think you know ; 
Vv'hy I am here^ he who hath been most wronged, 
He who among you hath been most insulted. 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
Asking of his own heart what brought him here ? 
You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgement to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here, 
Here at my heart the outrage — but my words. 
Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
Would only show my feebleness the more. 
And I come hero to strengthen even the strong. 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people, 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
Without its virtues — temperance and valour. 
The lords of Laccdcmon were true soldiers, 
But ours are Sybarites, while wo are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
Although drcst out to head a pageant, as 
The Greeks of yore made drunk tlioir slnvt's (o form 



A pastime for their children. You are met 

To overthrow this monster of a state, 

This mockery of a government, this spectre. 

Which must be exorcised with blood, and then 

We will renew the times of truth and justice, 

Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 

Not rash equality but equal rights, 

Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 

Giving and taking strength reciprocal. 

And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 

So that no part could be removed without 

Infringement of the general symmetry. 

In operating this great change, I claim 

To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 

If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 

And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 

Than live another day to act the tyrant 

As delegate of tyrants ; such I am not, 

And never have been — read it in our annals ; 

I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking lor my fellow men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 

A skeptic of all measures which had not 

The sanction of" The Ten," a councii-fa\vner, 

A tool, a fool, a p'lppet. — they had ne er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people ; 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day learn : meantime I do devote, 

Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power such as it is, not that 

Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 

Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

And still has individual means and mind ; 

I stake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath — 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) 

My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast! 

Such as I am, I offer me to you 

And to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 

A Prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nothing, and v.ho has lefl his throne to be so. 

Cal. Long live Falicro ! — Venice shall be free ! 

Consp. Long live Falierol 

/. Ber. Comrades I did I well? 

Is not this man a host in such a cause? 

Doge. This i:, no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you? 

Cal. Ay, and the first among us, as thou hast been 
Of Venice — be our general and chief. 

Doge. Chief! — general! — I was general at Zara, 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice: 

I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 

To lead a band of patriots : when I lay 

Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'T is not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
Israel has slated to me your whole plan — 
'T is bold, but feasible if I assist it. 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt — is it not so, my friends? 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it bo then ? 

Dogr. At sunrise. 

Ber. So soon? 

Doge. So soon ? — so late — each hour nccumulaU 
Peril on peril, and the more so now 
Since I have mingled with y<>ii ; know you not 
'I'he Covincil, and " thn 'J\-n?'' the spies, th« rym 
< >r I lie iialricians dubious of tJuir slaves, 



244 



MARINO FALIEKO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



And now more dubious of the prince tlicy had made one ? 

I tell you you must strike, and suddenly, 

Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 

Col. With all my soul and sword I yield assent ; 
Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
Let each repair for action to his post ! 
And now. my lord, the signal ? 

Doge, When you hear 

The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not be 
Struck without special order of the Doge, 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince,) 
March on Saint Mark's ! 

/• Bei: And there ?— 

Doge. By difFerent routes 

Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discern d before the port ; form round the palace. 
Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house, 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on. 
Shout ye, " Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our waters !" 
Col. I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 
Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower) 
Will then be gather'd in unio the harvest. 
And we will reap them wilh the sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'T will be but to be taken faint and single. 
When the majority are put to rest. 

Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we will not scotch 
But kill. 

Ber. Once more, sir, with yovir pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question wiiich I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims— must all perish in this slaughter ? 

Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

Consp. All! all! 

Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 

^/- ^^' " Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 

Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 

Dost thou not see, that if we single out 

Some for escape, they live but to avenge 

The fallen? and how distinguish now the innocent 

From out the guilty? all their acts are one— 

A single emanation from one body. 

Together knit for our oppression ! 'T is 

Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 

If all of these even should be set apart : 

The hunter may reserve some single cub 

From out the tiger's litter, but whoe'er 

Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam. 

Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 

I vnll abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 

Let him decide if any should be saved. 

Doge. Ask me not—tempt me not with such a ques- 
tion — ^ 

Decide yourselves. 

/. Ber. You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression. 
Have made them deadly ; if there be among them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce^. 

D(jge, Dolfino's father was my friend, and Lando 



Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
Of Veniero — shall I save it twice ? 
Would that I could save them and Venice also ! 
All these men, or dieir fathers, were my friends 
Till they became my subjects; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk. 
Which, in its soUtude, can shelter nothing; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish I 

Cal. They cannot coexist with Venice' freedom ! 
Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutual mass 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
What fatal poison to the springs of life. 
To human ties, and all that 's good and dear, 
Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
All these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 
Requited honourably my regards ; 

We served and fought ; we smiled and wept in concert ; 
We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
We grew in years and honours fairly, till 
Tiieir own desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then fareweU! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common! and sweet bonds which link old friendships, 
When the survivors of long years and actions, 
Vv^hich now belong to history, sooth the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds (he mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow. 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
Which once were one and many, still retain 

A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 

Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do tliis deed ? 

/. Ber. ]My lord, you are much moved : it is not now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 
■^^«- Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : mark with me 

The gloomy vices of this government. 

From the hour that made me Doge, the Doge thef 
made me — 

Farewell the past ! I died to all that had been, 

Or rather they to me: no friends, no kindness, 

No privacy of life— all were cut off: 

They came not near me, such approach gave umbrage ; 

They could not love me, such was not the law ; 

They thwarted me, 't was the state's policy ; 

They baffled me, 't was a patrician's duty; 

They wrong'd me, for such was to right the state • 



They could not right me, that would 



give suspicion ; 



So that I was a slave to my own subjects 
So tiiat I was a foe to my own fi-iends ; 
Begirt with spies for guards— ^^ith robes for power— 
Wilh pomp for freedom— gaolers for a council- 
Inquisitors for friends— and hell for life ! 
I had one only fount of quiet left, 
And tfiat they poison'd ! My pure liousehold gods 
Vf ere shiver'd on my hcartli, and o'er their shrine 
Sate grmning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 

/. Ber. You h.ave been deeply wrong'd, and now shall be 
Nobly avenged before another night. 

Doge. I had borne all— it hurt me, but I bore it 

Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult. 
Not only unredress'd, but sanction'd ; then. 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me— 
The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, lona 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! ° 
Even in that very hour and vow, they^ abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as bovs make 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 



245 



Playthings, to do their pleasure and be broken! 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To me, then, these men have no private life. 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others ; 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon. 

Cod. And now to action ! 

Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words ; I 'd fain be doing ! 
Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me wakeful ! 
/. Ber. Disperse then to your posts: be firm and 
vigilant ; 
Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
^ Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey. 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a mere ebullition of tlie vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy \ he could not — 
He dared not in more honourable days 
Have risk'd it ! I have merged all private wrath 
Against him in the thought of our great purpose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 

Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 

Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I the head ; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
I cannot pause on individual hate, 
In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge. 
Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore, 
Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' ashes. 

/. Ber. Away, then, to your posts! I but remain 
A moment to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 
Cal. Farewell, then, until dawn! 
/. Ber. Success go with you ! 

Consp. We will not fail — away ! My lord, farewell ! 
[The conspirators salute the Doge and Israel 
Bertuccio, and retire,}ieadedby Philip 
Calendar©. The Doge and Israel 
Bertuccio remain. 
I. Ber. We have them in the toil — it caimot fail ! 
Now thou 'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now; 
Caesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
Has rcach'd patricians ; but until this hour. 
What prince has plotted for his people's freedom ? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 
For over, and for ever, thoy conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 



On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; 't is great, 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 

Doge. And is it then decided ! must they die ? 

/. Ber. Who? 

Doge. My own friends by blood and courtesy, 

And many deeds and days — the senators ? 

/. Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just one. 

Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you 
You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune^ 
I blame you not, you act in your vocation ; 
They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised you; 
So they have me : hut you ne'er spake with them; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 
In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, 
The elders of the council: I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing. 
As we went forth to take our prey arotmd 
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood ? 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 

/. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
A child; if you are not in second childhood, 
Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. l^y heavens ! I 'd rather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent. 
Than see the man I venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 
You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others ; can you shrink then 
From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 
Who but give back what they have drain'd from millions? 

Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on blow, 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver: 
Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let these last and lingering tlioughts have way. 
To which you only and the Night are conscious, 
And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 
'T is mine to sound the knoll, and strike the blow, 
Which shall unpeople many palaces, 
And hew the highest genealogic trees 
Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit. 
And crush their blossoms into barremiess : 
Tliis will I — must I — have I sworn to do, 
Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
But still I quiver to behold what I 
Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear witli me. 

/. Ber. Rc-man your breast ; I feel no such remorse, 
I understand it not : why should you change ? 
You acted, and you act on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is— you feel not, nor do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder ; 
You feci not — you go to this butcher-work 
As if these high-born men were steers for shambles ! 
When all is over, you 'II be free and merry, 
And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 
But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassing massacre, shall bo, 
Shall sec and feel— oh God I oh God ! 't is true, 
And thou dost well to answer tliat it was 
'* My own free will and act," and yet you err, 
For I tmll do this ! Doubt not — foar not ; 1 
Will bo your most unmerciful accomplice ' 
And yet I act no more on my free will, 



246 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 

But there is hell within me and around, 

And like the demon who believes and trembles 

Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 

Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 

To gather the retainers of our house. 

Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all Venice, 

Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 

Be broad upon the Adriatic there 

Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 

The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 

I am resolved — come on. 

/. Ber. With all my soul ! 

Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Remember what these men have dealt to thee. 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung you 
To punish a few traitors to the people ! 
Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 

Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord which jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Palazzo of the Patrician Lioxi. Lioni 
laying aside the mask and cloak ivhich the Venetian 
Noldes wore in public, attended by a Domestic. 

Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel 
The gayest we have held for many moons. 
And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not ; 
There came a heaviness across my heart, 
Which, in the Ughtest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
Even \vith the lady of my love, oppress'd me. 
And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be ; 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
Lashing against the outward Lido's bulwark ; 
So that I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

-^ni- Yes, my lord : 

Command you no refreshment ? 

i'jfu^i' Naught, save sleep, 

Which will not be commanded. Let me hope ir^ 

[Exit Antonio. 
Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 't is 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave, 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness ! 
[Goes to an open lattice. 
And what a contrast with the scene I left, 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
Which show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
There Age essaying to recall the past. 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labour of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror. 



Prankt forth in all the pride of ornament, 

Forgot itselfj and trusting to the falsehood 

Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 

Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 

There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such 

Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 

And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 

Of flush 'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 

Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure. 

And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 

On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should not 

Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 

The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 

The garlands, the rose odours, and the flowers — 

The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 

The white arms and the raven hair — the braids 

And bracelets \ swanlike bosoms, and the necklace, 

An India in itself, yet dazzling not 

The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes. 

Floating like light clouds 'tvLxt our gaze and heaven ; 

The many-twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, 

Suggesting the more secret symmetry 

Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 

All the delusion of the dizzy scene. 

Its false and true enchantments — art and nature, 

Which swam before my giddy eyes that drank 

The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 

On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 

A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 

Are gone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 

Worfds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 

Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 

And the ^reat element, which is to space 

What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 

Sot'ten'd with the first breathings of the spring; 

The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 

Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 

Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces. 

Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 

Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, 

Like altars ranged along the broad canal. 

Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 

Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 

Than those more massy and mysterious giants 

Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics. 

Which point in-Egypt's plains to times that have 

No other record. All is gentle : naught 

Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 

Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 

The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 

Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress, 

And cautious opening of the casement, showing 

That he is not unheard ; while her young hand, 

Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part, 

So delicately white it trembles in 

The act of opening the forbidden lattice. 

To let in love tlirough music, makes his heart 

Thrill like his lyi-e-strings at the sight ; the dash 

Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 

Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. 

And the responsive voices of the choir 

Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 

Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto ; 

Some glimmering palace roof or tapering spire, 

Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 

The ocean-born and earth-commanding city — 

How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm I 

I thank thee, Night! for thou hast chased away 

Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 

I could not dissipate : and with the blessing 

Of thy benign and quiet influence, — 

Now will I to my couch, although to rest 

Is almost wronging such a night as this 

[A knocking is heard from withorit 
Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a moment ? 



e 

I 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



247 



Enter Antonio. 

Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
Implores to be admitted. 

Lioni. Is he a stranger? 

Arxt. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

Lioni. 'T is a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing ! 
And yet there is slight peril : 't is not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at ; still. 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 't will be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be ? — 

[Exit Antonio, and returns ivith Bertram muffled. 

Ber. My good lord Lioni, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 

Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, Antonio. 
[Exit Antonio. 
Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

Ber. {discovering himself.) A boon, my noble patron ; 
you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make him happy. 

Lioni. Thou hast known me 

From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
What has occurred, some rash and sudden broil ?— 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance. 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 

Lioni. But what ? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
I would not slay — but then I must not save thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood 

Ber. I come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the twoedged sword. 
And is about to take, instead of sand. 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hourglass ! — 
Go not thou forth tomorrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not ? — 

What means this menace ? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning, 

But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er be stirring; though the roar of crowds — 
The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clasli of arms — the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth 
Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
TiU I return! 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 

Ber. Again, I tell tliee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou holclest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory — 



By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter— 
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good, 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods, 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost ! 

Lioni. I am indeed already lost in wonder ; 
Surely thou ravest I what have / to dread ? 
Who are my foes ? or if there be such, why 
Art thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or if so leagued, 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before ? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? 

Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Say not so ! 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 

Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall impede 

me! 
Ber. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! — ^Fare- 
well 1 [Gfoin^. 
Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own safety 
Which makes me call thee back ; we must not part thus. 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signor, 

You have been my protector: in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we play'd together ; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than fosterbrother ; years 
Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours I 
Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 
Lioni. Bertram, 't is thou who hast forgotten them. 
Ber. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labours of the humble, 
Still you forsook me not : and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 't was no fault of him 
Who ofttimes rescued and supported me 
When struggling with the tides of circumslanco 
Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ! 

Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the senate T 
Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angry spirita 

And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruflHans, 
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns; 
Thou hcrdest not witli such : 't is true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
Wiuit hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hucless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of tlio |)laguo 
Which sweeps tlic soul deliriously from life! 
IJoni. Some villains have been tampering with thott* 
Bertram ; 
This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 



248 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection : 

But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 

And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 

As vice and villany would put thee to : 

Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature — 

What is it thou and thine are bound to do, 

Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 

Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 

So that our good-will is a heritage 

We should bequeath to our posterity 

Such as ourselves received it, or augmented; 

I say, what is it thou must do, that l 

Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 

Like a sick girl ? 

Ber. Nay, question me no further : 

I must be gone. 

JLioni. And I be murder'd ! — say, 

Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram? 

Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I of murder ? — 
'Tis false ! I did not utter such a word. 

Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out thy wolfish eye, 
So changed from what I knew it, there glares forth 
The gladiator. If my life 's thine object. 
Take it — I am unarm'd, — and then away ! 
I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set thee to thy task-work. 

Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine ; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram ; 
I am not worthy to be smgled out 
From such exalted hecatombs — who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the danger? 

Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
Divided like a house against itself^ 
And 'so will perish ere tomorrow's twilight! 

Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones ! But now, 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out, 
And thou art safe and glorious ; for 't is more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to thee. 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people? 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth. 
Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here ! 

Ber. Is there no way to save thee ? minutes fly, 
And thou art lost! — thou! my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honour ! 

LAoni. Where 

Can lie the honour in a league of murder? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for law ; 
And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
Him whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 
B^- Not I 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thau must not die I and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assa.ssin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 



Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my fHend! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 

Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the 
state's ! — 
SpeaJc — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee. 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Ber. I have thought again : it must not be — I love 
thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof, 
Not least though last; but having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell — we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 

Lioni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedro — to the door ! 
See that none pass — arrest this man ! 

Enter Antonio and other armed Domestics, who seize 
Bertram. 

Lioni, {continues.) Take care 

He hath no harm ; brhig me my sword and cloak, 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Comaro : — fear not, Bertram ; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weal. 

Ber. Where wouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner? 

Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten ;" 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge ? 

Lioni. Assuredly : 

Is he not chief of the state ? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you? — but we'll know anon. 

Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
They fail, you know "the Ten" and their tribunal, 
And that Saint Mark's has dungeons, and the dungeons 
A rack. 

Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You think to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

Ant. The bark is ready, 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, I '11 reason with thee as we go 
To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — The Ducal Palace — The Doge^s Apartment. 
The DoGE and his nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster? 

Ber. F. They are array'd, and eager for the signal, 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo. * 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got together, 
From my own fief^ Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 't is better as it is : 
A sudden swelling of our retinue 
Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty, 
The vassals of that district are too rude 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 
The secret discipline we need for such 
A service, till our foes are de It upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has been gives, 
These are the men for such an enterprise ; 
These city slaves have all their private bias, 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



249 



Their prejudice against or for this noble, 

Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 

Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants, 

Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 

Would do the bidding of their lord without 

Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 

Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 

A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 

They are not used to start at those vain names, 

Nor bow the knee before a civic senate ; 

A chief in armour is their Suzerain, 

And not a thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough ; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge. Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants ; 
They made the sun shine through the host of Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents. 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there 's much to do, you '11 wish with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber. F. Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolve 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Doge. Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike ; and, firstly, that 
I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And, secondly, because of all these men, 
Save Israel and Philip Calendar©, 
I know not well the courage or the faith : 
To-day might find 'mong them a traitor to us. 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
But once in, vnth their hilts hot in their hands. 
They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck. 
And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts. 
Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance. 
Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sight 
Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more. 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Than urge them when they have commenced, but till 
That moment a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 
Are capable of turning them aside. — 
How goes the night? 

Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 

Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted? 

Ber. F. By this time they are ; 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in person. 

Doge. 'T is well.— Will the morn never put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 
I am settled and bound up, and being so. 
The very effort which it cost me to 
Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire. 
Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
And trembled at the thought of this dread duty. 
But now I have put down all idle passion, 
And look the growing tempest in tlic face, 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman?) it hath been 
A greater struggle to mo, than wlien nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight, 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despols needed more 
2G 



To steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With me ; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around me: this 
They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
Oft do a public right wth private wrong. 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look. 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me. 
The sea looks grayer thi-ough the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky. 

Doge. Away then ! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength ; here I will meet you— 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself at the great gate 
I would not trust " the Ten" except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut the more careless swords of those leagued with us 
Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark ! 
"The Genoese are come — ho! to the rescue! 
" Saint Mark and liberty !" — Now — now to action ! 

Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 

Doge. Come hither, my Bcrtuccio — one embrace- 
Speed, for the day grows broader — Send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's! 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge, (solus.) He is gone, 

And on each footstep moves a life. — 'T is done. 
Now the destroying Angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
And for a moment, poised in middle air, 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings, 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day ! 
That slowly walk'st the waters! march — march on— 
I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice flovv'd too, but victorious : 
Now thou must wear an immix'd crimson ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
But friond or ilm will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
I, who was named Preserver of the City? 
I, at whose name the million's caps were flvmg 
Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to scml me blessing% 
And fame, an<l length of days — to see tliis day ? 
But this day, black within the cali'iidar. 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Dogo Dandolo survived to ninety summor» 



260 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE. 



To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown 

I will resign a crown, and make the state 

Renew its freedom — but oh I by what means ? 

The noble end must justify them — What 

Are a few drops^ of human blood ? 't is false, 

The blood of tyrants is not human; they, 

Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours, 

Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 

Which they have made so populous. — Oh world ! 

Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs. 

That we must work by crime to punish crime ? 

And slay as if Death had but this one gate. 

When a few years would make the sword superfluous ? 

And I, upon the verge of th' unknown realm. 

Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 

I must not ponder this [A pause. 

Hark! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise ! 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung- 
Why pauses it? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal, 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell. 
Which never knells but for a princely death, 
Or for a state in peri^, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfullest and last 
Sound till the strong tower rock! — What! silent still? 
I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
To be the centre of reunion to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering of the weak, in case of conflict; 
For if they should do battle, 'twill be here, 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken ; 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 

The master-mover. Hark ! he comes — he comes. 

My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings? Is he marching? hath he sped? — 
Thei/ here ! — all 's lost — yet will I make an effort. 

Enter a Signor of the Night*, ivith Guards, 

4'C. ^c. 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

Doge. Me ! 

Thy prince, of treason ? — Who are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 

Sig. {shovnng his order.) Behold my order from the 
assembled Ten. 

Doge. And where are they, and why assembled? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty 's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

S^S- Duke ! it may not be ; 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

Doge. You dare to disobey me then? 

"'^S- I serve 

The state, and needs must serve it faithfully ; 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

Doge. And till that warrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, as now applied. 
Rebellious— Hast thou weigh'd well thy life's worth, 
That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 

Sig. 'T is not my oflice to reply, but act — 
I am placed here as guard upon thy person. 
And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Doge, (aside.) I must gain time— So that the storm- 
bell sound 
All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — speed ! — 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 



Wo to the vanquish'd ! be they prince and people, 
Or slaves and senate — 

[The great bell of Saint Mark's tolls. 
Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 

Doge, {aloud.) Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you, 
ye hirelings. 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear, 
It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
Now, knaves, what rcinsom for your lives ? 

Sig. Confusion t 

Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all 's lost 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
The officer bath miss'd his path or purpose. 
Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the tower; the rest remain with me. 

[Eocit part of the Chcard 

Doge. Wretch ^ if thou wouldst have thy vile life, 
implore it ; 
It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
They never shall return. 

Sig. So let it be ! 

They die then in their duty, as will I. 

Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler game 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance, 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be ftee. 

Sig. And learn thou to- be- captive — It hath ceased^ 
[The beU ceaaes to toll.. 
The traitorous signal, which was to have set 
The bloodhound mob on their patrician pre}' — 
The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 

Doge, (after a pause.) All 's silent, and all 's lost ! 

Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 

As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty? 

Doge. Peace, thou thing! 

Thou hast done a worthy deed, and eam'd the price 
Of blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
As thou said'st even now — then do thine office, 
But let it be in silence, as behoove thee. 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince-. 

Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 

Doge, (aside.) There now is nothing left me save to die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fallen, 
And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
To miss it thus ! 

Enter other Signors of the Night, with Bertuccio 
Faliero prisoner. 

2d Sig. We took him in the act 

Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus begun to sound. 

1st Sig. Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured? 

2d Sig. They are — besides, it matters not ; the chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 
Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 

Ber. F. Uncle ! 

Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 

The Glory hath departed from our house. 

Ber. F. Who would have deera'dit?— Ah ! one moment 
sooner ! 

Doge. That moment would have changed the face of 
ages ; 
This gives us to eternity — We '11 meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success, 
But who can make their own minds all in all, 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 't is 
But a brief passage — I would go alone,^ 



MARINO FALIERD, DOGE OF VENICE. 



251 



Yet if they send us, as 't is like, together 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 

Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 

\st Sig. Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Doge. Our trial ! will they keep their mockery up 
Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us, 
As VTO had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
'T is but a game of mutual homicides. 
Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
Have won with false dice. — Who hath been our Judas? 

\st Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 

Ber. F. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a cei-tain Bertram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 

Doge. Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what vile tools 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Rewards and honours, and be stamp'd in stery 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rome uwoke, and had an annual triumph, 
While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was cast 
From the Tarpeian. 

\st Sig. He aspired to treason. 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. He saved the state, 

And sought but to reform what he revived — 
But "dcas is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

\st Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove you 
Into an inner chamber. 

Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 

If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 

Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go forth, 
And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail'd in ! 
They cannot quench the memory of those 
Who would have hurl'd tlietn from their guilty thrones, 
And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 

Scene \.— The Hall of the Council of Ten assembled 
with tlie additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the 
Conspirators for the Treason of Marino Faliero, 
■composed what tvas called the Giunta^ — Guards, Officers, 
^c. ^c. — Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calen- 
DARO a« Prisoners. — Bertram, Lioni, and I'VU- 
nesses, ^c. 

The Chief of the Ten, Benintende. 

Ben. There now rests, after such conviction of 
Their manifold and manifest offences. 
But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
The sentence of the law : a grievous task 
To those who hear, and these who speak. Alas ! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of office should be stigmatised through all 
The years of coming time, as bearing record 
To this most foul and complicated treason 
Against a just and free stale, known to all 
The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 
A city which has opcn'd India's wealth 
To Euro|)e ; the last Roman refuge from 
O'erwhelming Attila ; the ocean's (|ueen ; 
Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'T is to sap 
The throne of such a city, these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives — 
So lei thera die the death. 

/. Ber. Wo are prepared ; 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 

Ben. If yo have that to say which would obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 



Will hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 
Ber. F. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
Ben. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 
Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 

/. Ber. Justice ! 

Ben. What 

Your object? 

/. Ber. Freedom ! 

Ben. You are brief, sir. 

/. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
To brave your judges to postpone the sentence ? 

/. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon." 

Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

/. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have wrung 
from us, 
Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left, 
And some slight sense of pain in these wrench 'd limbs : 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
You would appal your slaves to further slavery! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
Nor affirmation iruth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a lie. 
For a short respite — must we bear or die? 

Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 

I. Ber. The Senate. 

Ben. What do you mean ? 

/. Ber. Ask of the suffering people, 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 

Ben. You know the Doge ? 

/. Ber. I served with him at Zara 

In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
To present office ; we exposed our lives, 
While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
Alike by accusation or defence ; 
And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults ! 

Ben. You have held conference with him ? 

/. Ber. I am weary- 

Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

Ben. It is coming. — 

And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
Have you to say why you should not be doom'd ? 

Cal. I never was a man of many words, 
And now have few left, worth the utterance. 

Ben. A further application of yon engine 
May change your tone. 

Cal. Most true ; it ivill do so 

A former application did so ; but 
It will not change my words, or, if it did — 

Ben. What then ? 

Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law ? 

Ben. Assuredly. 

Cal. Whoe'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 

Ben. Without doubt, ho will bo brv)ugbt up to trial 

Cal. And on this testimony would he pi^risii? 

Ben. So yf^ur confession bo dotail'd and full, 
lie will .stand h(>ro in peril of his life. 

Cal. Then look well to thy prouil self, President! 
For l>y tlie eternity which yawns lujforo nie, 



252 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



I swear that thou^ and only thou, shalt be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack, 
If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 

One of the Giunta. Lord President, 't svere best pro- 
ceed to judgment ; 
There is no more to be drawn from these men. 

Hen. Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite — 
Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday,^ 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, 
To the full view of the assembled people 1 — 
And Heaven have mercy on their souls I 

The Giunta. Amen! 

/. Ber. Signors, farewell ! we shall not all again 
Meet in one place. 

Ben. And lest they should essay 

To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd,^ even in the act 
Of execution. — Lead them hence ! 

Cat. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

Sen. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
But, for your friends, such interviews would be 
Painflil to them, and useless all to you. 

Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
All those who had not heart to risk then- lives 
Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
That, in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying. 
Would not now be denied to us ; but since 

I. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave Calendaro ! 
What matter a few syllables 1 let 's die 
Without the slightest show of favour from them ; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To Heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live in fear ! — 
Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 

Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me 
It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
The coward Bertram, would 

/. Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 

Bert. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
I did not seek this task ; 't was forced upon me : 
Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my ovvti forgiveness — frown not thus! 

/. Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 

Cal. {spitting at Mm.) I die and scorn thee! 

[Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip 
Calendaro, Guards, ^c. 

Ben. Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 
'T is time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
He now be call'd in to receive the award? 

The Giunta. Ay, ay, 

Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 

Be brought before the council. 

One of the Giunta. And the rest, 

When shall they be brought up ? 

Sen. When all the chiefs 

Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozza ; 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them. 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 



As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His hbellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Chmrds, fyc. fyc. 

Ben. Doge — ^for such still you are, and by the law 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
When you must doff the ducal boimet from 
Tliat head, which could not wear a crovm more noble 
Than empires can confer, in quiet honour, 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers. 
Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
A city's glory — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length, 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Which have appear'd against you ; and more ample 
Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Doge. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemnation? 
You are at once offenders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners! — ^Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 

Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many ; but 

The first now stands before you in the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question him? 

Doge, {looking at him contemptuously.) No. 

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 

And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

Doge. And where are they? 

Ben. Gone to their place, and nov» 

Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 

Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
And the quick Cassius of the arsenal?— 
How did they meet their doom ? 

Ben. Think of your own ; 

It is approaching. You decline to plead, then? 

Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
Can recognise your legal power to try me. 
Show me the law! 

Ben. On great emergencies, 

The law must be remodell'd or amended : 
Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
In their great bosoms: who would have foreseen 
That nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms ? 
Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors, 
As would vvdth treason mount to tyranny ; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a twoedged sword! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 
What 's nobler than the signory of Venice ? 

Doge. The signory of Venice ! You betray'd 
You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
From my equality with you in birth. 
And my superiority in action. 
You drew mc from my honourable toils 
In distant lands — on flood — in field — m cities — 
You singled me out like a victim to 
Stand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the altar 
Where you alone could minister. I knew not— 
I sought not — wish'd not — dream'd not the election,' 
Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd ; 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous vigilance which always led yoq 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 



253 



To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 

You had, even in the interregnum of 

My journey to the capital, curtail'd 

And mutilated the few privileges 

Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 

Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 

By the pollution of your ribaldry, 

And he, the ribald, whom I see among you — 

Fit judge in such tribunal! 

Ben. (interrupting him.) Michel Steno 
Is here in virtue of his office, as 
One of the Forty ; " the Ten" having craved 
A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Doge, who should protect the law. 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates ! 

Doge. His PUxisHMENT ! I rather see him there, 
Where he now sits, to glut him Avith my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation, 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
'T was purity compared with your protection. 

Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 
With three parts of a century of years 
And honours on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
AH feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 

Doge. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the last drop 
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 
Already : you oppress'd the prince and people ; 
I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 
The price of such success would have been glory, 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
As would have made Venetian history 
Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
When they were freed, and flourish'd ages after 
And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : — 
Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
Is present infamy and death — the future 
Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free ; 
Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none ; 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, 
And being lost, take what I would have taken ! 
1 would have stood alone amidst your tombs ; 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it. 
As you have done upon my heart while living. 

Ben. You do confess then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal ? 

Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favours 
Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity? 

Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with questions. 
I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
Have something of the blood of brighter days, 
Arid am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots notJiing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 
I shall but answer that which will oflTend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
'T is true, these sullen walls should yield no echo : 
But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues; 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of gooti or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 



Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true loords are things^ 
And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine. 
If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel, 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ;— 
I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself, 
And sentence from the court! 

Ben. This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth 

Doge. The torture ! you have put me there already 
Daily since I was Doge ; but if you vdll 
Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 

Ben. Say, conscript fathers,^ shall she be admitted? 

One of the Giunta. She may have revelations of im- 
portance 
Unto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

Ben. Is this the general v\dll ? 

All. It is. 

Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 

Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'ga'mst all honour, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I '11 pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 

The DircHESs enters. 

Ben. Lady ! this just tribunal has resolvedj 
Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues : 
But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
Place a chair instantly. 

Ang. A moment's faintness — 

'T is past ; I pray you pardon me, I sit not 
In presence of my prince and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady? 

Ang. Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear 
And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 
To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
Tiic abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken, 
With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
Oh God! this is the silence of the grave! 

Ben. {after a pause.) Spare us, and spare thyself tho 
repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to heaven and man ! 

Ang. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe those things. 
Is he condemn'd ? 

Ben. Alas ! 

Ang. And was ho guilty ? 

Ben. Lady! tho natural distraction of 
Thy thoughts at such a nionunt makes tho question 
Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt Uko this 
Agauist a just and paramount tribunal 



254 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE- 



Were deep offence. But question even the Doge, 
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

Ang. Is it so? 

My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — 
The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 

Ben. He hath already own'd to his own guilt, 
Nor, as thou see'st, doth he now deny it now. 

Ang. Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few years. 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! 
One day of baffled crime must not efface 
Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 

Ben. His doom must be fulfill'd without remission 
Of time or penalty — 't is a decree. 

Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. 

Ben. Not in this case with justice. 

Ang. Alas! signor, 

He who is only just is cruel ; who 
Upon the earth would live were all judged justly ? 

Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 

Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state ; 
He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 

One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray'd the 
state. 

Ang. And, but for him, there now had been no state 
To save or to destroy ; and you who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverer. 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 
Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 

One of the Council. No, lady, there are others who 
would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

Ang. If there are so 

Within these walls, thou art not of the number ; 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen !— 
Is there no hope ? 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang. (turning to the Doge.) Then die, Faliero ! since 
it must be so ; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great offence. 
Half cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 
I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — 
Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 
Had it been fitting for thy name or mine, 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 

Doge. I have lived too long not to know how to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

M. Stem. Do<^e 

A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
Could cancel the inexorable past ! 
But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you. 
And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 

Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughter 
Further than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is : would that others had 
Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 



My honour to a thousand lives, could such 

Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 

A single life of others lost for that 

Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 

Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 

A good name for reward, but to itself. 

To me the scorner's words were as the wind 

Unto the rock : but as there are — alas ! 

Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 

Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 

To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance 

More terrible than death here and hereafter ; 

Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 

And who, though proof against all blandishments 

Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 

When the proud name on which they pinnacled 

Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 

Of her high aiery ; let what we now 

Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 

To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 

With beings of a higher order. Insects 

Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 

I' the heel o'er threw the bravest of the brave ; 

A wife's dishonour was the bane of Troy ; 

A wife's dishonour unking'd Rome for ever ; 

An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 

And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 

An obscene gesture cost Caligula 

His life, while earth yet bore his cruelties ; 

A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish province ; 

And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 

Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 

A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 

Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crovvnless head. 

And forged new fetters for a groaning people I 

Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 

Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this. 

If it so please him — 't were a pride fit for him ! 

But let him not insult the last hours of 

Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 

By the intrusion of his very prayers ; 

Nothing of good can come from such a source. 

Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever ; 

We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 

Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, 

And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 

And no resentment ; things Uke him must sting. 

And higher beings suffer: 'tis the charter 

Of life. Th^ man who dies by the adder's fang 

May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger : 

'T was the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 

In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 

Doge, (to Ben.) Signor I complete that which you 

deem your duty. 
Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
'T will move her too much to be witness to it. 

Ang. I know it will, and yet I must endure it, 
For 't is a part of mine — I will not quit. 
Except by force, my husband's side. — Proceed ! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak ! 
I have that within which shall o'ermaster all. 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
Intrusted by the state with high employments, 
Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
Convict by many witnesses and proofs, 
And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
Until this trial — the decree is death. 
Thy goods are confiscate unto the state, 
Thy name is razed from out her records, save 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



255 



Upon a public day of thanksgiving 

For this our most miraculous deliverance, 

When thou art noted in our calendars 

With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 

And the great enemy of man, as subject 

Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted. 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, 

" This place is of Marino Fahero, 

Decapitated for his crimes." 

Doge. "His crimes!" 

But let it be so: — it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackeris o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments. 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
Which glitter round it in their pictured trappings — 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants ! 
"Decapitated for his crimes !" — What crimes? 
Were it not better to record the facts, 
So that the contemplator might approve, 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose ? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 

Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap. 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giants' Staircase, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shall be struck off; and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul ! 

Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence? 

Ben. It is. "^ 

Doge. I can endure it. — And the time? 

Ben. Must be immediate. — Make thy peace with God \ 
Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 

Doge. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
Are all my lands confiscated ? 

Ben. They are ; 

And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 

Doge. That 's harsh. — I would have fain reserved the 
lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs. 
To portion them (leaving my city spoil. 
My pa.ace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

Ben. These 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chiefj thy nephew, 
In peril of his own life ; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

Ang. Signers, 

I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
I am devoted unto God alone. 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

Doge. Come ! 

Tho hour may be a hard one, but 't will end. 
Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 

Ben. You have naught to do, except confess and die. 
The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare. 
And both await without. — Hut, above all. 
Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
Are now by thousands swarming at the gates, 
But these arc closed : tlio Ten, iIk; Avogadori, 
The Giunta, and tho chitsf men of the Forty, 
Alono will be beholders of thy doom. 



And they are ready to attend the Doge. 

Doge. The Doge ! 

Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt die 
A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
The separation of that head and trunk. 
That ducal cro\vn and head shall bs united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors ; not so we. 
Who in the very punishment aclmowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolfs ; but thou shalt fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
And mourn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierceness. 
Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
As such for ever, on the self-same spot. — 
Guards I form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

{Exeunt. 

Scene II. — The Doge's Apartment. 
The Doge as Prisoner, and the Duchess attending him. 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 't were useless all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour. 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

Ang. Alas ! 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union. 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd thine own. 

Doge. Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
Which* shaped out for itself some great reverse ; 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

Ang. ' How foretold you? 

Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals: 
When I was in my youth, and served the senate 
And signory as podesta and captain 
Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 
By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote him 
Until he reel'd beneath his holy burden ; 
And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards heaven. 
Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from him, 
He turn'd to me, and said, " The hour will come 
When he thou hast o'erthrown shall o'erthrow tlice: 
The glory shall depart from out thy house. 
The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul. 
And in thy best maturity of mind 
A madness of the heart shall seize upon theo ; 
Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
In other men, or mellow into virtues; 
And majesty, which dorks all other heads, 
Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honours shall 
But prove to tlu-e the heralds of destruclioir, 
And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death. 
But not such death as fits an aged n>an." 
Thus sayin>^, ho pass'd on. — That hour is come. 

Ang. And with tliis warning couldst thou not have 
striven 
To avert tho fatal moment, and niono 
By penitence for Uiat whieh iliou hadst done? 

Doge. I own the words went to my heart, so much 



256 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



That I remember'd them amid the maze 

Of Ufe, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 

Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 

And I repented ; but 't was not for me 

To pull in resolution : what must be 

I could not change, and would not fear. — Nay more, 

Thou canst not have forgot, what all remember. 

That on my day of landing here as Doge, 

On my return from Rome, a mist of such 

Unwonted density went on before 

The bucentaur like the columnar cloud 

Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 

The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 

Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 't is 

The custom of the state to put to death 

Its criminals, instead of touching at 

The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is, — 

So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 

Aug. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

Doge. And yet 1 find a comfort in 
The thought that these things are the work of Fate ; 
For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust. 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o'er-ruling power; they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them ! 

Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these wretches take thy flight to heaven. 

Doge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sons, 
And this proud city, and these azure waters, 
And all which makes them eminent and bright, 
Shall be a desolation, and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ! 

Ang. Speak not thus now ; the surge of passion still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 

Doge. I stand within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
For the last time — the days which I denounce 
Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indwellers. 

Cruardy {coming forward.) Doge of Venice 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 

Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina! — one embrace — 
Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
A fond but fatal husband — love my memory — 
I would not ask so much for me still living, 
But thou canst judge of me more kindly now 
Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
Besides, of all the fruit of these long years. 
Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name, 
Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 
A little love, or friendship, or esteem. 
No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 
I have uprooted all my former life, 
And outlived every thing, except thy heart. 
The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep Thou turn'st so pale! — Alas! she faints, 

She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend your aid — 

I cannot leave her thus, and yet 't is better, 

Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 

When she shakes oflf this temporary death, 

I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 

One look I — how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 



Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

[The Attendants o/" Angiolina enter and surround 

their mistress, who has fainted. — Exeunt the 

Doge, Guards, ^c. ^c. 

Scene III. — The Court of the Dueal Palace: the outer 
gates are shut against the people. — The Doge enf-ers in 
his ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten 
and other Patricians, attended by the Guards till they 
arrive at the top of the " Giants' Staircase,''^ {v)here the 
Doges took the oaths ;) the Executioner is stationed there 
with his sword. — On arriving, a Chief of the Ten takes 
off' the ducal cap from the Doge's head. 
Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
I am again Marino Faliero: 
'T is well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness, Heaveii 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero 1 
Doge. 'T is with age, then.' 

Ben. Faliero! hast thou aught further to commend, 
Compatible with justice, to the senate? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 
Doge. Unheard of! ay, there 's not a history 
But shows a thousand crown'd conspii-ators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were tliey who fell in such a cause ? 
Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice— 
Agis and Faliero! 

Ben. , Hast thou more 

To utter or to do ? 
Doge. May I speak 1 

Ben. Thou may'st ; 

But recollect the people are wthout. 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements I in which to be resolved 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner, 
Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it. 
And fiU'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth. 
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth. 
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 
Thou sun ! which shbest on these things, and Thou I 
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest ! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
Float up from the abyss of time to be. 
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers for ever ! Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day, 

When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark. 

Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 

Unto a bastard Attila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defence 

As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her, 

Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 

And sold, and be an appanage to those 

Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



257 



Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! ^° 

Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, " 

The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 

When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 

In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 

Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 

Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vicegerent, 

Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 

Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 

Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 

From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 

Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 

To the third spurious generation ; — when 

Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 

Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors, 

Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 

And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of C3^rus, now thy subject kingdom, 

All thine inheritance shall be her shame 

Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, 

Vice without splendour, sin without relief 

Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er. 

But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude. 

Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 

Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 

When these and more are heavy on thee, when 

Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure. 

Youth without honour, age without respect. 

Meanness and weakness, and a sense of wo 

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur. 

Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, 

Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 

Amidst thy many murders, think ofmine! 

Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes! '^ 

Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 

Thus I devoto thee to the infernal gods I 

Thee and thy serpent seed I 

\Here the Doge turns, and addresses the Executioner. 
Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 

[The DoQE throws himself upon his knees^ and as 
the Executioner raises his sword the scene closes. 



Scene IV. — The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint MarVt 
— The People in crowds gathered round the grated gates 
of the Ducal Palace, which are shut. 

First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can discern 

the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 

Second Cit. I cannot reach thee v/ith mine utmost 
effort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people. 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

P\rst Cit. One has approach'd the Doge, and now they 
strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
He raises his keen eyes to Heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush I hush!— no, 
'T was but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ! 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we coilld 
But gather a sole sentence ! 

Second Cit. Hush ! we perhaps may catch the sound. 

First Cit. 'T is vain, 

I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a circlo 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! Hark! it falls ! 

[The People murmur. 

Third Cit. Then they have murder'd him who would 
have freed us. 

Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the commons ever. 

Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals barr'd. 
Would we had known the work they were preparing 
Ere we were summon'd here, we would have brought 
Weapons, and forced them ! 

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he 's dead ? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo! what have we 
hero? 

Enter on the Balcony of the palace which fronts Saint 
MarVs Place, a Chief of the Ten," with a 
bloody sword. He waves it thrice before the PeopUf 
and exclaims, 

* Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor !" 

[The gates are opened; the populace rush in toward* 
the " Giants Staircase,'" where the execution has taken 
place. The foremost of them exclaims to those behind^ 

The gory head rolls down the " Giants' Steps !" 

[The curtain/aU$, 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



Note 1, page 233, line 80. 
/ smote the tardy bishop at Treviso. 
An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 
Doges. 

Note 2, page 235, line 105. 

A gondola v>ith one oar only. 

A gondola is not like a common bout, but is as easily 

rowed with one oar as with two, (though of course not 

80 swiftly,) and often is so from motives of privacy ; 

and (since the decay of Venice) of economy. 

Note 3, page 242, lines 44 and 45. 

They think tfiemselvca 
Engaged in secret to the Signory. 
An historical fact. 

Note 4, page 248, line 124. 
IVithin mir palace precincts at San Polo. 
The Doge's private family palace, 
2H 



Note 5, page 250, line 44. 
" Signer of the Night:^ 
" I Signori di Notte" held an important charge in tho 
old Republic. 

Note 6, page 252, line 10. 
Festal Thursday. 
"Giovedi Grasso,^^ "fat or greasy Thursday," which 
I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 

Note 7, page 252, line 21. 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the aet. 
Historical fact. See Sanuto, in the Appendix to this 
tragedy. 

Note 8, page 263, line 97. 
Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted? 
The Venetian senate took the same title as th« 
Roman, of " Conscript Fathers." 



258 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



Note 9, page 256, line 86. 

T is with age, then. 

This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of Paris, 
to a Frenchman who made him the same reproach on 
his way to execution, in the earliest part of their revo- 
lution. I find in reading over, (since the completion of 
this tragedy,) for the first time these six years, "Ve- 
nice Preserved," a similar reply on a different occasion 
by Renault, and other coincidences arising from the 
subject. I need hardly remind the gentlest reader, that 
such coincidences must be accidental, from the very 
facility of their detection by reference to so popular a 
play on the stage and in the closet as Otway's chef- 
d'oeuvre. 

Note 10, page 257, line 1. 

Beggars for nobles, panders for a people! 

Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
reader look to the historical, of the period prophesied, 
or rather of the few years preceding that period. Vol- 
taire calculated their " nostre bene merite Meretrici" 
at 12,000 of regulars, without including volunteers and 
local militia, on what authority I know not ; but it is 
perhaps the only part of the population not decreased. 
Venice once contained 200,000 inhabitants, there are 
now about 90,000, and thjese I ! few individuals can 
conceive, and none could describe the actual state into 
which the more than infernal tyranny of Austria has 
plunged this unhappy city. 



Note 11, page 257, line 2. 
Then when the Hebrew 's in thy palaces. 
The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the 
Jews ; who in the earlier times of the repubhc were 
only allowed io inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the city 
of Venice. The whole commerce is in the hands of 
the Jews and Greeks, and the Huns form the garrison. 
Note 12, page 257, line 42. 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes. 
Of the first fifty Doges, Jive abdicated— ^re were 
ba.nished with their eyes put out— ^/^De were massa- 
cred — and nine deposed ; so that nineteen out of fifty 
lost the throne by violence, besides two who fell in 
battle : this occurred long previous to the reign of Ma- 
rino Faliero. One of his more immediate predecessors, 
Andrea Dandolo, died of vexation. Marino Fahero 
himself perished as related. Among his successors, 
Foscari, after seebg his son repeatedly tortured and 
banished, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the 
election of his successor. Morosini was impeached 
for the loss of Candia ; but this was previous to his 
dukedom, during which he conquered the Morea, and 
was styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say, 
" Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes!" 
Note 13, page 257, line 79. 
Chief of the Ten. 
"Un Capo de' Dieci" are the words of Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



MCCCLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO DOGE XLIX. 

"Fu eletto daquarant uno Elettori, il quale era Ca- 
valiere e conte diValdemarino in Trivigiana, ed era ricco, 
e si Irovava ambasciadore a Roma. E a di 9, di Set- 
tembre, dopo sepolto il suo predecessore, fu chiamato 
il gran Consiglio, e fu preso di fare il Doge giusta il so- 
lito. E furono fatti i cinque Correttori, Ser Bernardo 
Giustiniani Procuratore, Ser Paolo Loredano, Ser Fi- 
lippo Auric, Ser Pietro Trivisano, e Ser Tommaso 
Viadro. I quali a dl 10, misero queste correzioni alia 
promozione del Doge: che i Consiglieri non odano gli 
Oratori e Nunzi de' Signori, senza i Capi de' quaranta, 
ne possano rispondere ad alcuno, se non saranno quat- 
tro Consiglieri e due Capi de' duaranta. E che osser- 
vino la forma del suo Capitolare. E che Messer lo 
Doge si metta nella miglior parte, quando i giudici tra 
loro non fossero d' accordo. E ch' egli non possa far 
vendere i suoi irnprestiti, salvo con legittima causa, e 
col voler di cinque Consiglieri, didue Capi de' Quaranta, 
e delle due parti del Consiglio de' Pregati. Item, che 
in luogo di tre mila pelli di Conigli, che debbon dare i 
Zaratini per regalia al Doge, non trovandosi tante pelli, 
gli diano Ducati ottanta I'anno. E poi a di 11, detto, 
misero etiam altre correzioni, che se il Doge, che sarb, 
eletto, fosse fuori di Venezia,i savj possano provvedere 
del suo ritorno. E quando fosse il Doge ammalato, sia 
Vicedop uno de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. 
E che ildetto sia nominate Viceluogotenenie di Messer, 
lo Dowe, quando i giudici faranno i suoi attl. E nota, 
perche fu fatto Doge uno, ch' era assente, che fu Vice- 
doge Ser Marino Badoero piu vecchio de' Consiglieri. 
hem, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' Con- 
siglieri, e a' Capi de' Quaranta, quando vacherti il Du- 
cato finch^ sark eletto 1' altro Doge. E cosi a d) 11 di 
Settembre fu creato il prefato Marino Faliero Doge. 
E fu preso, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' 
Consiglieri e a Capi de' Quaranta. I quali stiano in 
Palazzo di continr.o, fino che verra il Doge. Sicch6 di 
eontinuo stiano in Palazzo due Consiglieri e un Capo 



de' Quaranta. E subito furono spedite lettere al detto 
Doge, il quale era a Roma Oratore al Legato di Papa 
Innocenzo VI. ch' era in Avignone. Fu preso nel gran 
Consiglio d'eleggere dodici ambaisciadori incontro a 
Marino Faliero Doge, il quale veniva da Roma. E gi- 
unto a Chioggia, il Podesta mandb Taddeo Giustiniani 
suo figliuolo incontro, con quindici Ganzaruoli. E poi 
venuto a S. Clemente nel Bucintoro, venne un gran 
caligo, ndeo che il Bucintoro non si pot6 levare. Laonde 
il Doge co' gentiluomini nelle piatte vennero di lungo 
in questa Terra a' 5 d' Ottobre del 1354. E dovendo 
smontare alia riva della Paglia per lo cahgo andarono 
ad ismontare alia riva della Piazza in mezzo alle due 
colonne dove si fa la Giustizia, che fu un malissimo au- 

furio. E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di San 
larco alia laudazione di quello. Era in questo tempo 
Cancellier Grande Messer Benintende. I quarantuno 
Elettori furono, Ser Giovanni Contarini, Ser' Andrea 
Giustiniani, Ser Michele Morossini, Ser Simone Dan- 
dolo, Ser Pietro Lando, Ser Marino Gradenigo, Ser 
Marco Dolfino, Ser Nicolb Faliero, Ser Giovanni Qui- 
rini, Ser Lorenzo Soranzo, Ser Marco Bembo, Sere 
Stefano Belegno, Ser Francesco Loredano, Ser Ma- 
rino Veniero, Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, Ser Andrea 
Barbaro, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, Ser Bettino da Mol- 
lino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procuratore, Ser Marco Celsi, 
Ser Paolo Donato, tSer Bertucci Grimani, Ser Pietro 
Steno, Ser Luca Duodo, Ser' Andrea Pisani, Ser Fran- 
cesco Caravello, Ser Jacopo Trivisano, Sere Schiavo 
Marcello, Ser Maffeo Aimo, Ser Marco Capello, Ser 
Pancrazio Giorgio, Ser Giovanni Foscarini, Ser Tom- 
maso Viadro, Sere Schiava Polani, Ser Marco Polo, 
Ser Marino Sagredo, Sere Stefano Mariani, Ser Fran- 
cesco Suriano, Ser Orio Pasqualigo, Ser' Andrea Gritti, 
Ser Buono da Mosto. 

" Trattato di Messer Marino Faliero Doge, tratto da 
una Cronica antica. Essendo venuto il Giovedi della 
Caccia, fu fatta giusta il solito la Caccia. E a' que' 
tempi dopo fatta la Caccia s'andava in Palazzo del Doge 
in una di quelle sale, e con donne facevasi una festic- 
ciuola, dove si ballava fino alia prima campana, e ve- 
niva una colazione ; la quale spesa faceva Messer lo 
Doge, quando v' era la Dogaressa, E poscia tutti an- 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO, 



259 



davano a casa sua. Sopra la qual festa, pare, che Ser 
Michele Steno, molto giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma 
ardito e astuto, il quale era innamorato in certa don- 
zella della Dogaressa, essendo sul Solajo appresso le 
donne, facesse cert' atto non conveniente, adeo che il 
Doge comandb ch' e' fosse buttato giu dal Solajo. E 
cosi quegli scudieri del Doge lo spinsero giu di quel 
Solajo. Laonde a Ser Michele parve, che fossegli stata 
falta troppo grande ignominia. E non considerando 
altramente il tine, ma sopra quella passione fornita la 
festa, e andati tutti via, quella notte egli and6, e sulla 
cadrega, dove sedeva il Doge nella Sala dell' Udienza 
(perch6 allora i Doginon tenevano panno di seta sopra 
la cadrega, ma sedevano in una cadrega di legno) scrisse 
alcune parole disoneste del Doge e della Dogaressa, 
cio6 : Marin Faliero dalla bella moglie : jlltri la gode, 
ed egli la maritime. E la mattina furono vedute tali pa- 
role scritte. E parve una brutta cosa. E per la Signoria 
fu comraessa lacosa agli Avvogadori del Comune con 
grande efficacia. I quali Avvogadori subito diedero tag- 
lia grande per venire in chiaro della verita di chi avea 
scritto tal lettera. E tandem si seppe, che Michele Steno 
aveale scritte. E fu per li Quaranla preso di ritenerlo ; e 
ritenuto confesst), che in quella passione d' essere stato, 
spinto giu dal Solajo, presente la sua amante, egli aveale 
scritte. Onde poi fu placitato nel detto Consiglio, e 
parve al Consiglio si per.rispetto all' eta, come per la 
caldezza d'amore, di condannarlo a compiere due mesi 
in prigione serrato, e poi ch' e' fosse bandito di Venezia 
e dal distretto per un' anno. Per la qual condennagione 
tanto piccola il Doge ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 
dogU che non fosse stata fatta quella estimazione della 
cosa, che ricercava la sua dignita del Ducato. E diceva, 
ch' eglino doveano averlo fatto appiccare per la gola, o 
saltern bandirlo in perpetuo da Venezia. E perch6 
(quando dee succedere un' effetto 6 necessario che vi 
concorra la cangione a fare tal' effetto) era destinato, 
che a Messer Marino Doge fosse tagliata la testa, per- 
cit) occorse, che entrata la Quaresima il giorno dopo 
che fu condannato il detto Ser Michele Steno, un gen- 
tiluomo da Ca Barbaro, di natura collerico, andasse all' 
Arsenate, domandasse certe cose ai Padroni, ed era alia 
presenza de' Signori I'Ammiraglio dell' Arsenale. II 
quale intesa la domanda, disse, che non si poteva fare. 
Quel gentiluomo venne a parole coll' Ammiraglio, e 
diedegli un pugno su un'occhio. E perch6 avea un'- 
anello in dito, coll' anello gli ruppe la pelle, e fece san- 
gue. E I'Ammiraglio cosi battuto e insanguinato ando 
al Doge a lamentarsi, acciocch^ il Doge facesse fare 
gran punizione contra il detto da Ch, Barbaro : II Doge 
disse : Che vuoi che ti faccia 7 Guarda le ignominiosc 

farole scritte di me, e il modo cK'h stato punito quel ri- 
aldo di Michele Steno, che le scrisse. E quale stima 
hanno i Quaranta fatto della persona nostra? Laonde I'- 
Ammiraglio gli disse : 3Iesser lo Doge, se voi voletefarvi 
Signore, e fare tagliare tutti questi hecchi gentiluomini a 
pezzi, mi basta fanimo, dandomi voi ajuto, di farvi Sig- 
nore di questa Terra. E allora voi potrete castigare tutti 
costoro. Inteso questo, il Doge disse, Come si pub fare 
una simile cosa 7 E cosi entrarono in ragionamcnto. 

"II Doge mandb a chiamere Ser Bertuccio Faliero 
suo nipote, il quale stava con lui in Palazzo, e entrarono 
in questa macchinazione. Ne si partirono di 11, che man- 
darono per Filippo Calendar©, uomo marittimo c di gran 
seguito, e per Bertuccio Israello, ingcgnere c uomo as- 
tutissimo. E consigliatisi insicme uiede ordino di chia- 
mare alcuni altri. E cosi per alcuni giorni la notte si 
riducevano insiemo in Palazzo in casa del Doge. E 
chiamarono a parte a parte altri, videlicet Niccolb Fa- 

5iuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stcfano Fagiano, NiccoR) 
alle Bendc, Niccolb Biondo, e Slefano Trivisano. 
E ordinb di fare sedici o diciassettcCapi in diversi hioghi 
della Terra, i qualiavcssero cadaun di loro quaranl' 
uomini provvigionati, preparati, non dicnidoa'detli suoi 
quaranla quello, che volessero fare. Ma che il giorno 
stahilito si mostrasse di far quistiono tra loro in diversi 
luoglii, acciocchfJ il Doge facesse sonarc a San Marco 
Ic campane, (e nuali non si nossono suonare, s' egli nol 
comanda. E al suono dello campano qucsli sedici o 
diciasscltc co' suoi uomini venissero a San Marco alio 
stradc, che buttanoin Piazza. Ecosl i nobili <> priinarj 
cittadirii, che venissero in Piazza, per saperc del romore 



cib ch'era.h tagliassero a pezzi. E seguito questo, che 
fosse chiamato per Signore Messer Marino Faliero 
Doge. E fermate le cose tra loro, stabilito fu, che questo 
dovess' essere a' 15d' Aprile del 1353 in giorno di Mer- 
coledi. La quale macchinazione trattata fu tra loro tanto 
segretamente, che mai n6 pure se ne sospetib, non che 
se ne sapesse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signor Iddio, che ha 
sempre ajutato questa gloriosissima citta, e che per le 
santimonie e giustizie sue mai non I'ha abbandonatci, 
ispirb a un Beltramo Bergamasco il quale fu messo Capo 
di quarant' uomini per uno de' detti congiurati (il quale 
intese qualche parola, sicch^ comprese I'effeto, che 
doveva succedere, e il qual era di casa di Ser Niccolb 
Lioni di Santo Stefano) di an dare a di **** d' Aprile 
a casa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni. E gli disse ogni 
cosa dell' ordin dato. II quale intese le cose, rimase 
come morto ; e intese molte particolarita, il detto Bel- 
tramo il pregb che lo tenesse segreto, e glielo disse, ac- 
ciocch6 il detto Ser Niccolb non si partisse di casa a dl 
15, acciocch6 egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendo par- 
tirsi, il fece riteuere a suoi di casa, e serrarlo in una ca- 
mera. Ed esso andb a casa di M. Giovanni Gradenigo 
Nasone, il quale fu poi Doge, che stava anch' egli a Santo 
Stefano; e dissegli la cosa. La quale parendogli, com'- 
era,d'una grandissimaimportanza, tutti e due andarono 
a casa di Ser Marco Cornaro, che stava a San Felice. 
E dettogli il tutto, tutti e tre deliberarono di venire a ca- 
sa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni, ed esaminare il detto Bel- 
tramo. E quello esaminato, intese le cose, il fecero staro 
serrato. E andarono tutti e tre a San Salvatore in sa- 
cristia, emandoronoi lorofamigli a chiamare i Consigli- 
eri, gli Avvogadori, i Capi de' Dieci, e que' del Consiglio. 
E ridottiinsieme dissero loro le cose. I quali rimasero 
morti. E deliberarono di mandare pel detto Beltramo, 
e fattolo venire cautamente, ed esaminatolo, e veriticate 
le cose, ancorch^ ne sentissero gran passione, pure pen- 
sarono la provvisione. E mandarono pe' Capi de' 
Gluaranta, pe' Signori di notte, p6 Capi de' Sestieri, 
e p6 Cinque della Pace. E ordinate, ch' eglino co' 
loro uomini trovassero degli altri buoni uomini, e man- 
dassero a casa de' capi de^ congiurati, ut supra mettes- 
sero loro le mani addosso. E tolsero i detti le MaeStrerie 
dell' Arsenale, acciochfe i provvisionati de' congiurati 
non potessero otFenderli. E si ridussero in Palazzo ver- 
so la sera. Dove ridotti fecero serrare le porte della 
corte del Palazzo. E mandarono a ordinare al cam- 
panaro, che non sonasse le campane. E cosi fu eseguito, 
e messe le mani addosso a tutti i nominati di sopra, furo- 
noque' condotti al Palazzo. E vedendo il Consiglio de' 
Dieci, che il Doge era nella cospirazione, presero di 
eleggere venti de primarj della Terra, di giunta al detto 
Consiglio a consigliare, non perb che potessero mol- 
te re pallotta. 

"I Consiglieri furono questi: Ser Giovanni Moce- 
nigo, del Sestiero di San Marco ; Ser Almorb Venicro 
da Santa Marina, del Sestiero di Castello ; Ser Tom- 
maso Viadro, del Sestiero di Caneregio ; Ser Giovanni 
Sanudo, del Sestiero di Santa Croce ; Ser Pietro Tri- 
visano, del Sestiero di San Paolo ; Ser Pantaliono 
Barbo il Grande, del Sestiero d'Ossoduro. Gli Avvo- 
gadori del Comune furono Ser Zufredo Morosiui, e 
Ser Orio Pasqualigo, e questi non ballotlarono. Que' 
del Consiglio de' Dieci ; furono: Ser Giovanni Mar- 
collo, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, e Ser Mirheletto Doltino, 
Capi del detto Consiglio de' Dieci ; Ser Luca da Leggc, 
e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Intjuisitori del detto Consiglio: 
Ser Marco Polani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando 
Lombardo, Ser Nicoletto Trivisano da Sant' Angiolo. 
Questi elessero tra loro una Giunta, nella notte rldolli 
quasi sul romper del giorno, di venti nobili di Venezia 
de' migliori, de' piu savj, e de' piii antichi, per consul- 
tare, non perb che mettessero pallotlola. E non vi 
vollero alcuiio da Ch Faliero. E cacciarono fuori del 
Consiglio Niccolb Faliero, e un' altro Niccolb Fuliero, 
da Sau Tommaso, per essere della casata del Doge. 
E questa provigione di chiamare i venii della Giunta 
fu molto comtnt'ndata per tutta la Terra. Questi 
furono i venti della Giunta, Ser Marco Giustiuiani, 
Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratorc, Sor 
Lioiiardo Giustiuiani, Proruratoro, Ser' Andrea Con- 
tariiii, Ser Simono Dandolo, Ser Niccolb Volpe, Ser 
Giovanni Lorodano, Ser Marco Diedo, S«»r GionJini 



260 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



Gradenigo, Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco 
Soranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, 
Ser Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Belegno, Ser 
Niccolb Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, 
Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarini. E 
chiamati quesli venti nel Consiglio de' Dieci, fu man- 
date per Messer Marino Faliero Doge, il quale andava 
pel Palazzo con gran gente, genliluomini, e altra buona 
genie, che non sapeano ancora come il fatto stava. In 

Juesto tempo fu condotto, preso, e legato, Bertuccio 
sraello, uno de' Capi del trattato per que' di Santa 
Croce, e ancora fu preso Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di 
Rosa, e Nicoletto Alberto, il Guardiaga, e altri uomini 
da mare, e d' altre condizioni. I quali lurono esaminati, 
e trovata la verita del tradimento. A di 16 d'Aprile 
fu sentenziato pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, che Filippo 
Calandario, e Bertucci Israello fossero appiccati alle 
colonne rosse del balconate del Palazzo, nelle quali sta 
a vedere il Doge la festa della Caccia. E cosi furono 
appiccati con spranghe in bocca. E nel giorno se- 
guente' questi furono condannati, Niccolb Zuccuolo, 
Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco Giuda, Jaco- 
mello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fedele figliuolo di Filippo 
Calendaro, Marco Torello, detto Israello, Stefano Tri- 
visano, cambiatore di Santa Margherita, Antonio dalle 
Bende. Furono tutti presi a Chioggia, che fuggivano, 
e dipoi in diversi giorni a due a due, ed a uno a uno, 
per sentenza fatta nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, furono 
appiccati per la gola alle colonne, continuando dalle 
rosse del Palazzo, seguendo fin verso il Canale. E 
altri presi furono lasciati, perch6 sentirono il fatto, ma 
non vi furono tal che fu dato loro ad intendere per 
questi capi, che venissero coll' arme, per prendere 
alcuni malfattori in servigio della Signoria, nb altro 
sapeano. Fu encora liberato Nicoletto Alberto, il 
Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuola, e suo figliuolo, e 
molti altri, che non erano in col pa. 

" E a di 16 d' Aprile, giorno di Venerdi, fu sentenziato 
nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, di tagliare la testa a Mes- 
ser Marino Faliero Doge sul pato della scala di pietra, 
dove i Dogi giurano il primo sagramento, quando mon- 
tano prima in Palazzo. E cosi serrato il Palazzo, la 
mattina seguente a ora di terza, fu tagliata la testa al 
detlo Doge a di 17 d' Aprile. E prima la berretta fu 
tolta di testa al detto Doge, avanti che venisse giu dalla 
scala. E compiuta la giustizia, pare che un Capo de' 
Dieci andasse alle Colonne del Palazzo sopra la Piazza 
e mostrasse la spada insanguinata a tutti, dicendo : E 
siata fatta la gran giustizia del Traditore. E aperta la 

Eorta, tutti eutrarono dentro con gran furia a vedere il 
>oge, ch' era stato iustiziato. E' da sapere. che a fare 
la detta giustizia non fu Ser Giovanni Sanudo ilConsi- 
gliere, perch6 era andato a casa per difetto della persona, 
sicchfe furono quattordici soli, che ballottarono, cio6 
cinque Consiglieri, e nove del Consiglio de' Dieci. E 
fu preso, che tutti i beni del Doge fossero confiscati nel 
Comune, e cosi degli altri traditori. El fu conceduto 
al detto Doge pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, ch' egli po- 
tesse ordinare del suo per ducati due mila. Ancora fu 
preso, che tutti i Consiglieri, e Avvogadori del Comune, 
que' del Consiglio de' Dieci, e della Giimta, ch' erano 
stati a fare la detta sentenza del Doge, e d'altri, avessero 
licenza di portar' arme di dl e di notte in Venezia e da 
Grade fino a Gavarzere, ch' ^ sotto il Dogato, con due 
fanti in vita loro, stando i fanti con essi in casa al suo 
pane e al suo vino. E chi non avesse fanti, potesse dar 
tal licenza a'suoi figliuoli ovverofratelli,due per6 e non 
piu. Eziandio fu data licenza dell' arme a quattro Notai 
della Cancelleria, ciofe della Corte Maggiore, che furono 
a prendere le deposizioni e inquisizioni, in perpetuo a 
loro soli, i quali furono Amadio, Nicoletto di Loreno 
Steffanello, e Pietro de' Compostelli, Scrivani de' Si- 
gnori di notte. Ed essendo stati impiccati i traditori, e 
tagliata la testa al Doge, rimase la Terra in gran ripo'so 
e quiete. E come in una cronica ho trovato, fu por- 
tato il corpo del Doge in una barca con otto doppieri 
a seppelire nella sua area a San Giovanni e Paolo la 
quale al presente 6 in quell' andito per mezzo la Chie- 
suola di Santa Maria della Pace, fatta fare pel Vescovo 
Gabriello di Bergamo, e un cassone di pietra con queste 
lettere ; Heicjacet Dominus Marinus Faletro Ditx. E 
a*l gran Consiglio non gU fe stato fatto alcun brieve, ma 



il luogo vacuo con lettere, che dicono cosi: Hie est locua] 
Marini Faletro, decapitati pro criminibics. E pare, ch( 
la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesa di Sant' Apostolo, 
qual era quella grande sul ponte. Tamen vedo il coi 
trario che e pure di Ca Faliero, o che i FaUeri la ricu 
perassero con danari dalla Chiesa. Ne vogUo restar di 
scrivere alcuni, che volevano, che fosse messo nel suo 
breve, cio6 : Marinus Faletro Dux, temeritas me cepit^ 
poenas lui, decapitatv^ pro criminibus. Altri vi fece 
un distico assai degno al suo merilo, il quale e quests 
da cessere posto su la sua sepoltura : 

" Dux Venetum jacet heic, patriam qui prodere tentans, 
Sceplra, decus, censum, peididit, atque caput." 

"Non voglio restar di scrivere quello che ho letto 
una cronica, cio6, che Marino Fahero trovandosi Po- 
desta e Capitano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una pro- 
cessione, il vescovo stette troppo a far venire il Corpo 
di Cristo. II detto Faliero era di tanta superbiae ar- 
roganza, che diede un bufTetto al prefato Vescovo, per 
modo ch' egli quasi cadde in terra. Perb fu permesso^ 
che il Faliero perdette I'intelletto, e fece la mala morte, 
come ho scritto di sopra." 

******* 

Cronica di Sanuto — Muratori S. S. Rerum Italicarum 
—vol. xxii. 628—639. 



JO 

3 



11- 

MCCCLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 

On the eleventh day of September, in the year of 
our Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and chosen 
to be the Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice. He 
was Count of Valdemarino, in the marches of Treviso, 
and a Knight and a wealthy man to boot. As soon as 
the election was completed, it was resolved in the 
Great Council, that a deputation of twelve should be 
despatched to Marino Faliero, the Duke, who was then 
on his way from Rome ; for, when he was chosen, he 
was ambassador at the court of the Holy Father, at 
Rome, — the Holy Father himself held his court at 
Avignon. When Messer Marino Faliero, the Duke, 
was about to land in this city, on the 5th day of Oc- 
tober, 1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the 
air ; and he was enforced to land on the place of Saint 
Mark, between the two columns, on the spot where 
evil doers are put to death ; and all thought that this 
was the worst of tokens. — Nor must I forget to write 
that which I have read in a chronicle. — When Messer 
Marino Faliero was podesta and Captain of Treviso, 
the bishop delayed coming in with the holy sacrament, 
on a day when a procession was to take place. Novir 
the said Marino Faliero was so very proud and wrath- 
ful, that he buffeted the bishop, and almost struck hira 
to the ground. And therefore, Heaven allowed Ma- 
rino Faliero to go out of his right senses, in order that 
he might bring himself to an evil death. 

When this Duke had held the dukedom during nine 
months and six days, he being wicked and ambitious, 
sought to make himself lord of Venice, in the manner 
which I have read in an ancient chronicle. When the 
Thursday arrived upon which thev were wont to hunt 
the bull, the bull-hunt took place" as usual ; and, ac- 
cording to the usa^e of those times, after the bull-hunt 
had ended, they all proceeded unto the palace of the 
Duke, and assembled together in one of his halls ; and 
they disported themselves with the women. And until 
the first bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet 
was served up. My Lord the Duke paid the expenses 
thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after the ban- 
quet they all returned to their homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Michele 
Steno, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, but 
crafty and daring, and who loved one of the damsels of 
the Duchess, Ser Michele stood among the women 
upon the solajo ; and he behaved indiscreetly, so that 
my Lord the Duke ordered that he should be kicked off 
the solajo ; and the esquires of the Duke flung him 



down from the solajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought 
that such an affront was beyond all bearing ; and when 
the feast was over, and all other persons had left the 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



261 



paiace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words 
relating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the chair 
in which the Duke was used to sit ; for in those days 
the Duke did not cover his chair with cloth of sendal, 
but he sat in a chair of wood. Ser Michele wrote 
thereon : — " Marin Falier, the husband of the fair wife; 
others kiss her, but he keeps her." In the morning the 
words were seen, and the matter was considered to be 
very scandalous ; and the Senate commanded the Av- 
vogadori of the Commonwealth to proceed therein with 
the greatest diligence. A largess of great amount was 
immediately proffered by the Avvogadori, in order to 
discover who had written these words. And at length 
it was known that Michele Steno had written them. 
It was resolved in the Council of Forty that he should 
be arrested; and he then confessed, that in a fit of vex- 
ation and spite, occasioned by his being thrust off the 
solajo in the presence of his mistress, he had written 
the words. Therefore the Council debated thereon. 
And the Council took his youth into consideration, and 
that he was a lover, and therefore they adjudged that 
he should be kept in close confinement during two 
months, and that afterwards he should be banished from 
Venice and the state during one year. In consequence 
of this merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
acted in such a manner as was required by the respect 
due to his ducal dignity ; and he said that they ought 
to have condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the 
neck, or at least to be banished for life. 

Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was to 
have his head cut off. And as it is necessary, when 
any effect is to be brought about, that the cause of such 
effect must happen, it therefore came to pass, that on the 
very day after sentence had been pronounced on Ser 
Michele Steno, being the first day of Lent, a gentleman 
of the house of Barbaro, a choleric gentleman, went to 
the arsenal and required certain things of the masters 
of the galleys. This he did in the presence of the 
admiral of the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, 
answered, — No, it cannot be done. — High words arose 
between the gentleman and the admiral, and the gen- 
tleman struck him with his fist just above the eye, and 
as he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to com- 
plain, and with the intent of praying him to inflict some 
heavy punishment upon the gentleman of Ca Barbaro. 
— " What wouldst thou have me do for thee ?" answered 
the Duke; — " think upon the shameful gibe which hath 
been written concerning me ; and think on the manner 
in which they have punished that ribald Michele Steno, 
who wrote it ; and see how the Council of Forty respect 
our person." — Upon this the admiral answered ; — 
"My Lord Duke, if you would wish to make yourself a 
prince, and to cut all those cuckoldy gentlemen to pieces, 
I have the heart, if you do but help me, to make you 
prince of all this state ; and then you may punish them 
all." — Hearing this, the Duke said ; — " How can such 
a matter be brought about ?" — and so they discoursed 
thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio Fa- 
liero, who lived with him in the palace, and they com- 
muned about this plot. And, without leaving the place, 
they sent for Philip Calendaro, a seaman of great re- 
pute, and for Bertuccio Israello, who was exceedingly 
wily and cunning. Then taking counsel among them- 
selves, they agreed to call in some others ; and so for 
several nights successively, they mot with the Duko at 
home in his paiace. And the following men were called 
in singly ; to wit ; — Niccolo Fagiuolo, Giovanni da 
Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolo dalle Bendc, Niccolo 
Biondo,and Stefano Trivisano. — It was concerted that 
sixteen or seventeen leaders should be stationed in va- 
rious parts of the city, each being at the head of forty 
men, armed and prepared ; but the followers were not 
to know their destination. On the api)oinled day they 
were to make affrays among themselves here and there, 
in order that tho Duko might have a pretence for tolling 
the bells of San Marco: these bells are never rung but 
by the order of the Duke. And at the sound of the 



bells, these sixteen or seventeen, with their followers, 
were to come to San Marco, through the streets which 
open upon the Piazza. And when the noble and lead- 
ing citizens should come into the Piazza, to know the 
cause of the riot, then the conspirators were to cut 
them in pieces ; and this work being finished, my Lord 
Marino Faliero the Duke was to be proclaimed the 
Lord of Venice. Things having been thus settled, 
they agreed to fulfil their intent on Wednesday, the 
fifteenth day of April, in the year 1355. So covertly 
did they plot, that no one ever dreamt of their machi- 
nations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo 
Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the plot to light 
in the following manner. This Beltramo, who be- 
longed to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo Stefano, had 
heard a word or two of what was to take place ; and 
so, in the before-mentioned month of April, he went 
to the house of the aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and 
told him all the particulars of the plot. Ser Niccolo, 
when he heard all these things, was struck dead, as it 
were, with affright. He heard all the particulars, and 
Beltramo prayed him to keep it all secret ; and if he 
told Ser Niccolo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo 
might stop at home on the fifteenth of April, and thus 
save his life. Beltramo was going, but Ser Niccolo 
ordered his servants to lay hands upon him and lock 
him up. Ser Niccolo then went to the house of Mes- 
ser Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who afterwards 
became Duke, and who also lived at Santo Stefano, 
and told him all. The matter seemed to him to be of 
the very greatest importance, as indeed it was ; and 
they two went to the house of Ser Marco Conaro, who 
lived at San Felice ; and, having spoken with him, they 
all three then determined to go back to the house of 
Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said Beltramo ; and 
having questioned him, and heard all that he had to 
say, they left him in confinement. And then they all 
three went into the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent 
their men to summon the Councillors, the Avvogadori, 
the Capi de' Dieci, and those of the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole story was told 
to them. They were struck dead, as it were, with 
affright. They determined to send for Beltramo. He 
was brought in before them. They examined him, and 
ascertained that the matter was true ; and, although 
they were exceedingly troubled, yet they determined 
upon their measures. And they sent for the Capi de' 
Quaranta, the Signori di Notte, the Capi de' Sestieri, 
and the Cinque della Pace ; and they were ordered to 
associate to their men other good men and true, who 
were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the 
conspiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators 
might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assem- 
bled in the palace. When they were assembled in 
the palace, they caused the gates of the quadrangle of 
the palace to be shut. And they sent to the keeper of 
the bell tower, and forbade the tolling of the bells. All 
this was carried into ctfoct. The before-mentioned 
conspirators were secured, and they were brought to 
the palace ; and as the Council of Ten saw that tho 
Duke was in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the 
leading men of the state should be associated to them, 
for the purpose of consultation and deliberation, but 
that they should not be allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following: Ser Giovanni 
Mocenigo, of the Sostiero of San Marco ; Ser Alnioro 
Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Castello ; 
Ser Tommaso Viadro, of the Sestiero ofCanercgio; 
Ser Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of Santa Croce ; 
Ser Pictro Trivisano, of the Sestiero of San Paola ; 
Ser Pantalione Barbo il Grande, of the Sestiero of Os- 
sodnro. The Avvogadori of the Commonwealth were 
Ziifredo Morosini, and Sor Orio Pasmialigo ; and these 
did not ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser 
Giovanni Marcello, Sor Tommaso Snnudo, and Ser 
Micheletto DoUino, the heads of the ar>risaid Council 
of Ten. Ser Luca da Legge, and Ser Pioiro da Mosto, 
inquisitors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco 



262 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



Polani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, 
and Ser Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant' Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they 
chose a junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
among the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
They were to give council, but not to ballot. And they 
would not admit any one of Ca Fahero. And Niccolo 
Fahero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San Tommaso, 
were expelled from the Council, because they belonged 
to the family of the Doge. And this resolutiori of 
creating the junta of twenty was much praised 
throughout the state. The following were the mem- 
bers of the junta of twenty : — Ser Marco Giustiniani, 
Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lio- 
nardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Contarini, 
Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovan- 
ni Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Graden- 
igo, Ser Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco So- 
ranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, 
Ser Marino Morosini, Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser Nic- 
colo Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, 
Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarina. 

These twenty were accordingly called into the Coun- 
cil of Ten ; and they sent for my Lord Marino Faliero 
the Duke ; and my Lord Marino was then consorting 
in the palace with people of great estate, gentlemen, 
and other good men, none of whom knew yet how the 
fact stood. 

At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one of 
the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa 
Croce, was arrested and bound, and brought before the 
Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nico- 
letto Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were also taken to- 
gether, with several seamen, and people of various 
ranks. ^ These were examined, and the truth of the plot 
was ascertained. 

On the sixteenthof April, judgment was given in the 
Council of Ten, that Filippo Calcndaro and Bertuccio 
Israello should be hanged upon the red pillars of the 
balcony of the palace, from which the Duke is wont to 
look at the bull-hunt : and they were hanged with gags 
in their mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned : — Nic- 
colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Mar- 
co Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, the 
son of Philip Calendaro, Marco Torello, called Israello, 
Stefano Trivisano, the money-changer of Santa Mar- 
gherita, and Antonio dalle Bende. These were all 
taken at Chiozza, for they were endeavouring to escape. 
Afterwards, by virtue of the sentence which was passed 
upon them in the Council of Ten, they were hanged on 
successive days, some singly and some in couples, upon 
the columns of the palace, beginning from the red col- 
umns, and so going onwards towards the canal. And 
other prisoners were discharged, because, although they 
had been involved in the conspiracy, yet they had not 
assisted in it : for they were given to understand by 
some of the heads of the plot, that they were to come 
armed and prepared for the service of the state, and 
in order to secure certain criminals, and they knew 
nothing else. Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and 
Bartolommeo Ciriuola and his son, and several others, 
who were not guilty, were discharged. 

On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment 
was also given, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that 
my Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have his 
head cut off, and that the execution should be done on 
the landing-place of the stone staircase, where the 
Dukes take their oath when they first enter the palace. 
On the following daj--, the seventeenth of April, the 
doors of the palace being shut, the Duke had his head 
cut off, about the hour of noon. And the cap of estate 
was taken from the Duke's head before he came down 
stairs. When the execution was over, it is said that 
one of the Council of Ten went to the columns of the 
palace over against the place of St. Mark, and that he 
showed the bloody sword unto the people, crying out 
with a loud voice — "The terrible doom hath fallen 
upon the traitor !" — and the doors were opened, and 
the people all rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke 
who had been beheaded. 

It must be known, that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 



councillor, was not present when the aforesaid sentence 
was pronounced ; because he was unwell and remained 
at home. So that only fourteen balloted ; that is to 
say, five councillors, and nine of the Council of Ten. 
And it was adjudged, that all the lands and chattels of 
the Duke, as well as of the other traitors, should be 
forfeited to the state. And, as a grace to the Duke, it 
was resolved in the Council of Ten, that he should be 
allowed to dispose of two thousand ducats out of his 
own property. And it was resolved, that all the coun- 
cillors and all the Avvogadori of the commonwealth, 
those of the Council of Ten, and the members of the 
junta who had assisted in passing sentence on the 
Duke and the other traitors, should have the privilege 
of carrying arms both by day and by night in Venice, 
and from Grado to Cavazere. And they were also to 
be allowed two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid 
footmen living and boarding with them in their own 
houses. And he who did not keep two footmen might 
transfer the privilege to his sons or his brothers ; but 
only to two. Permission of carrying arms was also 
granted to the four Notaries of the Chancery, that is 
to say, of the Supreme Court, who took the deposi- 
tions ; and they were Amedio, Nicoletto di Lorino, 
Steffanello, and Pietro de Compostelli, the secretaries 
of the Signori di Notte. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the Duke 
had his head cut off, the state remained in great 
tranquiUity and peace. And, as I have read in a chron- 
icle, the corpse of the Duke was removed in a barge, 
with eight torches, to his tomb in the church of San 
Giovanni e Paolo, where it was buried. The tomb is 
now in that aisle in the middle of the little church of 
Santa Maria della Pace, which was built by Bishop 
Gabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, with these 
words engraved thereon : " JSeicjacet Dominus Mari- 
7ms Faletro Dux.'''' — And they did not paint his portrait 
in the hall of the Great Council : — But in the place 
where it ought to have been, you see these words : — 
"i/ic est locuR Marini Faletro, decapitati pro criminibus''' 
— and it is thought that his house was granted to the 
church of Sant' Apostolo; it was that great one near 
the bridge. Yet this could not be the case, or else the 
family bought it back from the church ; for it still be- 
longs to Ca Faliero. I must not refrain from noting, 
that some wished to write the following words in the 
place where his portrait ought to have been, as afore- 
said: — "JVfarmws Faletro Dux^ temeritas me cepit, 
pcenas lui, decapitatus pro criminibus.^' — Others, also, 
indited a couplet, worthy of being inscribed upon his 
tomb. 

" Dux Venetum jacet iieic, patriam qui prodere tenlans, 
Sceptra, decus, ceiisum, perdidit, atque caput." 
[lam obliged for this excellent translation of the old chronicle to Mr. 
F. Cohen, to whom the reader will find himself indebted for a version 
that 1 could not myself (though after many years' intercourse with Ital- 
ian ,) have given by any means so purely and bo faithfully.] 



in. 

" Ai, ^iovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette un 
vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al timone della repubblica, 
ma sempre prima di quel, che facea d'uopo a lui, ed alia 
patria : egli 6 Marino Faliero personnaggio a me noto 
per antica dimestichezza. Falsa era 1' opinione intorno 
a lui, giacchfe egli si mostrb fornito piii di coraggio 
che di senno. Non pago della prima dignity, entrb 
con sinistro piede nel pubbhco Palazzo : imperciocch6 
questo Doge dei Veneti, magistrate sacro in tutti i se- 
coli, che dagli antichi fu sempre venerato qual nume in 
quella citta 1' altr' jeri fu decollate nel restibolo dell' 
istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio le cause 
di un tale evento, se cosi vario, ed ambiguo non ne 
fosse il grido. Nessuno perb lo scusa, tutti affermano, 
che egli abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa nell' ordine 
della repubblica a lui tramandato dai maggiori. Che 
desiderava egli di piu ? lo son d'avviso, che egli abbia 
ottenuto ci6, che non si concedette a nessun altro : 
mentre adempiva gli ufficj di legato presso il Pontefice, 
e sulle rive del Rodano tratava la pace, che io prima 
di lui avevo indarno tentato di conchiudere, gli fii con- 
ferito r onore del Ducato, che nt chiedeva, nb s' aspet- 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



263 



tava. Tomato in patria, pensb a quelle, cui nessuno 
non pose mente giammai, e sofFri quelle che a niune 
accade mai de soffrire : giacch^ in quel luogo celeber- 
rimo, e chiarissimo, e beilissimo infra tutti quelli, che 
io vidi, ove i suoi antenati avevano ricevuti grandissimi 
onori in mezzo alle pempe trionfali, ivi egli fu Irascina- 
to in mode servile, e spogliate delle insegne ducali, 
perdette la testa, e macchio col proprio sangue le soglie 
del tempie, 1' atrie del Palazzo, e le scale marmoree 
rendute spesse volte illustri o dalle solenni festiviia, o 
dalle ostili spoglie. Ho notato il luogo, era noto il 
tempo: e 1' anno del Natale di Cristo 1355, fu il giorno 
18 d' Aprile. Si alto e il gride sparse, che se alcuno 
esaminerii la disciplina, e le cestumanze di quella citta, 
e quanto mutamento di cose venga minacciato dalla 
morte di un sol uomo (quantunque molti altri, come 
narrano, essendo complici, o subirene 1' istesso suppli- 
cie, o lo aspettano) si accergera, che nulla di piu grande 
cavvenne ai nostri tempi nell Italia. Tu forse qui 
attendi il mio giudizio ; assolvo il pepolo, se credere alia 
fama, bench6 abbia petuto e castigare piu mitamente, 
e con maggior delcezza vendicare il sue dolore : ma 
non COS! facilmente, si modera un' ira giusta insieme, e 
grande in un numeroso pepolo prineipalmente, nel 
quale il precipitoso, ed instabile volgo aguzza gli stimoli 
dell' iracondia con rapidi, e sconsigliati clameri. Com- 
patisco, e nell' istesso tempo mi adiro con quell' infelice 
uomo, il quale ad erne di un' insolito onore, non so che 
cosa si volesse negli estremi anni della sua vita : la 
calamita di lui diviene sempre piu grave, perchd dalla 
sentenza contra di esse premulgata aperira, che egli fu 
non solo misero, ma insane, e demente, e che con vane 
arti si usurpb per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succederanno, che questo 
6 un esempio posto innanzi ai lore occhi, quale specchio 
nel quale veggano di essere non Signori, ma Duci, 
anzi nemmeno Duci, ma onorati servi della Repubblica. 
Tu sta sane ; e giacch^ fluttuano le publicche cose, 
sforziamoci di governar modestissimamente i privati 
nostri aftari. " 

Levati. Viaggi di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 

The above Italian translation from the Latin epistles 
of Petrarch, proves — 

Istly, That Marino Faliero was a personal friend of 
Petrarch's : " antica dimestichezza," old intimacy, is the 
phrase of the poet. 

2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more cou- 
rage than conduct, " piu di coraggio che di senno." 

3dly, That there was some jealousy on the part of 
Petrarch ; for he says that Marino Faliero was treating 
of the peace which he himself had " vainly attempted 
to conclude." 

4thly, That the honour of the dukedom was con- 
ferred upon him, which he neither sought nor expected, 
** che n6 chiedeva n6s' aspettava," and which had never 
been granted to any other in like circumsianccs, "cib 
che nen si concedette a nessun altro ;" " proof of the 
high esteem in which he must have been held." 

5thly, That he had a reputation for wisdom, only 
forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, " si surpb 
per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." — " He had 
usurped for so many years a false fame of wisdom ;" 
rather a difficult task, I should think. People are gene- 
rally found out before eighty years of age, at least in a 
republic. 

From these, and the other historical notes which I 
have collected, it may be inferred that Marino Faliero 
possessed many of the qualities, but not the success of 
a hero ; and that his passions wero too violent. The 
paltry and ignorant account of Dr. Moore falls to the 
ground. Petrarch says, " that there had been no 
greater event in his times," {our times literally,) "nostri 
tempi," in Italy. He also differs from the historian in 
saying that Faliero was " on the banks of the Rhone" 
instead of at Rome, when elected ; tlio other accounts 
say, that the deputation of the Venetian senate mot 
him at Ravenna. How this may have been, it is not 
for mo to decide, and is of no great importance. Had 
the man succeeded, he would have changed the face of 
Venice, and perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they 
both ? 



IV. 

Extrait de Vouvrage. — Histoire de la Republique de 
Venise, par P. Daru, de PAcadtmie Francaise. 
torn. V. liv. XXXV. p. 95, &c. Edition de Paris! 
MDCCCXIX. 

"A CES attaques si frequentes que le gouvernement 
dirigeait contre le clerge, a ces luttes etablies entre les 
differens corps constitues, a ces entreprises de la masse 
de la noblesse contre les depositaires du pouvoir, a 
toutes ces propositions d'innevation qui se terminaient 
teujours par des coups d'etat ; il faut ajeuter une autre 
cause, non moins prepre a propager le mepris des an- 
ciennes doctrines, c^tlait texcls de la corruption. 

"Cette liberie de moeurs, qu'on avait long-temps 
vantee comme le charme principal de la societe de 
Venise, etait devenue un desordre scandaleux : le hen 
du mariage etait moins sacre dans ce pays catholique 
que dans ceux ou les leis civiles et religieuses per- 
mettent de le dissoudre. Faute de pouvoir rompre le 
centrat, on suppesait qu'il n'avait jamais existe, et les 
moyens de nuUite, allegues avec impudeur par les 
epoux, etaient admis avec la meme facilite par des ma- 
gistrals et par des pretres egalement corrompus. Ces 
divorces celores d'un autre nom devinrent si frequents, 
que Facte le plus important de la societe civile se treuva 
de la competence d'un tribunal d'exception, et que cc 
fut a la police de reprimer le scandale. Le censeil des 
dix ordenna, en 1782, que teute femme qui intenterait 
une demande en dissolution de mariage serait obligee 
d'en attendre le jugement dans un couvent que le tri- 
bunal designerait.* Bientot apr6s il evoqua devant lui 
toutes les causes de cette nature.j Get eimpietement 
sur la jurisdiction ecclesiastique ayant occasienne des 
reclamations de la part de la cour de Rome, le censeil 
se reserva le droit de debouter les epoux de leur de- 
mande ; et consentit a la renvoyer devant I'ofEcialite, ' 
toutes les feies qu'il ne I'aurait pas rejelee.| 

" II y eut un moment ou sans doute le renversemeut 
des fortunes, laperte des jeunes gens, les discordes do- 
mestiques, determin^rent le gouvernement a s'ecarter 
des maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la liberie de moeurs 
qu'il permettail a ses sujets : on chassade Venise toutes 
les courtisanes. Mais leur absence ne suffisait pas pour 
ramener aux bonnes moeurs toule une population elevee 
dans la plus henteuse licence. Le desordre penetra 
dans I'interieur des families, dans les cloitres ; et I'on se 
crut oblige de rappeler, d'indemniser mdmc§ des femmes 
qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importants secrets, et 
qu'on pouvail employer utilement a ruiner des hommes 
que leur fortune aurait pu rendre dangereux. Depuis, 
la licence est teujours allee croissant, et I'on a vu non 
seulement des m6res trafiquer de la virginitc de leurs 
filles, mais la vendre par un centrat, dent I'authenticite 
etait garantie par la signature d'un officier public, et 
I'execution mise sous la protection des lois.|| 

"Les parloirs des couvents ou etaient renfermees les 
filles nobles, les maisens des courtisanes, quoique la 
police y cntretint soigneusement un grand nombre de 
surveillans, etaient les seuls points de reunion de la so- 
ciete de Venise, et dans ces deux endroits si divers on 
etait egalcmont libre. La musique, les collations, la 
galanterie,n'etaient pas plus intordites dans les parloirs 
que dans les casins. II y avait un grand nombre de 
casins destines aux reunions publiqucs, ou le jcu etait 
la principale occupation do la societe. C'etait un sin- 
gulier spectacle de voir autourd'une table des personnes 
des deux sexes en masque, et de graves persennages en 
robe de magislraturo, implorant le hasard, passant des 
angoisscs du desespoir aux illusions do I'esperance, ct 
cela sans proferer une parole. 

" Les riches avaient des casins particuliers ; mais ils 
y vivaient avec mysttVre ; leurs femmes delaissiV^s trou- 
vaient un dedommagcmont dans la libertt^ dent elles 



• Corres|ion(Ui>co ile M. Sclilick, chnre6 d'ltflaiic* ile Francf, (16- 
pflrlie (111 i\ AoQl, \im. 

t n)i.l. n6|i0rh<>(l(i31 AnQt. 

j Ibi.l. D6|i0(lio (1(1 3 Septemhrp, 178:1. 

§ I,c (Kicret di' rnp|i<>l In ikisixiinlt sons lo noin (If nmlrt btnimtrit* 
muretrici. On liMir nsaijiim >iii ruiuU rl dci inninoiiB »p()<>16«i Ca»t nun- 
pane, il'oil vioiu In ilAnoiTiiiKktioii iiijdricuac dr Car.uHpant. 

II M»vor, n»tcriptlon dg Venise. Um. il. cl M. Archenh(Jt», Thblutu 
d*V Italit, torn. I. chap. 9. 



264 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



jouissaient ; la corruption des mceurs les avait privees 
de tout leur empire ; on vient de parcourir toute I'his- 
toire de Venise, et on ne les a pas vues une seule fois 
exercer la moindre influence." 



V. 

Extract from the History of the Republic of Venice, by 
P. haru, Member of the French Academy, vol. v. b. 
xxxiv. p. 95, &c. Paris Edit. 1819. 

"To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the 
government against the clergy, — to the continual strug- 
gles between the different constituted bodies, — to these 
enterprises carried on by the mass of the nobles against 
the depositaries of power, — to all those projects of inno- 
vation, which always ended by a stroke of state policy ; 
we must add a cause not less fitted to spread contempt 
for ancient doctrines ; this was the excess of corrup- 
tion. 

"That freedom of manners which had been long 
boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian society, 
had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness : the tie 
of marriage was less sacred in that Catholic country, 
than among those nations where the laws and religion 
admit of its being dissolved. Because they could not 
break the contract, they feigned that it had not existed ; 
and the ground of nullity, immodestly alleged by the 
married pair, was admitted with equal facility by priests 
and magistrates, alike corrupt. These divorces, veiled 
under another name, became so frequent, that the most 
important act of civil society was discovered to be 
amenable to a tribunal of exceptions ; and to restrain 
the open scandal of such proceedings became the office 
of the police. In 1782 the Council of Ten decreed, that 
every woman who should sue for a dissolution of her 
marriage should be compelled to await the decision of 
the judges in some convent, to be named by the court.* 
Soon afterwards the same council summoned all causes 
of that nature before itself.f This infringement on 
ecclesiastical jurisdiction having occasioned some re- 
monstrance from Rome, the council retained only the 
right of rejecting the petition of the married persons, 
and consented to refer such causes to the holy office as 
it should not previously have rejected.^ 
. "There vi^as a moment in which, doubtless, the de- 
struction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, the do- 
mestic discord occasioned by these abuses, determined 
the government to depart from its established maxims 
concerning the freedom of manners allowed the subject. 
All the courtesans were banished from Venice ; but their 
absence was not enough to reclaim and bring back 
good morals to a whole people brought up in the most 
scandalous licentiousness. Depravity reached the very 
bosoms of private families, and even into the cloister ; 
and they found themselves obliged to recall, and even 
to indemnify§ women who sometimes gained posses- 
sion of important secrets, and who might be usefully 
employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes might 
have rendered them dangerous. Since that time licen- 
tiousness has gone on increasing, and we have seen 
mothers, not only selling the innocence of their daugh- 
ters, but selling it by a contract, authenticated by the 
signature of a public officer, and the performance of 
which was secured by the protection of the laws.|| 

" The parlours of the convents of noble ladies, and 
the houses of the courtesans, though the police carefully 
kept up a number of spies about them, were the only 
assemblies for society in Venice ; and in these two 

f (laces, so different from each other, there was equal 
i-eedom. Music, collations, gallantry, were not more 
forbidden in the parlours than at the casinos. There 
were a number of casinos for the purpose of public 
assemblies, where gaming was the principal pursuit of 



• Correspondence of M. Scblick, French charg§ d'affaires. Despatch 
of 24lh Aueust, 1782. * 

1 Ibid. Despatch, 31st August. 

i Ibid. Despatch, 3d September, 1785. 

§ The decree for their recall designates them as nosfre benemertte 
tneretrici. A fund and some houses called Case rampane were assigned 
to them ; hence the opprobrious appellation of Carampane. 

Ij Mayer, Detcription of Venice, vol. ii. and M. Archenholtz, Picture 
of Italy, vol. i. chap. 2. 



the company. It was a strange sight to see persons of 
either sex masked, or grave personages in their magis- 
terial robes, round a table, invoking chance, and giving 
way at one instant to the agonies of despair, at the next 
to the illusions of hope, and that without uttering a 
single word. 

" The rich had private casinos, but they lived incog- 
nito in them ; and the wives whom they abandoned 
found compensation in the liberty they enjoyed. The 
corruption of morals had deprived them of*^ their em- 
pire. We have just reviewed the whole history of 
Venice, and we have not once seen them exercise the 
slightest influence." 

From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
under the barbarians, there are some honourable indi- 
vidual exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the last, and 
alas ! posthumous son of the marriage of the Doges with 
the Adriatic, who fought his frigate with far greater 
gallantry than any of his French coadjutors in the me- 
morable action off Lissa. I came home in the squadron 
with the prizes in 1811, and recollect to have heard Sir 
William Hoste, and the other officers engaged in that 
glorious conflict, speak in the highest terms of Pasqua- 
ligo's behaviour. There is the Abbate Morelli. There 
is Alvise Querini, who, after a long and honourable 
diplomatic career, finds some consolation for the wrongs 
of his country, in the pursuits of literature, with his 
nephew, Vittor Benzon, the son of the celebrated beauty, 
the heroine of " La Biondina in Gondoletta." There 
are the patrician poet Morosini, and the poet Lamberti, 
the author of the " Biondina," &c. and many other 
estimable productions ; and, not least in an English- 
man's estimation, Madame Michelli, the translator of 
Shakspeare. There are the young Dandolo, and the 
improvvisatore Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the ac- 
complished son of an accomplished mother. There is 
Aglietti, and, were there nothing else, there is the im- 
mortality of Canova. Cicognara, Mustoxithi, Bucati, 
&c. &c. I do not reckon, because the one is a Greek, 
and the others were born at least a hundred miles off, 
which, throughout Italy, constitutes, if not a foreigner^ 
at least a stranger, {foresiiere.) 



VI. 



Extrait de Pouvrage — Histoire littiraire d* Italic, par 
P. L. Ginguene, torn. ix. chap, xxxvi. p. 144. Edi- 
tion de Paris, MDCCCXIX. 

" II y a une prediction fort singulifere sur Venise : ' Si 
tu ne changes pas,' dit-elle k. cette republique alti^re, ' ta 
liberte, qui deja s'enfuit, ne comptera pas un si^cle apr^s 
la millieme annee.' 

"En faisant remonter I'epoque de la liberte Veni- 
tienne jusqu'ti I'etablissement du gouvernement sous le- 
quel la republique a fleuri, on trouvera que Selection du 
premier Doge date de 697, et si I'on y ajoute un si6cle 
apres mille, c'est-a-dire onze cents ans, on trouvera 
encore que le sens de la prediction est litteralement 
celui-ci: 'Ta liberte ne comptera pas jusqu'k I'an 1797.' 
Rappelez-vous maintenant que Venise a cesse d'etre 
libre en I'an cinq de la Republique fran9aise, ou en 
1799 ; vous verrez qu'il n'y eut jamais de prediction plus 
precise et plus ponctuellement suivie de I'efTet. Vous 
noterez done comme tr6s remarquables ces trois vers de 
I'Alamani, adresses h Venise, que persorme pourtant 
n'a remarques : 

• Se non cangi pensier, I'un secol solo 
Non contercL sopra '1 millesimo anno 
Tua liberty, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Bien des propheties ont passe pour telles, et bien des 
gens ont.ete appeles proph^tes h meilleur marche." 



VII. 

Extract from the Literary History of Italy, by P. Zti 
Gingueni, vol. ix. p. 144. Paris Edit. 1819. 

" There is one very singular prophecy concerning 
Venice : ' If thou dost not change,' it says to that proud 
republic, 'thy liberty, which is already on the wing, will 
not reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' 



i: 



SARDANAPALUS. 



265 



"If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to 
the establishment of the government under which the re- 
pubhc flourished, we shall find that the date of the elec- 
tion of the first Doge is 697 ; and if we add one century 
to a thousand, that is, eleven hundred years, we shall 
find the sense of the prediction to be hterally this : 'Thy 
liberty will not last till 1797.' Recollect that Venice 
ceased to be free in the year 1796, the fifth year of the 
French republic ; and you will perceive that there never 
was prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed 
by the event. You will, therefore, note as very remark- 
able the three lines of Alamanni, addressed to Venice, 
which, however, no one has pointed out : 

' Se non cangi pensier, I'un secol solo 
Non contera sopra, 'I millesimo anno 
Tua liberla, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Many prophecies have passed for such, and many men 
have been called prophets for much less." 

If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the above, made by 
Alamanni two hundred and seventy years ago. 



The author of" Sketches Descriptive of Italy," etc. 
one of the hundred tours lately published, is extremely 
anxious to disclaim a possible charge of plagiarism 
from " Childe Harold" and " Beppo.^ He adds, that 
still less could this presumed coincidence arise from 
" my conversation," as he had repeatedly declined an 
introduction to me while in Italy. 

Who this person may be, I know not ; but he must 
have been deceived by all or any of those who " repeat- 
edly offered to introduce" him, as I have invariably 
refused to receive any English with whom I was not 
previously acquainted, even when they had letters 
from England. If the whole assertion is not an inven- 
tion, I request this person not to sit down with the 



notion that he cotrLD have been introduced, since there 
has been nothing I have so carefully avoided as any 
kind of intercourse with his countrymen, — excepting 
the very few who were a considerable time resident 
in Venice, or had been of my previous acquaintance. 
Whoever made him any such offer was possessed of 
impudence equal to that of making such an assertion 
without having had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter 
abhorrence any contact with the travelling English, as 
my friend the Consul-General Hoppner, and the Coun- 
tess Benzoni, (in whose house the Conversazione most- 
ly frequented by them is held,) could amply testify, 
were it worth while. I was persecuted by these tourists 
even to my riding- ground at Lido, and reduced to the 
most disagreeable circuits to avoid them. At Madame 
Benzoni's I repeatedly refused to be introduced to 
them ; — of a thousand such presentations pressed upon 
me, I accepted two, and both were to Irish women. 

I should hardly have descended to speak of such 
trifles publicly, if the impudence of this "sketcher" 
had not forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous 
and gratuitously impertinent assertion ; — so meant to 
be, for what could it import to the reader to be told 
that the author " had repeatedly declined an introduc- 
tion," even had it been true, which, for the reasons I 
have above given, is scarcely possible. Except Lords 
Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale ; Messrs. Scott, 
Hammond, Sir Humphry Davy, the late M. Lewis, W. 
Bankes, Mr. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kinnaird, 
his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not re- 
Collect to have exchanged av/ord with another English- 
man since I left their country ; and almost all these I 
had known before. The others — and God knows there 
were some hundreds — who bored me with letters or vis- 
its, I refused to have any communication with, and shall 
be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutual. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

A TRAGEDY. 
TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOKTHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, 
THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE 
OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 
THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM IS ENTITLED 

SARDANAPALUS. 



PREFACE. 

In publishing the following Tragedies I have only to 
repeat that they were not composed with the most 
remote view to the stage. 

On the attempt made by the Managers in a former 
instance, the public opinion has been already expressed. 

With regard to my own jirivalc feelings, as it seems 
that they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nolliing. 

For the historical foundation of the fjllowing compo- 
sitions, the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The Author has in one iu.i'.ance attein|)te(l to preserve, 
and in the other to approach the " unities ;" cotjceiving 
that with any very distant departin-e from them, there 
may be poetry, but can bo no drama. Ho is awuro of 
the unpopularity of this notion in present English litera- 
ture ; but it is not a system of liis own, being merely an 
opinion, wliich, not very long ago, was tlio law of literature 
21 



throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilized 
parts of it. But " Nous avons change tout ccla," and are 
reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is 
fur from conceiving tliat any thing he can adduce by per- 
sonal precept or exami)le can at all approach his regular, 
or even irregular predecessors: he i^ merely giving a- 
reason v.hy ho preferred tlio more regular formation of a 
structure, however feeble, to an entire abandonment of all 
rules whatsoever. Where ho has failed, the failure is in 
the architect, — and not in tlie art. 



In this tragcily it has been my mtention to follow the 
account of Diodorus Sioulus; reducing it, however, to 
such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to 
approach the unities. I therefore fiU|)poso the rebellion 
to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden conspira- 
cy instead of the long war of iho history. 



!66 



SARDANAPALUS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
MEN. 
Sarcanapalus, King of Nineveh and Assyria^ fyc. 
Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 
Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
Salemenes, the King^s Brother-in-law. 
AtTADA, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
Pania* 
Zames. 
Sfero. 
Balea. 

WOMEN 
Zarina, the Queen. 
Myrrh A, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favourite of 

Sardanapalus. 
Women composing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 
Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, 
4^c. ^c. 
Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 



ACT I. 



Scene I. — A Hall in the Palace. 
Salemenes, (solus.) He hath vvrong'd his queen, but 
still he is her lord ; 
He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 
And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Semiraniis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
Repross'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 
Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reach'd an empiie ; to an empire born, 
He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name. 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage : — 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and shame, by only bemg that 
Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
He sweats m palling pleasures, dulls his soul. 
And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield not 
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas! there is no sound 

[Sound of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark I the lute, 
The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulUng instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odours of the perfumed trains. 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls, 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. 
He comes ! Shall I await him? yes, and front him, 
And tell him what all good men tell each other, 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 



Scene II. — Enter Sardanapalus effeminately dressed, 
his head crowned with flowers, and his robe negligently 
flowing, attended by a train of women and young slaves, 

Sar. (speaking to some of his attendants.) Let the 
pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
For an especial banquet; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there : see naught wanting, 
And bid the gallery be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river ; 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We '11 meet again in that the sweetest hour 
When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs ; 
Till then, let each be mistress of her time, 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, * choose, 
Wilt thou along with them or me ? 

Myr. My lord 

Sar. My lord, my life ! why answerest thou so coldly 7 
It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd. 
Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouldst thoa 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me? 

Myr. The king's choice is mine. 

Sar. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire. 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 

Myr. I would remain : 1 have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Sar. Yet ! what yet ? 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

Myr. I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council; it were better I retire. 

Sal. (comes forward and says,) The Ionian slave says 
well ; let her retire. 

Sar. Who answers ? How now, brother ? 

Sal. The queetCs brother. 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

Sar. (addressing his train.) As I have said, let all 
dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[The court retiring, 
(To MvRBHA, itifto is going.) M.yrrha.\ I thought tAow 
wouldst remain. 

Myr. Great king, 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedst it ; 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes. 
Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 

Myr. Sire I your brother 

Sal. His consorris brother, minion of Ionia ! 
How darest thou name me and not blush ? 

Sar. Not blush ? 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blindness, 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha? 

Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for more than one 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow I 

Sal. Curse not thyself— millions do that already. 

Sar. Thou dost forget thee ; make me not remember 
I am a monarch. 

Sal. Would thou couldst ! 

Myr. My sovereigi^ 

I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my absence. 

Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 



SARDANAPALUS. 



267 



An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. It may be, 

Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 

Sar. Brother, 

1 can at least command myself, who Usten 
To language such as this ; yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature, 

Sal. 'T is beyond 

That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
Which I would urge thee. O that I could rouse thee ! 
Though 't were against myself. 

Sar. By the god Baal ! 

The man would make me tyrant. 

Sal. So thou art. 

Think'st thou there is no t}Trany but that 
Of blood and chains? the despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants. 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master, 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer ; 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 

Sar. Why what makes thee the mouth-piece of the 
people ? 

Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly, 
In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's line ; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 

Sar. What's that? 

Sal To thee an unknown word. 

Sar, Yet speak it ; 

I love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue. 

Sar. Not know the word 1 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet; 
I 've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of vice. 

Sar. From whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

Sar. Come, I 'm indulgent, as thou knowest, patient, 
As thou hast ofien proved — speak out, what moves thee? 

Sol. Thy peril. 

Sar. Say on. 

Sal. Thus, then : all the nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 

Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the slaves ? 

Sal. A king. 

Sar. And what 

Am I then ? 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 

In mine a man who might be something still. 

Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what would they 
have? 
Have they not peace and plenty ? 

Sal. Of the first 

More than is glorious ; of tlie last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps, who provide no belter ? 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who no'er looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if ho stirs 
Beyond Ihcm, 'tis but to some moimtain palace, 
Till summer hoaLs wear down. () dorious Haul ! 



Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril 
For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sar. I understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
Which the Chaldeans read — the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Sal. Wherefore not ? 

Semiramis — a woman only^ed 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges. 

Sar. 'Tis most true. And how return'd? 

Sal. Why, like a man — a hero; bafHed, but, 
Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 
Good her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

Sar. Then I will say for them — 

That she had better woven within her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens, 
And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway'd — and thou mighl'st sway. 

Sar. I sway them — 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than your sceptre. 

Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 
I 've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian god, 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship, 
Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
Thou prat'st ofj where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 

Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and thou perceiv'st 
That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 

Sar. And in his godship I will honour him — 
Not much as man. What, ho! my cupbearer! 

Sal. What means the king ? 

Sar. To worship your new god 

And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 

Enter Cupbearer. 

Sar. {a/ldreasing the Cupbearer.) Bring me the golden, 
goblet thick with gems. 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
Fill full, and bear it (juickly. [Exit Ctipbearer. 

Sal. Is this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-off revels? 

Reenter Cupbearer, luilh wine. 

Sar. {inking the cup from him.) Noble kinsman, 
If tlicse barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
Compiurd the whole of India, did ho not? 

Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 

S(ir. Not so : — of all his conquests a few columns. 
Which may bo his, and might be mine, if I 
Tlioufihl them worth purchase and conveyance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 
The realms he wasted, and the licarLs ho broke. 
But here, here in this goblt.t is tlij.^ title 



268 



SARDANAPALUS. 



To immortality — the immortal grape 

From which he first express'd the soul, and gave 

To gladden that of man, as some atonement 

For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 

Had it not been for this, he woidd have been 

A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 

And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 

A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 

Here 's that which deified him — ^let it now 

Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 

Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 
Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
The young, makes Weariness forget his toil. 
And Fear her danger ; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well, than I pledge thee 
And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
In good or evil to surprise manldnd. [Drinks. 

Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 

Sar. And if I did, 't were better than a trophy, 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose : s'lnce thou wilt not pledge me, 
Continue what thou pleasest. 
(To the Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. I would but have recall'd thee from thy dream : 
Better by me awaken'J than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel? or Vv^hy? what cause? pretext? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have I done to thee, or to the people. 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me ? 

^Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 

Sar. But 

Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen: is 't not so? 

Sal. ThinJt ! Thou kast wrong'd her ! 

Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 

She has all power and splendour of her station. 
Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs, 
The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
I married her as moiiarchs wed — for state, 
And loved her as most husbands love their wives. 
If she or thou supposedst I could Unit me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
He knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 

Sal. 1 pray thee, change the theme : my blood disdains 
Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 

Sar. And why not her brother ? 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires, 
Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 

Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they 
murmur 
Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 
To dry into the desert's dust by myriads, 
Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges ; 
Nor decimated them with savage laws. 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids. 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and their prince 
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines, 
And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 

Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities : 
There 's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame. 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do morcj except destroy them ? 



Sal. 'T is most true ; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities. 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 

Sar. Shame me! By Baal, the cities, though well built, 
Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of Ufe or rule, 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
Why, those few lines contain the history 
Of all things human ; hear — " Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drinlf, and love; the rest 's not worth a fillip." ^ 

Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 

Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up 
edicts — 
"Obey the king — contribute to his treasftre — 
Recruit his phalaax — spill your blood at bidding — 
Fall do\^'n and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For nie, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungroaning to the tomb ; I take no Ucence 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 

Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 

Sar. In dust 

And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
And died for lack of farther nutriment. 
Those gods were merely men ; look to their issue— 
I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 
But nothing godlike, unless it may be 
The thing which you condemn, a disposition 
To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
The foUies of my species, and (that 's human) 
To be indulgent to my own. 

Sal. Alas ! 

The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Wo— Wo 
To the unrivall'd city ! 

Sar. What dost dread ? 

Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes: in a few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 

Sar. Wha.t must we dread ? 

Sal. Ambitious treachery, 

Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 

Sar. The heads — how many ? 

Sal. Must I stay to number 

When even thine own 's in peril ? Let me go; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
When we take these from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek for 
thine ? 

Sar. That 's a hard question — But, I answer Yes. 
Cannot the thing be done without? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectest? — Let them be arrested. 

Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me ; the next moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
Trust me. 

Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
Take thou the signet. [Gives the signet. 

Sal. I have one more request.— 



II 



SARDANAPALUS. 



^09 



Sar. Name it. 

Sal. That thou this night forbear the banquet 
In the pavihon over the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet! Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
Nor rise the sooner; nor forbear the goblet; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if 
needful ? 

Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and 
A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth : 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on't, 'tis long since I 've used them, 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother'? 

Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling? — 
If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 

Sar. Will I not? 

Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I '11 use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

Sal. They say, thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already? 

Sar. That 's false ! but let them'say so : the old Greeks, 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 

Sal. They did not spealc thus of thy fathers. 

Sar. No ; 

They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat. 
And never changed their chains but for their armour : 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the licence 
To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 
Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding. 
That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Their noisome clahiour ? 

Sal. You have said they are men ; 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs' are ; 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast my signet :— since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all i)ain. 
Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burden 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
By mild reciprocal alleviation. 
The fatal penalties imposed on life: 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all 1 could to sooth them : 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them. 
Passing my own as suited me, 

Sal. Thou stopp'st short 

Of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; I'lso for me 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 

Sar. What mean'st thou ? — 't is thy secret ; thou 
dosirest 
Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 



They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who ivere, 
But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 
What they have found me, they belie ; that which 
They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 

Sar. Feel ! who feels not 

Ingratitude ? 

'Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell I 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (solits.) Farewell ! 

He 's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 
Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
I know not : he hath found it, let him quell it. 
Must I consume my hfe — this little life — 
In guarding against all may make it less? 
It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
Before my hour, to hve in dread of death. 
Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me. 
Because they are near ; and all who are remote. 
Because they are far. But if it should be so — 
If they should sweep me off from earth and empire 
Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 
I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 
To die is no less natural than those — 
Acts of this clay ! 'T is true I have not shed 
Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
My name became the synonyme of death — 
A terror and a trophy. But for this 
I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 
If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 
Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
Of Niniveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 
On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 
If then they hate me, 't is because I hate not : 
If they rebel, 't is because I oppress not. 
Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 
And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of discontents infecting the fair soil. 
Making a desert of fertility. — 
I '11 think no more. Within there, ho ! 

Enter an Attendant. 
Sar. Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
Attend. King, she is here. 

Myrrha ctUirs. 

Sar. {apart to Attendant.) Away 
{Addressing Mvrrha.) Beautiful being 

Thou dost almost anticipate my iieart ; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comcst : let mo 
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle, 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Mi/r. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name; 

What is it ? 

Mi/r. In my native land a God, 

And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
FiXalled; yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
For what I foel is humble, and yet iiappy — 

That is, it would bo happy ; hut 

[Myrrha pause*. 

Sar. There comei 



270 



SARDANAPALUS. 



For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

Myr. My lord !— 

Sar. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign ; thus it is — 
For ever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er 
Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
Or I have quaff'd me down to their abasement. 
Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names, 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I prized 

them. 
That is, I sufFer'd them — from slaves and nobles 
But when they falter from the lips I love. 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no cro^Tis but those of flowers. 

Myr. Would that we could ! 

Sar. And dost thou feel this ?— Why ? 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst never 
know. 

Sar. And that is 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand — 

A thousand, and a thousand. 

Myr. Hearts? 

Sar. I think so. 

Myr. Not one ! the time may come thou may'st. 

Sar. It will. 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

Myr. He did well, 

Sar. And say'st thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers. 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou spakest of peril — 
Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we '11 think no more on 't — 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr. 'T is time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 

Sar. What?— and dost thou fear? 

Myr. Fear ?— I 'm a Greek, and how should I fear 
death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale? 

Myr. 1 love. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm. 
Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 

Myr. That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himselfj 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

Sar. Lost ! — why who is the aspiring chief who dared 
Assume to win them? 



Myr. Who is he should dread 

To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 

Sar. Myrrha! 

Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 

Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject! 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degi-aded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

Myr. And without love where dwells security ? 

Sar. I speak of woman's love. 

Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips, 
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing. 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music ; 
The very chorus of the tragic song 
I have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime 
Of thy far-father land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 

Myr. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Sar. Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true : constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously; 
But when another spealts of Greece, it wounds me. 

Sar. Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as thou 
saidst ? 

Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, but these vast reahns, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 

Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 

Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 

There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king 
'T is sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 

Myr. And now art neither. 

Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha ? 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love, self love, 
Which means that men are kept in awe and law. 
Yet not oppress'd — at least they must not think so ; 
Or if they think so, deem it necessary, 
To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. 
A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never lung of glory. 

Sar. Glory ! what 's tliat ? 

Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer; when the priests speak 
for them, 
'T is for some small addition to the temple. 

Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 

Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
But what wouldst have ? the empire has been founded. 
I cannot go on multiplying empires. 

Myr. Preserve thine own. 

Sar. At least I will enjoy it. 

Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates: 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared. 
And the pavillion, deck'd for our return, 



SARDANAPALUS. 



271 



In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
Crown'd with fresh flowers like 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. No, like sovereigns. 

The shepherd king of patriarchal times, 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths. 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. May the king live for ever ! 

Sar. Not an hour 

Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes hfe itself a lie. 
Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king, 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace ; when the general returns. 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sar. What! am I then coop'd? 

Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, and yet — 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen. — 

How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
Leaving thy subject's eyes ungratified. 
The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unworshipp'd, 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth, 
Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a da}', 
A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past father's race, 
And for thy son's inheritance ? 

Pan. 'T is true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to tliat 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar. No, it must not be. 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pan. For that 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. 

Sar. These are mere phantasies ; 

There is no peril : — 't is a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes to approve his zeal. 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that's good and glorious take this counsel. 

Sar. Business to-morrow. 

Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sar. Why let it come then unexpectedly 
'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirtli and love ; 
So let mo fall like the pluck'd rose ! — far better 
Thus than be wilher'd. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield, 

Even for the sake of all that over stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel. 

Sar. No. 

Myr. Then yield for mine ; 

For my sake I 

Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'T is tlio first 



Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 

Sar. That's true, and wer't my kingdom must be 
granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
Thou hear'st me. 

Pan. And obey. {Eocit Pania. 

Sar. I marvel at thee. 

What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 

Myr. Thy safety ; and the certainty that naught 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou? 

Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 

Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain fancies. 

Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where none weep, 
And that is better than the power to smile. 
And thou ? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr. Where? 

Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 

Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. <« 

Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be ; 
I will not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst thou felt 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

Sar. And who will do so now ? 

Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect '.—that 's a spy's office. Oh ! we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain words. 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye slaves, deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we 'II wear our fetters jocundly j 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border. 
Here we are still unmenaced. Ho I within there \ 

[Exit Sardanapalus. 

Myr. {solus.) Why do Hove this man? My country's 
daughters 
Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he '11 need all love, 
And find none. To fall from him now were baser 
Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 
Would have been noble in my county's creed: 
I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
I should not love /jim better, but myself; 
And I have need of tlic last, for I have fallen 
In my own thoughts, by loving this soft^ stranger: 
And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 
That he is hated of his own barbarians, 
The natural foes of all tho blood of Greece. 
Could I but wake a single thought like those 
Which even tho Phrygians felt when battling long 
'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 
Ho would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 

triumph. 
Ho loves me, and I lovo him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still, 
And if I cannot teach him how to roign, 
May show him how alone a king can leavo 
His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. [Exit. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — The Portal of the same Jlall ofOie Pakue. 

Beleses^ (solus.) The sun goes down: mellunks ho 
sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 



272 



SARDANAPALUS. 



How red he glares amongst those deepenbg clouds, 

Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain, 

Thou sun that siiikest. and ye stars which rise, 

I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 

The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 

For what he brings the nations, 't is the furthest 

Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 

An earthquake should announce so great a fall — 

A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 

To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 

Its everlasting page the end of what 

Seem'd everlasting 5 bat oh ! thou true sun ! 

The burning oracle of all that live. 

As fountain of all life, and symbol of 

Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 

Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 

Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 

All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 

A beam of hope athwart the future years, 

As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh ! hear me ! 

I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 

I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall, 

And bow'd my head beneatli thy mid-day beams, 

When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 

For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 

And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee. 

And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd — but 

Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 

Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge. 

To the delighted west, which revels in 

Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 

Death, so it be but glorious? 'T is a sunset; 

And mortals may be happy to resemble 

The gods but in decay. 

ErUer Arbaces, hy an inner door. 

Arb. Beleses, why 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscovered day? 
Our business is with night — 't is come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. 

Arb. Let it roll on — we are ready. 

Bel. Yes. 

Would it were over 

Arb. Does the prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 

Arb. Well, let thy silence settle that. Meantime 
1 have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — ^your planets, 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king. 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Q-uafF'd by the line ofNimrod. 

Bel. 'T was a brave one. 

Arb. And is a weak one— 't is worn out — we '11 mend it. 

Bel. Art sure of that ? 

Arb. Its founder was a hunter — 

I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 

Bel. The soldier. 

Arb. And the priest, it may be ; but 

If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky! 

Arb. I look. 

Bel. What seest thou ? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel, And midst them, mark 



Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arb. Well? 

Bel. 'T is thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arb. {touching his scabbard.) My star is in this scab- 
bard : when it shines. 
It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. W^hen we conquer, 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and thoix 
Shalt be the pontiff of— what gods thou wilt; 
For I observe that they are ever just, 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devote for brave — thou hast not 
Seen me turn back from battle. 

Arb. No ; I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain. 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship ; now, 
Will it but please thee to forget the priest, 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both 7 

Arb. The better; 

And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne. 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
And hear him whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it : 

He has that in him which may make you strife yet ; 
And were he all you think, his guai'ds are hardy, 
And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 

Arb. They '11 not resist. 

Bel. Why not ? they are soldiers. 

Arb. True, 

And therefore need a soldier to command them. 

Bel. That Salemenes is. 

Arb. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

Bel. But 

Not from the council — there he is ever constant. 

Arb. And ever thwarted ; what would you have more 
To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
His blood dishonour'd, and himself disdain'd ; 
Why, it his revenge we work for. 

Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so : this, I doubt of. 

Arb. What, if we sound him ? 

Bel. Yes — if the time served. 

Enter Balea. 

Bal. Satraps ! The king commands your presence at 
The feast to-night. 

Bel. To hear is to obey. 

In the pavilion ? 

Bal. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb. How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'd. 

Bal. It is so order'd now. 

Arb. And why? 

Bal. I know not. 

May I retire? 

Arb. Stay. 

Bel. {to Arb. aside.) Hush ! let him go his way. 
{AUemately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, 

kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crums he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — was't midnight? 

Bal. It was : the place, the hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
I humble me before you, and depart. [Exit Bai.ea 



SARDANAPALUS. 



273 



Arb. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he change it ? 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day ? 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still— I like it not. 
If he has changed — why, so must we : the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower. 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers ; 
But in the hall of Nimrod 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arb. When the hour comes. 

Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd for — 
But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it : 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arb. Now were I a soothsayer, 

I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter. Who's here? 

E7iter Salemenes. 

Sal. Satraps! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 

But elsewhere than the palace. 

Arb. Wherefore so? 

Sal. 'T is not the hour. 

Arb. The hour ! — what hour ? 

Sal. Of midnight. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 

Sal. What, are you not invited ? 

Bel. Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 

Sal. Is it usual 

Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 

Arb. Why — we but now received it. 

Sal. Then why here? 

Arb. On duty. 

Sal. On what duty ? 

Bel. On the state's. 

We have the privilege to approach the presence ; 
But found the monarch absent. 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb. May we crave its purport ? 

Sai. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! Within there ! 



Enter Guards. 



Satraps, 



Sol. {continuing.) 
Your swords. 

Bel. {delivering hit.) My lord, behold my scimitar. 

Arb. {draviing his sword.) Take mine. 

Sal. {advancing.) I will. 

Arb. But in your heart the blade — 

The hilt quits not this hand. 

Sal. {drawing.) How ! <lost thou bravo mo ? 

'T is well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, how down the rebel ! 

Arb. Soldiers ! Ay — 

Alone you daro not, 

Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 

2K 



What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength : thy tooth is naught without its venom— 
The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 
Bel. {interposing.) Arbaces ! Are you mad ? Have I 
nor render'd 
My sword ? Then trust like me our sovereign's justice, 
Arb. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st o^ 
And this sUght arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body — so far that 
None else shall chain them. 

Sal. {to the Guards.) You hear him and 7/ie. 

Take him not, — kill. 

[T^e Cruards attack Arbaces, who defends himself 
valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 
Sal. Is it even so ; and must 

I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arbaces. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

Sar. Hold your hands — 

Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken ? 
My sword ! O fool, I wear no sword : here, fellow, 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus snatches a sword from one of the 
soldiers, and viakes between the combatants — they 
separate. 

Sar. In my very palace ! 

Wliat hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers? 

Bel. Sire, your justice. 

Sal. Or— 

Your weakness. 

Sar. {raising the sword.) How ? 

Sal. Strike ! so the blow 's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I 'm content. 

Sar. What — him ! 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 

Sal. I ! 

Sar . Indeed ! 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 

Sal. {showing the signet.) Thine. 

Arb. {confused.) The king's ! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar. I parted not from this for such a purpose. 

Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employed it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords to 
the scabbards. 

Sal. Mine 's sheathed : I pray you sheathe Twt yours 
'T is the solo sceptre left you now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
{To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 

Well, sirs, 
What doth this mean ? 

Bd. The prince must answer that. 

S(d. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 

Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! troachory and Bcleses ! 
That were an union I will not believe. 

Bel. WTiero is the proof? 

Sal. I'll answer that, ifonco 

The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 

Arb. (to Sal.) A sword which hath been drawn as 
oil as tliino 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now against his broUier, 

And in an hour or so against himself. 



274 



S AR DAN AP ALUS. 



Sar. That is not possible : he dared not ; no — 
No — I '11 not hear of such things. These vain bickerings 
Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and baser 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You mu^ have been deceived, my brother. 

Sal First 

Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
And I will answer all. 

Sar. Why, if I thought so— 

But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces — 
The trusty, rough,, true soldier — the best captam 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I '11 not insult him thus, to bid him render 

The scimitar to me he never yielded 

Unto our enemies. Chief^ keep your weapon. 

Sal. {ddixxring hack the signet.) Monarch, take back 
your signet. 

Sar. No, retain it ; 

But use it with more moderation. 

Sal. Sire, 

I used it for your honour, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should : 

He never ask'd it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it. 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 

Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless soldier ! thou 
Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
By the tricks taught thee in Chaldca. 

Bel. Hear him. 

My hege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that 1 pray you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 

Bel. King ! Do not deem so : they are with the stars. 
And 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
If you preach farther — Why, this is rank treason. 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar. To school me in the worship of 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

Sal. My lord, and king, and brother. 

I pray ye pause. 

Sar. Yes, and be sermonized, 

And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. 

Bel. Monarch ! respect them. 

Sar. Oh ! for that— I love them ; 

I love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
And to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes ; 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave. 
As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 
Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods, 
As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
There 's something sweet in my uncertainty 
I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
Besides, I know of these all clay can know 



Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 

I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 

When they shine on my grave I shall know neither. 

Bel. For neither^ sire, say better. 

Sar. I will wait, 

If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sword, and know 
That I prefer you service militant 
Unto your ministry — not loving either. 

Sal. {aside.) His lusts have made him mad. Then 
must I. save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sar. Please you to hear me, Satraps! 

And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
More than the soldier ; and would doubt thee all 
Wert thou not half a warrior: let us part 
In peace — I '11 not say pardon — which must be 
Earn'd by the guilty ; this I '11 not pronounce ye, 
Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own i and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 
And so live on. Were I the thing some think me. 
Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 
Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
Of this our palace, into the dry dust, 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that pass. 
As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty, 
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges. 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 
Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 

Arb. Sire, this clemency- 

Bel. (interrupting Mm.) Is worthy of yourself; andyj 
although irmocent. 
We thank 

Sar. Priest I keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 
His offspring needs none. 

Bel. But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 
Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not grateful. 

Bel. So we should be, were justice always done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her right as a mere favour. 

Sar. That 's a good sentence for a homily, 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 

Bel. I trust there is no cause. 

Sar. No cause, perhaps ; 

But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars. 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note, 
That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not spare him 
Were they once masters — but that 's doubtful. Satraps ! 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
Follow me. 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and the 
Train, ^c. leaving Arbaces aiid Beleses. 

Arb. Beleses ! 

Bel. Now, what think you ? 

Arb That we are lost. 

Bel. That we have won the kingdom. 

Arb. What? thus suspected — with the sword sUmg 
o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 



SARDANAPALUS. 



275 



To be blown down by his imperious breath 
Which spared us — why, I know not. 

Bel. Seek not why ; 

But let us profit by the interval. 
The hour is still our own — our power the same — 
The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
Nothing except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into such a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

Arb. And yet 

Bel. What, doubting still ? 

Arb. He spared our lives, nay, more 

Saved them from Salemenes. 

Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 

Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
Gave royally what he had forfeited 
Basely 

Bel. Say bravely. 

Arb, Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touch'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 

Bel. And lose the world ! 

Arb. Lose any thing except my own esteem. 

Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distaffs ! 

Arb. But no less we owe them ; 

And I should blush far more to take the grantor's ! 

Bel. Thou may'st endure whate'er thou wilt, the stars 
Have written otherwise. 

Arb. Though they came down, 

And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
I would not follow. 

Bel. This is weakness — worse 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he spoke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it. 
And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 

Bel. I told you that you had too much despised him. 
And that there was some royalty within him — 
What then ? he is the nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner : — Would he had not spared us ! 

Bel. So— 

Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 

Arb. No — but it had been better to have died 
Than live ungrateful. 

Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ! 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden. 
Because for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say ? — Sardanapalus ! 
1 know no name more ignominious. 

Arb. But 

An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 

Bel. No — the queen liked no sharers of the kingdom, 
Not even a husband. 

Arb. I must serve him truly 

Bel. And humbly? 

Arb, No, sir, proudly — being honest. 

I shall bo nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeming — you have codes. 
And mysteries and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain lu-art toachc.s. 
And now you Icnow me. 

Bel. Have you fiuish'd ? 



Arb. Yes — 

With you. 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 

As quit me ? 

Arb. That 's a sacerdotal thought. 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Be it what you will — 

Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 

Arb. _ No- 

There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If it must be so — 

I'll on alone. 

Arb. Alone ! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is fiU'd. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy — 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you ; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness •, but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant. 
Or one or both, for sometimes both are one ; 
And, if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Arb. Your servant ! 

Bel. Why not? better tlian be slave, 

The pardorCd slave of she Sardanapalus. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let 's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night. 

Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bel. With our troops ? 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Arb. But 

Bel. It must be obey'd; 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear your answer. 

Bel. (aside.) Ay ! 

Well, sir, we will accompany you lience. 

Pun. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honour which befits your rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 

[Exit Pania. 

Bel. N'oto then obey ! 

Arb. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our prison, 
No fiirthcr. 

Arb. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed! 

The realm itself] in all its wide extension. 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves! 

Arb. rf I thought so, this good sword should dig 
One more than mine. 

Bii. It shall have work enough. 

Let me liopo better than thou augurost ; 
At present let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with mo iu understanding 
This order as a sentence ? 

Arb. Why, what other 

Interpretation should it hear? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favours and a sword — 
A distant vovagc, and an eternal sleep. 



276 



SARDANAPALUS. 



How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless — 
J5el. But will not, can not be so now. 
Arb. I doubt it. 

How many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties, 
"Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how, 
But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
So long and heavy. 

Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we '11 shorten 
The journey. 

Arb. 'T will be shorten'd at the gates, 

It may be. 

Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that. 

They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Where we are known and may have partisans: 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

Arb. If I but thought he did not mean my life 

Bel. Fool ! hence what else should despotism 

alarm'd 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 
Arb. Towards our provinces ? 

Bel. No; towards your kingdom. 

There 's time, there 's heart, and hope, and power, and 

means. 
Which their half measures leaves us in full scope. — 
Away! 

Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt ! 

Bel. Self-defence is a virtue, 
Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
Let 's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking. 
And the walls have a scent of nightshade — hence .' 
Let us not leave them time for further council. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs from hence ; 
Nay, there 's no other choice, but hence, I say. 

[Exit with Arbaces, who follows reluctantly. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes. 

Sar. Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed, 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 

Sal. Yes, 

As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do? 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon? 

Sal. Replace the crown now tottering on your temples. 

Sar. That were tyrannical. 

Scd. But sure, 

Sjir. -We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontier ? 

Sal. They are not there yet- 
Were I well listen'd to. 

Sar. 



-never should they be so, 



Nay, I have listen'd 
Impartially to thee — why not to them? 

Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
I take my leave to order forth the guard, 

Sar. And you will join us at the banquet "f 

Sal. 
Dispense with me — I am no wassailer; 
Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 

Sar. Nay, but 't is fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for those who 
revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart? 



Sire, 



Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 

My brother, my best subject, better prince 

Than I am king. You should have been the monarch, 

And I — I know not what, and care not ; but 

Think not I am insensible to all 

Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet kind. 

Though oft reproving, sufferance of my follies. 

If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 

That is, their lives— it is not that I doubt 

The advice was sound ; but, let them live : we will not 

Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 

Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 

Which their death had not left me. 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
Still let them be made quiet. 

Sar. Tempt me not : 

IMy word is past. 

Sal. But it may be recall'd. 

Sar. 'T is royal. 

Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 

This half indulgence of an exile serves 
But to provoke— a pardon should be full, 
Or it is none, ' 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 

Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
If they e'er reach'd their satrapies — why, then. 
Reprove me more for my advice. 

Sar. And if 

They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety. 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine own. 

Sal. Permit me to depart ; 

Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sar. Get thee hence, then; 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 
Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (soliis.) That man is of a temper too severe ; 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers. 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 't is on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure; 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To court its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
duestions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Nor Baal, though an oracular deity— 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous- 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 



Enter Myrrh A. 



the sky 



Myr. King ! 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace ? 

Sar. Tempest, sayst thou ? 

Myr. Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
And watch the warring elements; but this 



SARDANAPALUS. 



277 



Would little suit the silken garments and 

Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Mjnrrha, 

Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

Myr. In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove. 

Sar. Jove — aj', your Baal — 

Ours also has a property in thunder, 
And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 
Myr. That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not go 
forth 
Beyond the palace walls to night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The 

gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyselfj 
And flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
To shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same within these walls 
As on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so; these walls 

Are high and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
To penetrate through many a winding way, 
And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace, 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clcfis, if treachery be : 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
Banish'd, and far upon their way. 
Myr. They live, then? 

Sar. So sanguinary ? Thou I 
Myr. I would not shrink 

From just mfliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : wer 't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

Sar. This is strange ; 

The gende and the austere are both against me, 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'T is a Greek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I '11 none on 't ; or 
If ever I indulge in 't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Myr. These men soug'it to be so 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sur. No matter, still 'tis fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, wliich I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childless helplessness of Asian women. 

Myr. My lord, I am no boaster of my love, 
Nor of my attributes ; I have shared your splendour, 
And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads ; 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To bo beloved on trust for what I fool. 
Rather than prove it to you in your gricfn, 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect lovo exists, 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Lot's in — 
The hour approaches, and wo must prepare 
To meet the invited guests, who grace our feast. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — The Hall of the Palace illuminated— Sah-d a- 
NAPALUS and his Guests at Tuhlr.. — A Storm without, 
and Thunder occasionally heard during the Banquet. 
Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : here 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 

Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 

sparkles. 
Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's huntings, 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
She could not keep when conquer'd ? 

Alt. Mighty though 

They were, as all thy royal line have been. 
Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 

Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek? 
Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it, 
And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

Zam. No ; 

All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 

Sar. Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise ; 
Some say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so ! — 'T is impossible. 
What cause? 

Sar. What cause? true, — fill the goblet up; 

We will not think of them : there are none such, 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Alt. Guests, to my pledge! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the kmg — the monarch, say 1 ? 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zames and the Guests kneel) and exclaim-— 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

[It thunders as they kneel ; some start up in 
confusion. 
Zam. Why do you rise, my friends ? in that strong peal 
His father gods consented. 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 

Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the sires who reign 'd 
Before me can be gods, I '11 not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there ; 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 

Alt. Both— 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase : it is 
An awful night. 

3Iyr. Oh yes, for those who havo 

No palace to protect their worshippers. 

Sur. That 's true, my Myrrha ; and could I convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I 'd do it. 

Myr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to bo 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then. 

Who can, and do not ? 

Myr. Do not speak of tJiat, 

Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they lovo not ccnsuro 

Bettor than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck mo: 
W(Tt^ there no temples, would there, think ye, bo 
Air worship|)ers ? tluit is, when it is angry, 
And |)«lting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian prays 

Upon liis mountain. 



S78 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

Myr. And I would ask if this your palace were 
Unroof'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 

Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
The Ass3Tians know no pleasure but their king's ; 
And homage is their pride. 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests. 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Alt. Pardon! sire: 

We honour her of all things next to thee. 
Hark ! what was that ? 

Zam. That ! nothing but the jar 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 

Alt. It sounded like the clash of— hark agam ! 

Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar. No more . 

Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st. 
Who in thy country thi-ew 

Enter Pania, with his sword and garments bloody, and 
disordered. The Guests rise in confusion. 

Pan. (to the Guards.) Look to the portals ; 

And with your best speed to the walls without. 
Your arms ! To arms ! the long 's in danger. Monarch ! 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 

Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 
As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You .^are wounded — give some wine. Take 
breath, good Pania. 

Pan. 'T is nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

Myr. Well, sir, the rebels? 

Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
Their stations in the city, they refused 
To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

Myr. All? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar. Spare not of thy free speech, 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what 's left of it is still so. 

Myr. And are these all the force still faithful ? 

Pan. No— 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the Icing. 
{He hesitates.) I am charged to 

Myr. 'T is no time for hesitation. 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
To arm himself although but for a moment. 
And show himself unto the soldiers: his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. What, ho! 

My armour, there. 

Myr. And wilt thou ? 

Sar, Will I not? 

Ho, there ! — but seek not for the buckler : 't is 
Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
Where are the rebels? 

Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 

Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 



f 



Order my horse out. — There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

{Eocit Sfero for the armour. 

Myr. How I do love thee ! 

Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 

Myr. But now I know thee. 

Sar. {to his Attendant. ) Bring down my spear to — • 
Where 's Salemenes ? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In tlie thick of the fight. 

Sar. Then hasten to hi m ■ Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twLxt the palace and the phalanx ? 

Pan 'T was < 

When I late left him, and I have no fear : ] 

Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd l 

Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
I come. 

Pan. There 's victory in the very word. 

[Exit Pania. 

Sar. Altada — Zames — ^forth, and arm ye ! There 
Is all in readiness in the armoury. 
See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
In the remote apartments : let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
The post but with their Uves — command it, 
Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
Your post is near our person, 

[Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 

Enter Sfero and others with the King's Arms, ^c. 

Sfe. King! your armour. 

Sar. (arming himself .) Give me the cuirass — so: my 
baldric ; now » 
My sword : I had forgot the helm — where is it ? 
That 's well — no, 't is too heavy : you mistake, too— 
It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deem'd 

That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust me, 
This is of better metal, though less rich. 

Sar. You deem'd ! Are you too turn'd a rebel ? Fellow 
Your part is to obey: return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will go forth without it. 

Sfe. At least wear this. 

Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 't is 

A mountain on my temples. 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you — for the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her bright- 
ness. ^ 

Sar. I go forth to be recognized, and thus 
Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I 'm arm'd. 

[In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror.* 

Sfe. The mirror, sire? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass. 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 

[Exit Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other damsels ? 

Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And when I am gone ' 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. You! to battle ? 

Myr. If it were so, 

'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
I will await here your return. 



' " Such the mirror Otho held 

In the lUyriau field."— See Juvenal, 






SARDANAPALUS. 



279 



Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail ; and, if it should be so, 
And I return not 

Myr. Still we meet again. 

Sar. How ? 

Myr. In the spot where all must meet at last — 

In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx: and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Barest thou so much ? 

Myr. I dare all things 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 

Re-enter Sfeko with the mirror. 

Sar. {looking at himself.) This cuirass fits me well, 
the baldric better, 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Flings away the helmet after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
Altada! Where's Altada? 

Sfe. Waiting, sire, 

Without: he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me; — yet once more — once more — 
Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

Myr. Go forth, and conquer! 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sfero. 
Now, I am alone, 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove ! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian. 
Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Hark — to the war shout ! 

Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small vial. 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot 1 was a slave : — where all 
Arc slaves save one, and proud of servitude. 
So they are served in turn by sometliing lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout! and now tiie clash 
Of arms — and now — and now 

Enter Altada. 

AU. Ho, Sfero, ho ! 

Myr. Ho is not here ; what wouldst thou with him ? 
How 
Goes on the conflict ? 

Alt. Dubiously and fiercely. 

Myr. And the king? 

Alt. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 

And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face. 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad iigiit, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features, 
And tho broad fillet which crowns both. 

Myr. Yo gods, 



Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect hira I 
Were you sent by the king ? 

Alt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge, 
Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armoury — 
He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

Myr. 'Tis no dishonour — no— 

'T is no dishonour to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff; surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle. 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour. 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames ? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 

To watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit Officer. 

Myr. (solus.) He 's gone ; and told no more than 
that all 's lost ! 
What need have I to know more ? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all lefl 
With life, are merged ; and J, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me^ 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that 's left us now. 

3Iyr. The king? 

Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

3Iyr. Then 

He lives 

Pan. And ciiarged me to secure your hfe, 
And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. Will he then give way ? 

Pail. Not till the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

Myr. They arc here, then: — ay, 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 
Never profaned by rebel cclioes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away! 

Myr. No : I '11 die hero ! — Away, and tell your king 
I loved him to tho last. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes tvith soldiers. 
Pania quits Mvrrha, and ranges himself uith thrm. 

Sar. Since it is thus. 

We 'II die where wo wore born — in our own halls. 
Serry your ranks— stand firm. 1 have dospatchod 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
Ail fnsii anil faithfiil; they'll he lirre anon. 
All is iiDt over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pa MA rtttirna touarda My BAH A. 



280 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Sal. We have breathing time ; yet once more charge 
my friends — 
One for Assyria ! 

Sar. Rather say for Bactria ! 

My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we 'II hold together 
This realm as province. 
. Sal, Hark ! they come — they come. 

Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 
Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 

Charge ! 
Bel. On ! on I — Heaven fights for us, and with us, — 
On! 
[They charge the King and Salemenes with their 
Troops, who defend themselves till the Arrival of 
Zames, with the Guard before mentioned. The 
Rebels are then driven off, and pursued by Sale- 
menes, ^=c. As the King is going to join the 
pursuit, Beleses crosses him. 
Bel. Ho ! tyrant — / will end this war, 
Sar. Even so, 

My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee, 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 

Sar. No, thine. — I 've lately read, 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And, ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In die sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
Bel. But not by thee. 

[They fight; Beleses is wounded a»d disarmed. 
Sar. {raising his sword to despatch him, 
Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit? 

[A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. They 
assail the King, who, in turn, is rescued by a Party 
of his Soldiers, icho drive the Rebels qff. 
The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit. 
Myr. (to Pan.) Pursue ! Why stand'st thou here, 
and leavest the ranks 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 

Pan. The king's command was not to quit thee. 



To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them ; 

She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover'd kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it ; he defies 
All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man 's inscrutable. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let 's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortured for his infatuation, and 
Condemn'd without a crime. 



[Exeunt. 



Myr. Mel 

Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 
Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then, / \vill go forth, 
A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 
And bid thee guard me there— where thou shouldst shield 
Thy sovereign, [Exit Myrrha. 

Pan. Yet stay, damsel ! She 's gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
Who never flash'd a scimitar till now ? 
Myrrha, return, and T obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

ErUer Altada and Sfero by an opposite door. 

-4ft. Myrrha! 

What, gone? yet she was here when the fight raged. 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 

Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their way back to the harem. 

Alt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss hia own Ionian, we are doom'd 



Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, fyc. 
Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering: they are beaten backward from the palace, 
And we have open'd regular access 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be. 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where 's the king ? 

Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, fyc. and Myrrha. 

'S'a?-- Here, brother. 

Sal. Unliurt, I hope. 

Sir. Not qmte ; but let it pass. 
We 've clear'd the palace 

Sol- And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather ; and I 've ordered onward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved. 
All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

Sar. It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent: give me a seat 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 

Sar. 'T is no place to rest on. 

For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[They place a seat 
A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — now 
I breathe more freely. 

Sal. This great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where 's my cupbearer ? 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. (smiling.) 'T is the first time he 

Ever had such an order : even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

Sar. Blood, doubtless. 

But there 's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure element 
Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd, 
With greater strength than the grape ever gave me, 
My charge upon the rebels. Where 's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his helmet ? 

One of the Chiards. Slain, sire \ 

An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain! unrewarded! 

And slain to serve my thirst: that's hard, poor slave! 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
As I am now. [They bring water — ^e drinks, 

I live again — from henceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
But war on water, ^ 



I 



SARDANAPALUS. 



281 



Sod. And that bandage, sire, 

Which girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 
Now I am cooler. 

Myr. You have bound it with 

Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me, 
Save an incumbrance, 

Myr. {to the Attendants.) Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire ; 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 

Sar. Do so. 

For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 
KJiow'st thou of wounds? yet wherefore do I ask ? 
Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion? 

Sal. Herding with the other females. 

Like frighten'd antelopes. 

Sar. No : like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
(And femininely meaneth furiously, 
Because all passions in excess are female,) 
Against the hunter flying with her cub. 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
In the pursuit. 

Sal. Indeed ! 

Sar. You see, this night 

Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair 
As it slream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 
Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 
Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din. 
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 
Waved arms, «iore dazzling with their own bom 

whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp ; all these things made 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
Of victory, or Victory herself. 
Come down to hail us her's. 

Sal. {aside.) This is too much. 

Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost. 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

{Aloud.) But pray thee, sire, 
Think of your wound — you said even now 't was painful. 

Sar. That 's true, too ; but I must not think of it. 

Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and will now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sal. {in retiring.) Myrrha ! 

Myr. Prince ! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night. 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time: thou lovest the king? 

Myr. I love 

Sardanapalus. 

Sal. But wouldst have him king still? 

Myr. I would not have him loss than what he should be. 

Sal. Well then, to have him king, and yours, and all 
Ho should, or should not be ; lo have him live. 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 

Myr. There needed not the voice of Salomcnos 
To urgo me on to this : I will not fail. 
2L 



All that a woman's weakness can 

Sal. Is power 

Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his ; 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. Myrrha! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother ? I shall soon be jealous. 

Myr. {smiling.) You have cause, sire ; for on the 
earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 

3Iyr. And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
Pray, lean on me. 

Sar. Yes, love ! but not from pain. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Sardanapalus discovered sleeping upon a 
Couch, and occasionally disturbed in his Slumbers^ unth 
Myrrha watching. 

Myr. {sola, gazing.) I have stolen upon his rest, if 
rest it be. 
Which thus convulses slumber: shall I wake him? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Q,uiet ! 
Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams. 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd. 
Look like thy brother. Death — so still — so stirless — 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unwakcning twin. 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
From what I rouse him? It seems pain; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, thougii slight, may cause all this, and shake 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let nature use her own maternal means, — 
And I await to second not disturb her. 

Sar. {awakening.) Not so— although ye multiplied 
the stars. 
And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye. 
Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes! 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
Drip[)ing with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Inde — away! away! 

Where am I? Where the spectres? Where No — 

that 

Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
All ihat the dead dare glooniily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha ! 

Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the drop 
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy sjieech seems of another world, 
And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer; 
All will go well. 

Sar. Thy hand— so— \ is thy hand ; 

T is llosh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Mys(>lf that which I was. 

Myr. At least know me 



289 



SARDANAPALUS. 



For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha! I have been where we shall be. 

Myr. My lord! 

Sar. I Ve been i' the grave — where worms are lords, 

And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 

I thought 't was nothing. 

Myr. So it is ; except 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be. 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha ! if 

Sleep show such things, what may not death disclose ? 

Myr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
Has not already sho\\Ti to those who live 
Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore, where mind survives, 't will be as mind, 
All unincorporate : or if there flits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and heaven, 
And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

Sar. I fear it not ; but I have felt — have seen — 
A legion of the dead. 

Myr. And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
Speak it, 't will lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

Sar. Methought 

Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — exhausted; 
aU 
Which can impair both strength and spirit : seek 
Rather to sleep again. 

Sar. Not now — I would not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt: — and canst thou bear to hear it? 

Myr. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death. 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this look'd real, 

I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 

Myr. Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, 1 dream'd myself 

Here — here — even where we are, guests as we were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest. 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our accustom'd meeting, 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark. 
And deadly face — I could not recognize it, 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where ; 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Wcis still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd down 
On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
Witn shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he answer'd not — 1 fill'd it — 
He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the fix'd glare of his eye : 
I frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 
He frown'd not in his turn, but lookM upon me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more, 
Because it changed not ; and I tum'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 

Where thoa wert wont to be. But 

[He pauses. 
Myr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thy own chair — ^thy own place in the ban- 
quet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a gray-hjur'd, wilher'd, bloody-eyed. 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing, 
Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the passioa 



Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate : — my veins curdled, 

Myr. Is this all ? 

Sar. Upon 

Her right hand — her lank, bird-like right hand — stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
Her left, another, fiU'd with — what I saw not, 
But tum'd from it and her. But all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 

Sar. No: 

It was so palpable, I could have touch^ them. 
I tum'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs : but no — all tum'd upon me, 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared. 
Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be, 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them, 
And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or earth And rather let me see 

Death all than such a being ! 

Myr. And the end? 

Sar. At last I sate marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter, and the crew ; and smiling on me — 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
Thin hps relax'd to something like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still ; 
A desperate courage crept through every hmb, 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it, 
And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own. 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 

3Iyr. And was: the ancestor of heroes, too, 
And thine no less. 

Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 

The female who remain'd, she flew upon me, 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisse^ 
And, fltaging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung ; 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while T shrunk from her, as if, 
In heu of her remote descendant, I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then — then— a chaos of all loathsome things 
Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet feelingf— 
Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms, 
Purged by the flames, and wither'd m the air I 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
In all these agonies, and woke and found thee. 

Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things — the mere creations 
Of late events, acting upon a frame 
Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toil 
Such as might try the stemest. 

Sar. I am better. 

Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
Seems nothmg. 



Sal. 



Enter Salemenes. 

Is the king so soon awake 7 



SARDANAPALUS. 



283 



Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept ; 
For all the predecessors of our line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was among them, too ; but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race. 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer. 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you also, 

Now you have shovm a spirit like to hers. 
By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 
Sar. How wears the night? 

Sal. There yet remain some hours 

Of darknessT use them for your further rest. 

Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone: methought 
I pass'd hours in that vision. 

Myr. Scarcely one ; 

I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

Sar. Let us then hold council ; 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a grace to seek. 

Sar. 'T is granted. 

Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily; and 'tis 
For your ear only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Myrrh A. 
Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 
Sar. Freedom only! 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'T is not yet vacant, and 't is of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. How ! of the queen ? 

Sal. Even so. 1 judged it fitting for their safety, 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 

Their just pretensions to the crown in case 

Sar. I perish— as is probable : well thought- 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal. That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 

Depart, will you not sec 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them. 
Save with some hoUov/ hopes, and ill-worn smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ; 

At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

Sar. Unto what end ? wliat purpose ? I will grant 
Aught— all that she can ask— but such a meeting. 

Sal. You know, or ought to know, enough of women, 
Since you have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 't was her wish— she is my sister— you 
Her husband— will you grant it ? 

Sar. 'T will bo useless: 

But let her come. 

Sal. I go. 

[Exit SAI.EMENE8 

Sar. Wo have lived asumlor 

Too long to moot again — and now to meet I 
^ave 1 not cares enow, and pangs onow. 



To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
Who have ceased to mingle love ? 



Re-erUer Salemenes and Zarina. 

Sal. My sister ! Courage : 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 
Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 
Sal. Since you ask it. 

[Exit Salemenes. 
Zar. Alone with him ! How many a year has past, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not: yet he seems little changed — 
Changed to me only— would the change were mutual! 
He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and aspect — 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 

Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina— do not say Zarina. 
That tone— that word— annihilate long years, 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar. 'T is too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let's not reproach- 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

Zar. And Jirst. I ne'er reproach'd you. 
Sar. 'Tis most truej 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 

Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 
Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 

From Nineveh with {He hesitates.) 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love— 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you. 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 

Once But they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will. 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice : rather make them 
Resemble your own line than their o*vn sire, 
I trust them with you — to you : fit tliem for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 

. Of this night's tumults ? 

Zar. I had half forgotten, 

And could have welcomed any grief save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 

Sar. The throne — ^I say it not in fear — but 't is 
In peril ; tliey perhaps may never mount it : 
But let them not for this lose si{j;lit of it. 
I will dare all things to bcquoatli it them ; 
But if 1 fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royally. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from mo of aught but what may honour . 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from you than from a trnnipling world. 
If they be in adversity, they '11 loaru 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownU<ss princes, 
And find that all (heir father's sins are tlu-irs. 
My boys !— L could have borne it wore I childless. 

Zar. Oh ! do not say so— do not jioisou all 
My peace lefi, by unwishing llmt ihou wcrt 
A father. If thou conipuMost, tli.'V sliall roign, 
And honour iiiin who saved the realm for them, 



284 



SARDANAPALUS. 



So little cared for as his own ; and if 

Sar. 'T is lost, all earth will cry out thank your father ! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar. That they shall never do ; but rather honour 
The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
Jn his last hours did more for his own memory 
Than many monarchs in a length of days, 
Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 

Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

Zar. Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life. 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar. And who are they ? 
A slave, who loves from passion — I'll not say 
Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar. Who loves. 

Sar. And pardons ? 

Zar. I have never thought of this, 

And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 

Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 

I never thought to hear it more — ^from thee. 

Sar. Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 
These slaves whom I have nurtured, pamper'd, fed, 
And swoln with peace, and gorg'd with plenty, till 
They reign themselves — all monarchs in their mansions — 
Now swarm forth in rebeUion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee ; 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. ' T is 

Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee. 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar. Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 

Sar. My hfe insures me that. How long, bethink you, 
Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 
That is, where mortals are, not where they must be ? 

Zar. I knov/ not. But yet live for my — that is. 
Your children's sake ! 

Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be — ^let it end. 
But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I 've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others, 
(This even rebellion must avouch ;) yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last — that none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
To profit by them — as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That which avails him nothing : he hath found it, 
But 't is not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 

Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more- — but let us hence together, 



And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
Assyria is not all the earth — we '11 find 
A world out of our own — and be more blest 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I must part ye — 

The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 

Zar. Inhuman brother ! wait thou thus weigh out 
Instants so high and blest ? 

Sal. Blest ! 

Zar. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sal. So — this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
I thought as much, and yielded against all 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

Zar. Not be ? 

Sal. Remain, and perish 

Zar. With my husband—— 

Sal. And children. 

Zar. Alas ! 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 

My sister : — all 's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
'T is not a single question of mere feeling. 
Though that were much — ^but 'tis a point of state: 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 
The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush—— 

Zar. Ah ! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 

Zar. But could not I remain, alone ? 

Sal. What! leave 

Your children, with two parents and yet orphans — 
In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

Zar. No— 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now you know all— decide, 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
You save the better part of what is left, 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses, 

Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
I may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 
Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than-^-« 
But I grow womanish again, and must not; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 

Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 

I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God ! I never shall 

Behold him more ! 

Sal. {striving to conduct her.) Nay, sister, I must bo 
obey'd. 

Zar. 1 must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
What, shall he die alone ? — / live alone ? 

Sal. He shall not die alone ; but lonely yoa 
Have lived for years, 



SARDANAPALUS. 



285 



Zar. That 's false ! I knew he lived, 

And lived upon his image — let me go ! 

Sal. {conducting her off" the stage.) Nay, then, I must 
use some fraternal force, 
Which you will pardon. 

Zar. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 

Sal. Nay — then all is lost again, 

If that this moment is not gain'd. 

Zar. My brain turns — 

My eyes fail — where is he ? [She faints. 

Sar. {advancing.) No — set her down — 

She 's dead — and you have slain her. 

Sal. 'T is the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside.'] I must 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
I' the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off. 

Sar. {solus.) This, too— 

And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang ! But that is false- 
She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal passion ! 
Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 
Of human duties leads even those who claim 
The homage of mankind as their bom due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 

Enter Mvrrha. 

Sar. You here I Who call'd you ? 

Myr. No one — but I heard 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation. 
And thought 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

Myr. Though I might. 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours, 
(Although they too were chiding,) which reproved me, 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Pncall'd for: I retire. 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
Till 1 wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ah! 

Sar. Wherefore do you start? 

Myr. Did I do so? 

Sar. 'T was well you entcr'd by another portal, 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared 
her! 

Myr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much. 

And beyond nature — 't is nor mutual 
Nor possible. You cannot pity hor, 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favourite slave ? 

Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 

Sar. Scorn'd! what, to be the envy of your sex, 



And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord? 
Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well 

Myr. And truly. 

Sar. In the hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling ; but as I am not 
Q,uite fall'n, nor now disposed to bear reproaches. 
Perhaps because I merit them too often. 
Let us then part while peace is still between us. 
Myr. Part 1 

Sar. Have not all past human beings parted, 

And must not all the present one day part? 
Myr. Why? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd to 
With a strong escort to your native land ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 
Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 
Sar. The queen is gone: 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 

Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it- 

It soon may be too late. 

Myr. So let it be ; 

For then you cannot separate me from you. 
Sar. And will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 
Myr. I! 

Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 
Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 
Sar. Then Ay from it. 

Myr. 'T will not recall the past— 

'T will not restore my honour, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph ; should 
Your lot be different, I '11 not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never— nor your love till now j 
And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 

Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofli 

Be in the past acts you were pleased to praisa 
This very night, and in my further bearing. 
Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 

Sar. 1 am content : and, trusting in my cause. 
Think we may yet be victors and return 
To peace — the only victory I covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A gicon spot amidst desert centuries, 
On which the future would turn back and smilo, 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
R(!call Sardana])alus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha : 

[ //f fci.UM her 
Kiss me. Now lot them take my realm and life I 
Thoy shall have both, but never ihoo ! 



286 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Myr. No, never ! 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 
That 's great or glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts yield — 
Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
That loves without self-love ! 'T.is here — now prove it. 

'Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again ? 

Sar. Return not 

Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen 's embark'd. 

Sar. And well ? say that much. 

Soil. Yes. 

Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er ; at least, 
It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the starlight; 
But she said nothing. 

Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she has said ! 

Sal. 'T is now too late to feel ! 

Your feeUngs cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshall'd 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been join'd by other satraps. 

Sar. What ! more rebels ? 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
I Ve sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack, 
Ay, and pursuit too ; but till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting ; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them. 
Though they were piled on mountains, I would have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let me then charge. 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiership, I Idathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life too hastily ; 't is not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both ! 

'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong either ; 
I 'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

[A trumpet sounds without. 

Sal. Hark ! 

Sar. Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wound ! 

Sar. 'T is bound — 

'T is heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away ! 



A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper ; 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none this hour 

Strike with a better aim ! 

Sar. Ay, if we conquer ; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. Upon them ! 

[Trumpet sounds again. 

Sal. I am with you. 
Sar. 



I 



Ho, my arms! again, my anns!] 
[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



Scene I. — The same HaU in the Palace. 
Myrrha ana Bai.ea. 

Myr. {at a mndow.) The day at last has broken 

What a night 
Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
Though varied with a transitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
Not yet resolved to separate elements — 
'T is warring still ! And can the sun so rise, 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
Beyond a vision, 't is so transiently 
Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul. 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not, 
Know not the realms where those twin genii 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts. 
So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamour) build the paJaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 
Which our internal, restless agony 
Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

Bal. You muse right calmly : and can you so watch 
The sunrise which may be our last ? 

Myr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it more. 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
Without the reverence and the rapture due 
To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 

JSal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
He sway'd. 

Myr. He sways it now far more, then ; never 



SARDANAPALUS. 



287 



Had earthly monarch half the peace and glory 
Which centres in a single ray of his. 

Bat. Surely he is a god ! 

Myr. So we Greeks deem too ; 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

Bal. Hark! heard you not a sound? 

IMyr. No, 't was mere fancy ; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour ; and here within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions. 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal. But they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valour ; now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bal. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly! 

Bal. It is said the king's demeanour 

In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
The rebels than kstonish'd his true subjects. 

Myr. 'T is easy to astonish or appal 
The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves ; 
But he did bravely. 

Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

Bai. Hark! 

Myr. You are right; some steps approach, but slowly. 

Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wounded, with 
a broken Javelin in his side; they seat him upon one 
of the Couches which furnish the Apartment. 

Myr. Oh, Jove ! 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false. 

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

Myr. Spare him — he 's none : a mere court butterfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

Sal. Let him live on, then. 

Myr. So wilt thou, I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here ? 

Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck you, 
You fell and fainted ; 't was his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal. 'T was not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance. 
The sight might shako our soldiers — but — 't is vain, 
X feel it ebbing ! 

Myr. Let mo see the wound ; 

I am not quite skillcss : in my native land 
'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant. 
We are nerved to look on such things. 

Sol. Best extract 

The javelin. 

Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 



Sal. I am sped, then ! 

Myr. With the blood that fast must follow 

The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when yoa 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken? 

Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named next to the command ? 

Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 't was my last request 
That Zames take my post until the junction, 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But, prince 

Sal. Hence, I say ! Here 's a courtier and 

A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I '11 have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 

[Exeunt the Soldiers, 

Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
So soon resign thee? 

Sfd. Gentle Myrrha, 't is 

The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
As 't is I have not outlived them. 

Myr. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful: I would draw it forth 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 

Sar. My best brother ! 

Sal. And the battle 

Is lost ? 

Sar, (despondingly.) You see me here. 

Sal I 'd rather see you thus 

[He draws out the loeaponfrom the wound ami 
dies. 

Sar. And thus I will be seen ; unless the succour, 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

Myr. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zames chief ? 

Sar. I did. 

Myr. Where 's Zames ? 

Sar. Dead. 

Myr AndAltada? 

Sar. Dying. 

Myr Pania? Sfero? 

Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero 's fled, or captive. 
I am alone. 

Myr. And is all lost? 

Sur. Our walls, 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Tlu'.ir present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i' the field 

Myr. I thought 't was the intent 

Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye wore strongthen'd by tlie expected succours. 

Sar. J overruled him. 

Myr. Well, the fault 's a brave ono 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would give 
These realms, of which lliou vvert llm onmnient, 
The sword and shield, tho sole-rcdeeniing honour, 

To call back but I will not weep for thee ; 

1 Thou shalt be mourn'd for as thou wouldst bo mourn'd. 



288 



SARDANAPALUS. 



It grieves me most that thou coiildst quit this life 
Beheving that I could survive what thou 
Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 
If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement, 
(The tears of all the good are thine already.) 
If not, we meet again soon, if the spirit 
Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine, 
And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart 

[E7nbraces the body. 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence. 

Sol. Where ? 

Sar. To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rights due to such ashes. 

[£xeunt Soldiers with the body o/'Salemenes. 

Enter Pania. 

Sar. Well, Pania! have you placed the guards, and 
issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 

Sca^. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 

Pan. Sire? 

Sar. I 'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and has 
A question as an answer to his question, 
It is a portent. What ! they are dishearten'd ? 

Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall. 
Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been. 

We '11 find the means to rouse them. 

Pan. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sar. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet. 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, and we 
Have those without will break their way througli hosts. 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was — 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 

Enter an Officer^ hastily. 

Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 

Offi. I dare not. 

Sar. Dare not ? 

While milhons dare revolt with sword in hand ! 
That's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 

Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swok 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroyed the bulwark. 

Pan. That 's a black augury ! it has been said 
For ages, "That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe." 

Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall? 

Offi. About 

Some twenty stadii. 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants? 

Offi. For the present 

The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
The palace is their own. 



Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
My fatjiers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanction 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

Sar. About it straight, 

And bring me back as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. 

[Exeunt Pania and the 

Myr. Thus the very waves rise up 
Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 

And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 

Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 

Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they can tell me 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight : 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Myr. Despair ! 

Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
Word than this is to give it utterance. 
But what are words to us ? we have well nigh done 
With them and all things. 

Myr. Save owe deed — the last 

And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only thing common to all mankind. 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, natures, 
Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
Without one point o^ union save in this. 
To which we tend, for which we 're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 

Sar. Our clew being well nigh wound out, let 's be 
cheerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
As children at discover'd bugbears. 

Re-enter Pania. 

Pan. 'T is 

As was reported : I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 

Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 
My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 

{Givesahejf. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
Press'd by a nobler weight than e're it bore — 
Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 
Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
A time what late was Salemenes.) Search 
The secret covert to which this will lead you ; 
'T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 
And your companions : there 's enough to load ye, 
Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
And all the inmates of the palace, of 
Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for pleasure, 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river 's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
F ly ! and be happy I 

Pan. Under your protection I 

So you accompany your faitWul guard. 

Sar. No, Pania \ that must not be ; get thee hence^ 



SARDANAPALUS. 



£89 



And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'T is the first time 
I ever disobey'd; but now 

Sar. So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without, Ctuestion no further ; 
'T is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it? thou! 

Pan. But yet — not yet. 

Sar. Well, then, 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar. 'T is enough. Now order here 

Faggots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ; 
And heap them round yon throne. 

Pan. My lord ! 

Sar. I have said it, 

And you have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow 

[Exit Pania. 

Myr. What mean you? 

Sar. You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty, 
This herald has been brought before me, craving 
An audience. 

Sar. Let him speak. 

Her. The King Arbaces 

Sar. WhatjCrown'd already? — But, proceed. 

Her. Beleses, 

The anointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god or demon ? 

With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
Reply to mine. 

Her. And Satrap Ofratanes 

Sar. Why, he is ours. 

Her. (Showing a ring.) Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
His signet ring. 

f= Sar. 'T is his. A worthy triad 1 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
To see one treachery the less : this man 
Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 
Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Condition that the three young princes arc 
Given up as hostages. 

Sar. {Ironically.) The generous victors ! 

Her. I wait the answer. 

Sar. Answer, slave ! How long 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 

Her. Since they were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at the least shalt learn tlie penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania! 
Let his head bo thrown from our vvalls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him. 
Pan. I never yet oboy'd 

2M 



Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence wth him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
Put lum to rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what 's mine f 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of ma 
To lay il down ? 

Her. I but obey'd my orders, 

At the same peril if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

Sar. So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

Her. My life waits your breath. 

Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — youra 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — ^but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 

Sar. He 's right. — Let him go free. — My life's last act 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a golden cup from a table near. 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think of me; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothbig but their weight and value. 

Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
But must I bear no answer? 

Sar. Yes, — I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's 7 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
And act befittingly. 

Her. I shall not fail 

To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

Sar. And, hark ! a word more. 

Her. I shall not forget i^ 

Whate'er it be. 

Sar. Commend mo to Beleses ; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
ELim hence to meet me. 

Her. Where ? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey you to the letter. 

[ExU Herald, 

Sar. Pania ! — 

Now, my good Pania I^^uick — with what I order'd. 

Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see ! they enter. 

[Soldiers enter^ and form a Pile about the Throne^ ^. 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers^ 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Bo such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flamo ; nor yet bo quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught vntli fire unquenchable, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our |' 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies ? 

Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 

ScPT. And blame me f 



290 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Pan. No — 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

Myr. That duty 's^mine. 

Pan. A woman's ! 

Myr. 'T is the soldier's 

Part to die ybr his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover ? 

Pan. 'T is most strange ! 

JMyr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it. 
In the meantime, hve thou. — Farewell! the pile 
Is ready. 

Pan. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

Sar. Too many far have heralded 

Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
Enrich thee. 

Pan. And live wretched ! 

Sar. Think upon 

Thy vow : — 't is sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar. Search well my chamber. 

Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me: and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit tlie palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand ! 

Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you ! 

[The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, kissing 
his hand and the hem of his robe. 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let 's not unman each other : part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make an eternity of moments. 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy ; trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
Is past than present ; — for the future, 't is 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be : I shall know soon. Farewell— Farewell. 

[Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 

Myr. These men were honest: it is comfort still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar, And lovely ones, my beautiful ."— but hear me ! 
If at this moment, for we now are on 
The brink, thou feelest an inward shrinkimr from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more " 
For yielding to thy nature : and there's time ' 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

^y^' ShaU I hght 

One of the torches which lie heaped beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without. 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 

Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

^y""' Thou Shalt see. 

[Exit Myrrh A. 

Sar. (solus.) She's firm. My fathers! whom I wUl 
rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains <k too material being, 



T would not leave your ancient first abode 

To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 

If I have not kept your inheritance 

As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it. 

Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 

Of aims, and records, monuments, and spoils, 

In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 

To you in that absorbing element. 

Which most personifies the soul as leaving 

The least of matter unconsumed before 

Its fiery workings ; — and the light of this 

Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 

Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 

A beacon in the horizon for a day, 

And then a moimt of ashes, but a light 

To lessen ages, rebel nations, and 

Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 

A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 

Sweep empire after empire, hke this first 

Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 

Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 

A problem few dare imitate, and none 

Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 

Which led to such a consummation. 

MvRRHA returns with a lighted Torch in one hand, 
a Cup in the other. 

Myr. Lo! 

I 've lit the lamp which Ughts us to the stars. 

Sar. And the cup ? 

Myr. 'T is my country's custom to 

Make a Ubation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations among men. I 've not 
Forgot the custom ; and although alone, 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[S ARC AN A p ALUS takes the cup, and after drinking 
and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drop faliSf 
exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr. Why 

Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
That on his mate's in villany ? 

Sar. The one 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tod, a kind 
Of human sword in a friend's hand ; the other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 
But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 
My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly? 

Myr. And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom ? 

Sar. Then 

We but await the signal. 

Myr. It is long 

In sounding. 

Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 

Myr. Embrace, but not the last; there is one more. 

Sar. True, the commingling fire wall mix our ashes. 

Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion, 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 

Sar. Say it. 

Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 

The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar. The better: 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air. 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors ; in this blazing palace. 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 



: 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



291 



Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings, 
Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 
Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
So much for monuments that have forgotten 
Their very record ! 

Myr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 

And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee ! 

Sar. And that? 

Myr. Is yours. 

[The trumpet of Pania sounds without. 

Sar. Hark ! 



Myr. Now ! 

Sar. Adieu, Assyria! 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 
I satiated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing. 
Not even a grave. [He nwurUa the pile. 

Now, Myrrha ! 
Myr. Art thou ready ? 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[MvRRHA ^res the pile. 
Myr. 'T is fired ! I come. 

[As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself into 
the flames, the Curtain falls. 



NOTES TO SARDANAPALUS. 



Note 1, page 266, line 60. 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha. 
** The Ionian name had been still more compre- 
hensive, having included the Achaians and the Boeo- 
tians, who, together with those to whom it was after- 
wards confined, would make nearly the whole of the 
Greek nation, and among the orientals it was always 
the general name for the Greeks."— MJ</brd's Greece, 
vol. 1. p. 199. 

Note 2, page 268,;ines 83—86. 

■ " Sardanapalus 

The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink., and love; the rest's not worth aflllipP 
" For this expedition he took not only a small chosen 
body of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the 
first day's march he reached Anchialus, a town said to 
have been founded by the king of Assyria, Sardana- 
palus. The fortifications, in their magnitude and ex- 
tent, still in Arrian's time, bore the character of 
greatness, which the Assyrians appear singularly to 
have affected in works of the kmd. A monument 
representing Sardanapalus was found there, warranted 
by an inscription in Assyrian characters, of course in 
the old Assyrian language, which the Greeks, whether 
well or ill, interpreted thus : ' Sardanapalus, son of 
Anacyndaraxes, in one day founded Anchialus and 
Tarsus. Eat, drink, play : all other human joys are 
not worth a fillip.' Supposing this version nearly exact, 



(for Arrian says it was not quite so,) whether the 
purpose has not been to invite to civil order a people 
disposed to turbulence, rather than to recommend im- 
moderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be ques- 
tioned. What, indeed, could be the object of a king 
of Assyria in founding such towns in a country so dis- 
tant from his capital, and so divided from it by an 
immense extent of sandy deserts and lofty mountains, 
and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once in 
circumstances to abandon themselves to the intem- 
perate joys which their prince has been supposed to 
have recommended, is not obvious : but it may deserve 
observation that, in that line of coast, the southern of 
Lesser Asia, ruins of cities, evidently of an age after 
Alexander, yet barely named in history, at this day 
astonish the adventurous traveller by their magnificence 
and elegance. Amid the desolation which, under a 
singularly barbarian government, has for so many cen- 
turres been daily spreading in the finest countries of 
the globe, whether more from soil and climate, or from 
opportunities for commerce, extraordinary means must 
have been found for communities to flourish there, 
whence it may seem that the measures of Sardana- 
palus were directed by juster views than have been 
commonly ascribed to him: but that monarch having 
been the last of a dynasty, ended by a revolution, 
obloquy on his memory would follow of course from 
the policy of his successors and their partisans. 

" The inconsistency of traditions concerning^ Sarda- 
napalus is striking in Diodorus' account of him." — Mii- 
ford^s Greece, vol. ix. pp. 311, 312, and 313. 



THE TWO FOSCARI, 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



The father softens, but the governor 'a re8olve.|. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
MEN. 
Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of tlie Forty. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 
Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, 
Attendants, ^c. ^c. 

WOMAN. 
Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 

Sceno— tho Ducal Palace, Venico 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palate. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 

Ijor. Where is tho prisoner ? 

Bar. Reposing from 

Tho ducstion. 

Ijot. The hour 's past — fix d yesterday 

For tho rosum]»tion of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our coUcagiios in the council, and 
Urge liis recall. 

Bar. Nay, lot him profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs; 



299 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



He was o'erwrought by the Q,uestion yesterday, 
And may die under it if now repeated. 
Lor. Well 7 

Beer. I yield not to you in love of justice, 

Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
But the poor wretch has suffer'd beyond nature's 
Most stoical endurance. 

Lor. Without owning 

His crime ? 

Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 

But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 
Lor. We shall see 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 
Lor. How far ? 

Bar. To extermination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct, you may say this. — Let 's in to council. 

Bar. Yet pause — the number of our colleagues is not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 
Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge ? 
Bar. No— he 

With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

Lor. True— true— 

His latt. 
Bar. Will nothing move you ? 
Lor. Feels he, think you ? 
Bar. He shows it not. 

Lor. I hav« mark'd thai^-the wretch ! 
Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold 
The old man fainted. 

L>r. It begins to work, then. 

Bar. The work is half your own. 
L)r. And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says they died 
By poison. 

Lor. When the Doge declared that he 

Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers eicken'd shortly : — he is sovereign. 
Bar. A wretched one. 

^^' What should they be who make 

Orphans? 

Bar. But did the Doge make you so? 
^r. Yes. 

Bar. What solid proofs ? 

^^' When princes set themselves 

To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 
Bar. But you will move by law ? 
^' By all the laws 

Which he would leave us. 

■^«''« They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
That you have written in your books of commerce, 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles,) 
* Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle ?" 

Lit. It is written thus. 

J5or. And will you leave it unerased ? 

^^- Till balanced. 

Bar. And how ? 

[Two Senators pass over the stage, as in their 
way to «rtc Hall of the Council of Ten.'' 



I 



Lar. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me. [Exit Loredano. 

Bar. (solus.) Follow thee ! 1 have foUow'd long 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily hke them — Oh ! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they are 
Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
For those who ahnost broke thee ? 

Enter Guards^ with young Foscari as prisoner^ ^c. 
Guard. Let him rest. 

Signer, take time. 

Jac. Fas. I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble ; 

But thou may'st stand reproved. 

Guard. 1 11 stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That's kind: — I meet some pity, but no 
mercy : 
This is the first. 

Guard. And might be last, did they 

Who rule behold us. 

Bar. {advancing to the Guard.) There is one who does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past, 
Wait their last summons — I am of " the Ten," 
And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence : when the last call sounds, 
We '11 in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 

Jac. Fos. What voice is that ?— 'T is Barbarigo's I Ah Ij 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Thy father sits among thy judges. 

Jac. Fos. True, 

He judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 

As the state's safety 

Jac. Fos. And his son 's. I 'm faint ; 

Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 
Enter an Officer, who whispers Barbarigo. 
Bar. (to the Guard.) Let him approach, I must 
not speak with him 
Further than thus ; I have transgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. [Exit Barbario6. 

[Chiard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the unndow. 
Guard. There, sir, 't is 

Open — How feel you ? 
Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice ! 

Guard. And your limbs ? 

Jac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne me 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd 
The gondola along in childish race, 
And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors, noble as I, 
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength; 
While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible. 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



293 



The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft, 

In wantonness of spirit, plunging dpwa 

Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 

My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 

By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 

Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 

As show'd that I had search'd the deep : exulting. 

With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 

The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 

The foam which broke around me, and pursued 

My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 

Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

Jac. Fos. {looking from the lattice.) My beautiful, my 
own, 4 
My only Venice — this is breath! Thy breeze, 
Thme Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
Thy very winds feel native to my veins. 
And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick. 

Gtiard. I see the colour comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to bear 
What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on 't. 

Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again ? — No— no. 
Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I eonfess'd 

Once — twice before : both times they exiled me. 

Guard. And the third time will slay you. 

Jac. Fos. Let them do so, 

So I be buried m my birthplace : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

Guard. And can you so much love the soil which 
hates you? 

Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 

Enter an Officer. 

Qffi. Bring in the prisoner ! 

Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 't is 
The third time they have tortured me : — then lend me 
Thine arm. {To the Guard. 

Qffi. Take mine, sir ; 't is my duty to 

Be nearest to your person. 

Jac. Fos. You I — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away ! — I '11 walk alone. 

Qffi. As you please, signor ; 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 
They 

Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
The time will come they will renew that order. 
But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 
I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching. 

And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if 

But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
How looks my father ? 

Qffi. With his wonted aspect. 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of ocean, 
The brightness of our city, and her domes, 
The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
Judged and destroy'd in silence,— all tilings wear 



The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! 
Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 
Not even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, ^. 

Enter Memmo and another Senator. 

Mem. He 's gone — we are too late : — think you " the 
Ten" 
Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
Persisting in his first avowal ; but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 

Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the people. 

Sen. Save the wonted rumours, 

Which (like the tales of spectres tliat are rife 
Near ruin'd buildings) never have been proved, 
Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathom'd mysteries. 

Mem. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge ? 

Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 

Sen. 'T is the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attain'd by noble aspirants. 

Mem. To such 

I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I 'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 

Enter Marina, with a female Attendant. 

Mar, What, no caie? — I am wrong, there still are 
two; 
But they are senators. 

Mem. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 

Mar. I command ! — Alas I my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

Mem. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 

Mar. i^ercely.) True — none dare answer here save 
on the rack, 
Or question save those 

Mem. {interrupting her.) High-born dame ! bethink 
thee 
Where thou now art. 

Mar. Where 1 now am I — It was 

My husband's father's palace. 

Mem. The Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's prison ; — true, I have not forgot it ; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

3Iem. Be calm ! ( 

Mar. {looking up towards heaven.) I am ; but oh, thou 
eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world? 

Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. He is, 

In 'heaven. I pray you, signor senator, 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; ho has a son at stake 
Now, at this moment, and I have a luisbnml, 
Or had ; they are there within, or worn at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
Will he condemn him ? 

Mem. I trust not, 



294 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Mar. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

Mem. They can. 

Mar. And with them power and will are one 

In wickedness : — my husband 's lost ! 

Mem. Not so ; 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

Mar. If it were so, 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's" is quicker, 
And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 

[A faint cry tvithin. 

Sen. Hark! 

Mem. 'T was a cry of— 

Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 

Not Foscari's. 

Mem. The voice was — 

Mar. Not his : no. 

He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part. 
Not his — not his — he '11 die in silence. 

[A faint groan again within. 

Mem. What! 

Mar. His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from him. 

Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst 
thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain, in silence ? 

Mar. We all must bear our tortures, I have not 
Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
Though they sweep both the Doge and son from life ; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, as they can 
In leaving it: but mine were joyful pangs ; 
And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd. 
But did not, for my hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 

Mem. All 's silent now. 

Mar. Perhaps all's over; but 

f will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

Mem. How now, friend, what seek you ? 

Qffi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

[Exit Offiter. 

Mem. Lady, 

'T were better to retire. 

Sen. {offering to assist her.) I pray thee do so. 

Mar. Off ! J will tend him. 

Mem. You ! Remember, lady ! 

Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
Except "the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter'd — many never ; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem. Alas! this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse 
And worse suspense. 

Mar. Who shaJll oppose me ? 

Mem. They 

Whose duty 't is to do so. 

Mar. 'Tis <;ieir duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing ! Yet I '11 pass. 

Mem. It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall be tried. 

Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
With levell'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 



Shall put me from my path? Give me, then, way; 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son, 
And they shall hear this ! 

Mem. It will only serve 

More to exasperate his judges. 

Mar. What 

Are judges who give way to anger ? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

[Exit Marina. 

Sen. Poor lady ! 

Mem. 'T is mere desperation ; she 

Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer returns. 

[The Officer passes over the stage with another person 

Mem. I hardly 

Thought that " the Ten" had even this touch of pity, 
Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 

Sen. Pity ! Is 't pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch too happy to escape to death 
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
Resource against the tyranny of pain? 

Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 

Sen. That 's not their policy ; they 'd have him live, 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him. 
Because all earth, except his native land. 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
Consuming but not killing. 

Mem. Circumstance 

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

Sen. None, save the letter, which he says was written, 
Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands. 
And thus he should be reconveyed to Venice. 

Mem. But as a culprit. 

Sen. Yes, but to his country ; 

And that was all he sought, so he avouches. 

Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of "the Ten." 

Mem. Then why not clear him? 

Sen. That 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
That Almoro Donato, as I said. 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 

Mem. There must be more in this strange process 
than 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here come two of " the Ten ;" let us retire. 

[Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. {addressing Lor.) That were too much : 
believe me, 'twas not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 

Lor. And so the Council must break up, and Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No, 

That 's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's state. 

Lor. And had he not recover'd ? 

Bar. To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'T was not tried. 

Bar. 'Tis vain to murmur ; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir, 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 

Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess that part 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



295 



Of our stem duty, which prescribes the duestion, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
Makes me wish 

Lor. What? 

Bar. That you would sometimes feel. 

As I do always. 

Lor. Go to, you 're a child, 

Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh. 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice I and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy ! 

Bar. He shed 

No tears. 

Lor. He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so, 

Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 
At such inhuman artifice of pain 
As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 
For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him, 
And those two shrieks were not in supplication. 
But rung from pangs, and folio w'd by no prayers. 

Lor. He mutter'd many times between his teeth 
But inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not 

You stood more near him. 

Ltor. I did so. 

Bar. Methought, 

To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy, 
And were the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lor. I believed that swoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish ? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
With his guilt unavow'd, he '11 be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory ? 

Lor. Wouldst thou have 

His state descend to his children, as it must, 
If he die unattainted ? 

Bar. War with them too ? 

IjOt. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
nothing. 

Bar. And the deep agony of his pale wife, 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; these moved you not ? 

[Exit LOREDANO. 

He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 

Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved me 

More by his silence than a thousand outcries 

Could have effected. 'T was a dreadful sight 

When his distracted wife broke through into 

The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 

What we could scarcely look upon, long used 

To such sights. I must think no more of this, 

Lest I forget in this compassion for 

Our foes their former injuries, and lose 

The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 

For him and me ; but mine would be content 

With lesser retribution than he thirsts for, 

And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 

To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 

Has a short hourly respite, granted at 

The instance of the elders of the Council, 

Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 

The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they como : 

How feeble and forlorn I I cannot bear 

To look on them again in this extremity: 

I '11 henco, and try to soften Loredano. 

[Exit Barbarigo. 



ACT IL 

Scene I. — A Hail in the Doge's Palace, 

The Doge and a Senator. 

Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to-morrow 7 

Doge. Now ; 

I overlook'd it yesterday ; it wants 
Merely the signature. Give me the pen— 

[The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 
There, signer. 

Sen. {looking at the paper.) You have forgot ; it is 
not sign'd. 

Doge. Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 

Sen. (dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the 
paper before the Doge.) Your hand, too, 
shakes, my lord : allow me, thus — 

Doge. 'T is done, I thank you. 

Sen. Thus the act confirra'd 

By you and by "the Ten," gives peace to Venice. 

Doge. 'T is long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 
As long ere she resume her arms ! 

Sen. 'Tis almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt : 

I found her queen of ocean, and I leave her 
Lady of Lombardy ; it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Brescia and Ravenna; Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hers; her realm 
By land has grown by thus much in my reign, 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'T is most true, 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 

Doge. Perhaps so. 

Sen. Which should be made manifest. 

Doge. 1 have not complain'd, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge. For what ? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For me, signer ? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must have way, my lord i 

I have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
Not to feel deeply for your son. 

Doge. Was this 

In your commission? 

Sen. What, my lord? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd ; 
Return with it to them who sent you. 

Sen. I 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 

Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at Uiis 
moment, 
If it so please them : I am the state's servant. 

Sen. They would accord some time for your repose;. 

Doge. I have no repose, that Ls, none which shall cause 
The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 
Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
Where I should be, and what I have been over. 

[Ejnt Senator 
[The Dooe remains in sUenoe 

Enter an Attendant. 

Alt. Prince! 

Doge. Say on. 



296 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Att. The illustrious lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 

Marina ! [Eant Attendant. 

^The Doge remains in silence as before. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge. I have none from you, my child. 

Command my time, when not commanded by 
The state. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Doge. Your husband ? 

Mar. And your son. 

Doge. Proceed, my daughter! 

Mar. I had obtain'd permission from the " Ten" 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. You had so. 

Mar. 'T is revoked. 

Doge. By vifhom ? 

Mar. "The Ten." — When we had reach'd "the 
Bridge of Sighs," 
Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
"The Ten;" but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that high tribunal reassembled 
The dungeon walls must still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd, and till it meets, 
'T is dubious. 

Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets. 

They '11 torture him again ; and he and / 
Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
The interview of husband and of wife. 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens ! — Oh God ! 
Dost thou see this ? 

Doge. Child — child > 

Mar. {abruptly.) - Call me not " child !" 

You soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 

Doge. You behold me : 

I carmot weep— I would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth. 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I 'd give all 
For him. 

Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 

Doge. That answer only shows you know not Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
The work by different means to the same end. 

And that is ^but they have not conquer'd yet. 

Mar. But they have crush'd. 
Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 

Mar. And your son, — ^how long will he live ? 
Doge. 
For all that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy 
With womanish impatience to return, 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter: 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 



I trust, 



Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke: 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

them — 
He must return. 

Mar. To exile? 

Doge. 1 have said it. 

Mar. And can I not go with him ? 

Doge. You well know 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request, 
Since aggravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more austere. 

Mar. Austere? Atrocious! The old human fiends, 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council, 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
In their accursed bosoms. 

Doge. You know not 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
That these are demons : could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women bom and suckled— 
Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have given 
Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 
Upon their knees, perhaps have moum'd above thera 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
Or were at least in seeming human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 
Yotji^ who abet them ? 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. 

Mar. You know it well, 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much. 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt! 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not; 
And after that, what are a woman's words ? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake you. 

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell 
thee, 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 't is a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 

Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they 
wrong me. 
Couldst thou but read 

Mar. 'T is not upon thy brow, 

Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 

Doge, {pointing downwards.) There ! 

Mar. In the earth ? 

Doge. To which I am tending : when 

It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
Now, you will know me better. 

Mar. Are you, then, 

Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 

Doge. Pitied ! None 

Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 
As far as I have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 

Mar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save, 
You were the last to bear it. 
Doge. Would it wer« no 



I 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



297 



Better for him he never had been born, 

Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonour'd. 

Mar. That 's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier heart, 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
In story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonour'd! — he dishonour'd! 
I tell thee. Doge, 't is Venice is dishonour'd ; 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 
Did you but love your country lilce this victim 
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again ? 

Doge. Has he not been condemn'd ? 

Mar. Is none but guilt so? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would hope 
so. 

He was my pride, my but 't is useless now — 

I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born : those drops were ominous. 

Mar. I say he 's innocent ! And were he not so, 
Is our own blood and Idn to shrink from us 
In fatal moments ? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's ; 
The state would not dispense me from those duties ; 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused • 
They must then be fulfiU'd. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. A message from 

•The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it 1 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge He! — ^but admit him. [Eocit Attendant. 

Mar. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 

Concerns your husband, and if not Well, signor. 

Your pleasure ! [To Loredano entering. 

Jjar. I bear that of "the Ten." 

Doge They 

Have chosen well their envoy. 

Dm. 'T is iheir choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honour, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

Ijot. We have decided. 

Doge. We? 

Dm. •* The Ten" in council. 

Doge. What ! have they met again, and met without 
Apprising me ? 

Lor. They wish'd to spare your feelings. 

No less than age. 

Doge. That 's new — when spared they either ? 

I thank them, notwithstanding. 

Ijor. You know well 

That they have power to act at their discretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Doge. 'T is some years since I learn'(l this, long before 
I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 
You need not school mc, signor : I sato in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, in my father's time ; I have heard him and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
2N 



Your highness may remember them ; they both 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so, better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Imt. No doubt ; yet most men like to live their days 
out. 

Doge. And did not they? 

Lar. The grave knows best : they died, 

As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so strange. 

That you repeat the word emphatically ? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was there deatb 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so ? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals? 

Lar. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 

Lm-. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

Lor. Who dares say so ? 

Doge. I !— 'T is true 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs; but I was o'perdy their foe: 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against Ufe by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lj>r. I fear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am 5 but 
were I 
That you would have me thought, you long ere now 
Were past the sense of fear. Hate on; I care not. 

jLor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That is, by open means. 

Doge. But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least luas, more than a mere duke, 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure, 
Before or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
As would have made you nothing. But in all thingi 
I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'^ 
(I do not speak of you but as a single 
Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
I could enforce for my authority 
Were I disposed to brawl ; bu^ as I said, 
I have observed with veneration, liko 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
Safety, and all save honour, the decrees, 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. 'T is decreedi 

That, without farther repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial, 
Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt is, 
(" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the (Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avovv'd his crime in not denying that 
The letter to tlie Duke of Milan 's his,) 
James Foscaii return to banishment, 
And sail in tlio same galley whicli convey 'd him. 



298 



THE TWO FOSCAR. 



Mar. Thank God. At least they will not drag him 
more 
Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. 

Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 

Mar. No, 't was too human. May I share his e.xile ? 

Lm Of this " the Ten" said nothing. 

Mar. So I thought : 

That were too human, also. But it was not 
Inhibited ? 

Lar. It ^vas not named. 

Mar. {to the Doge.) Then, father. 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To LOREOANO. 

And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavour. 

Mar. And you, signor ? 

Lor. Lady ! 

'T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of the tribunal. 

Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
To use for tlie decrees of 

Doge. Daughter, know you 

In what a presence you pronounce these thmgs ? 

Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 

Ijot. Subject ! 

Mar.. Oh! 

It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
You think ; but that you are not, nor would be, 
Were he a peasant : — well, then, you 're a prince, ' 
A princely noble ; and what then am I ? 

Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 

Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What or whose, then, is 
The presence that should silence my free thoughts ? 

Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference due even to the lightest word 
That falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens. 
And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
Your spies, your galley and your other slaves, 
To whom your midnight carryings off and drownings, 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level ; your mysterious meetinors, 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions. 
Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then what have I to ka,r from you, 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not? 

Hoge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

^^- Lady ! words 

Utter'd wiihm tliese walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state'^s service. 
Doge! have you aught in answer? 

■Do^g-e. Something from 

The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission liere is to the Doge. 

-Oo^e. Then say 

^ho Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
Or state in person what is meet ; and for 



The father 

Lor. I remember mine. — Farewell ! 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Lokedano. 

Mar. Are you content? 

Doge. I am what you behold. 

Mar. And that 's a mystery. 

Doge. All things are so to mortals ; who can read 
them 
Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against Fate, 't were well 
We should remember Fortune can take naught 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness. 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
The universal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low. 
And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, • 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something which is not us ! — So, we are slaves. 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. ' 

3Iar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge each other, 
Who are all earth, and T, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
My country faithfully — victoriously — ] 

I dare them to the proof, the chart of what { 

She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Mar. And Foscari ? I do not think of such things, 
So I be left with him. ' 

Doge. You shall be so ; 

Thus much they cannot well deny. i 

Mar. And if 

They should, I will flly with him. 

Doge. That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fly ? 

Mar. 1 know not, reck not— 

To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for 
husband, 
And turn him into traitor ? 

Mar. He is none ! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



299 



A brigand than the robber- chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith . 

Mar. No; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison. 

Doge. I found the law ; I did not make it. Were I 
A subject, still 1 might find parts and portions 
Fit for amendment; but as prince, I never 
Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
Left by our fathers. 

'f&'.Mar. Did they make it for 

The ruin of their children ? 

Doge. Under such laws, Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory, (for we have had Roman spirits 
Among us,) all that history has bequeath'd 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by senates. 

Mar. Rather say, 

Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so 

But yet subdued the world : in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
The policy, irrevocably tending 
To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigour. 

Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than father. 

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
If we had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 

Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given thorn all, 
Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism, 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. I '11 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father? 

Doge. That he obey 

The laws. 

Mar. And nothing more ? Will you not see him 

Ere he depart? It may be the last time. 

Doge. The last! — my boy! — the last time I shall sec 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene !.■ 



ACT III. 

-The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 



Jac. Foa. (solus.) No light, save yon faint gleam 
which shows me walls 
Which never ccho'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of dosfjair ! 
And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which wears [And the 



The marble down, had v/om away the hate 

Of men's hearts ; but I knew them not, and here 

Must I consume my own, which never beat 

For Venice but with such a yearning as 

The dove has for her distant nest, when whcelint^ 

High in the air on her return to greet 

Her callow brood. What letters are these which 

[Approaching tlie. wall. 
Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! the namei 
Of my sad predecessors in this place, 
The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great for many. This stone page 
Holds like an epitaph their history. 
And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
His dungeon barrier, Uke the lover's record 
Upon the ba.rk of some tall tree, which bears 
His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
I recognise some names familiar to me, 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 
Fittest for such a chronicle as this, 
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 

[He engraves his name. 

Enter a Familiar of « the Ten." 

Fam. I bring you food. 

Jac. Fob. I pray you set it down ; 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parch'd — 
The water! 

Fam. There. 

Jac. Fas. (after drinking.) 1 thank you : I am better. 

Fam. I am commanded to inform you 
That your further trial is postponed. 

Jac.Fos. Till when? 

Fam. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 

Jac. Fos. Ah! they relent, then — I had ceased to 
hope it; 
'T was time. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My best beloved ! 

Jac. Fos. (emhnjicing her.) My true wife, 

And only friend ! What happiness ! 

Mar. We '11 part 

No more. 
Jac. Fos. How! would'st thou share a dungeon? 
Mar. Ay 

The rack, the grave, all — any thing with theo, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separation ; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou ? How are those worn limbs ? Alas 1 

Why do I ask? Thy paleness 

Jac. Fos. 'T is the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without cxjjcctancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale too, my Marina! 

Mar. 'T is 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke, 
Which cloud whate'ur wo gaze on, even thine eyes- 
No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how thoy sjjarklo! 
Jac. Fos. And thine !— but I am blinded by tJie torch. 
Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst tliou seo 

hero ? 
Jac. Fhs. Notliing at first ; but use and time had 
taught mo 
Familiarity witli what was darkness ; 

ay twilight of such glimmerings M 



300 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice ; but a moment ero 
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. 

Mar. What? 

Jac. Fos. My name : look, 't is there — recorded next 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 

Mar. And what of him ? 

Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; they 
only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead. 
Or those who soon must be so — What of him? 
Thou askest.— What of me ? may soon be ask'd, 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my idle. 

Mar. I speak of thee ! 

Jac. Fos. And wherefore not ? All then shall speak 
of me: 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 

Mar. The mind should make its own, 

Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 't is a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient: 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death, 
(If death be a deep sleep,) without a groan. 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 't is not all, for there are things 
More woful — such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and tliis 

Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to en- 
dure it. 
My doom is common, many are in dungeons. 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace ; 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day ; for, save the jailer's torch, 
And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 

Mar. I will be with thee. 

Jac . Fos. Ah ! if it were so ! 

But that they never granted— nor will grant. 
And I shall be alone: no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
Which they term annals, history, what you will, 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me, so these walls have been my study, 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story, 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. ° 

Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

Jac. Fos. I know it — look! 

[He pointi to his limbs, as referring to the tortures 
which he had undergone. 

Mar. No— no— rno more of that : even they relent 



[led! II 



From that atrocity. 

Jac. Fos. What then ? 

3Iar. That you 

Return to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope 's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 't was Venice ; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
Bat proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar, 
In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a stranded vsTeck, 
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 

Mar. And here? 

Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as briefer. 

What I would they even deny me my sire's sepulchre, 
As well as home and heritage ? 

Mar. My husband ! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence. 
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
For an ungrateful and tyrarmic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me. 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and aii 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 

Jac. Fos. Well I know how wretched ! 

Mar. And yet you see how from their banishment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles. 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome; 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 

From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
Another region, with their flocks and herds : 
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion 
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country, 
And many thoughts ; but afterwards address'd 
Myself with those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could ' 

Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar. Wherefore not 1 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay — ^we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting, 
Or after their departure ; of that malady* 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity '■ 

To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely he restrained from treading them? 
That melody,! which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
From his snow canopy of clifl^ and clouds, 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 
And dies. You call this weakness ! It is strength, 
I say, — the parent of all honest feeling. 
He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 

Mar. Obey her, then : 't is she that puts thee forth. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; 't is like a mother's curse 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 



The calenture. f Alluding lo the Swiss air and it» effect*. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



301 



The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 
Their hands upheld each other by the way, 
Their tents were pitch'd together — I 'm alone. 

Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go with thee. 

Jac. Fos. My best Marina ! — and our children ? 

Mar. They, 

I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) 
Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 

Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 

Mar. Yes. With many a pang 

But — I can leave them, children as they are. 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 't is our first 
On earth to bear. 

Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 

Mar. Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot. 
Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
Of late, is mercy. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory. 
And after dreammg a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
(Since you must love it as it seems,) and this 
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 

Jac. Fos. That 's sudden. Shall I not behold my 
father ? 

Mar. You will. 

Jac. Fos. Where ? 

Mar. Here or in the ducal chamber — 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon nxine 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar. Accumulated ! 

What pangs are those they have spared you? 

Jac. Fos. That of leaving 

Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 't was 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar. That is true, 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd. 
Unjust, and 

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent. 
Who dares accuse my country ? 

Mar. Men and angela! 

The blood. of myriads recking up to heaven. 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects, 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say 
Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee ? 

Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must be, 
To our departure. Who comes here ? 



Enter Loredano, attended by Familiars. 
Lor. {to the Familiars.) Retire, 

But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two FamiUart. 

Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signer. 

I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

Zjor. 'T is not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

Ijor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce " the Ten's" decree. 

Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated : it is known. 
Lor. As how? 

Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently, 

Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence 1 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you: 

What can avail such words ? 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fsur dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sir 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do well 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then ? 
Jac. Fos. Return to Candia ? 

Lor. True— 

For life. 
Jac. Fos. Not long. 
Zjor. I said — ^for life. 

Jac. Fos. And I 

Repeat — not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

Jac. Fos. Botli the same to me : the after 

Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is 't true my wife accompanies me ? 

Lor. Yes, 

If she so wills it. 
Mar. Who obtain'd that justice ? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 
Mar. But (^presses 

Men : howsoever let him have my thanks 
For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are offer'd. 

Mar. May they thrive with him 

So much ! — no more. 

Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission ? 

Because we have brief time for preparation. 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 
Mar. Nobler ! 

Ijot. How nobler? 

Mar. As more generous ! 

We say the " generous steed" to express the purity 
Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, although 
Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,) 
From those Venetians who have skirom'd the coasti 
Of Egypt, and her neighbour Araby : 
And why not say as soon the ■ gmerout man ?* 



302 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



If race be aught, it is in qualities 

More than in years ; and mine, which is as old 

As yours, is better in its product, nay — 

Look not so stem — but get you back, and pore 

Upon your genealogic trees most green 

Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 

Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 

For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater ! 

Jac. Fos. Again, Marina! 

Mar. Again ! still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery ? 
Let him partake it ! 

Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 
No less than master ; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me ! 
With death, and chains, and exile in Ms hand 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit : 
They are his weapons, not his armour, for 
I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity. 

Mar. It may be so ; and who hath made us mad ? 

Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 

Mar. That's false! 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
Which you have made a prince's son — my husband 5 
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him ! 
How have you sped ? We are wretched, signor, as 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us, 
And hovffeel you ? 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted : 

They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 

Enter tlie Doge. 

Jac. Fos. My father ! 

Doge, {embracing him.) Jacopo ! my son — my son ! 

Jac. Fos. My father still ! How long it is since I 
Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 

^oge. My boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 

-^«'"' Doge, look there ! 

[She points to Loredano. 

Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 

^"^r. Caution ! 

^' Being 

The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch ! 't is no virtue, but the policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 
JDoge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

^^- You may know him better. 

Mwr. Yes ; \mrse he could not. 



Jac. Fos. Father, let not these 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to * 

Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
rideed, our last of meetings ? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine \ 

Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children — to your last child's children : 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see theTn also ? 

Mar. No — not here. 

Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any where, 

Mar. I would that they beheld their father in 
A place which would not mingle fear with love, 
To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
But let it only be their heritage, 

And not their present fee. Their senses, though ' 

AUve to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
Which floats above the place where we now stand — 
A cell so far below the water's level. 
Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere, 
However you — and you — and, most of all, 
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
May breathe it without prejudice. 

Jac. Fos. I had not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 

Doge. Not so : they shall await you in my chamber. 

Jac. Fos. And must I leave them all ? 

LiOr. You must. 

Jac. Fos. Not one ? 

Lor. They are the state's. 

Mar. I thought they had been mine. 

Lor. They are, in all maternal thmgs. 

Mar. That is, 

In all things painful. If they 're sick, they will 
Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
They Uve, they '11 make you soldiers, senators, 
Slaves, exiles — what you will ; or if they are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles ! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

L/)r. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the genial 
wind 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 

Lor. 'T was so 

When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the "Riva di Schiavoni." 

Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their fatlier. 

Doge. Be firm, my son! 

Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavour. 

Mar. Farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon, 
And him to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. 

Jac. Fos. No doubt! but 'tig 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change them. 
But I reproach not. 

Lor. The time narrows, signor. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell, 



I 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



303 



ts one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

Doge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
And I will find an hour to wipe away 
Those tears, or add my own. 1 could weep now, 
But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

Lor. {to the Familiar.) The torch, there! 

Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre. 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Ihge. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 

Jac. Fos. Alas! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 

Lor. Take mine. 

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 't will sting you. Signor, 
Stand off ! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged. 
No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you ; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
Enter Lokedano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. And have you confidence in such a project? 

Lor. I have. 

Bar. 'T is hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'T will break his heart. 

Lor. Age has no heart to break. 

He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never ; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had naught to envy hira within. Where is he ? 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, with 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he shall 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son? 

Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. 'T i; 
Time to admonish them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
As the first of his son's last banishment, 
And that is vengeance. 

Bar. In my mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'T is moderate — not even life for life, tho rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
They owe mo still my father's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 

jLor. Doubtless, 

Bar. And did not this shako your suspicion? 

Lir. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
By our united influence in the Council, 
It must bo done with all tho doforcnco 
Due to liis years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will. 



So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him 
To have the courtesy to abdicate. 

Bar. What, if he will not ? 

Lor. Well elect another, 

And make him null. 

Bar. But will the laws uphold us? 

Lrr. What laws ?— " The Ten " are laws ; and if 
they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 

Bar. At your own peril ? 

Lor. There is none, I tell you, 

Our powers are such. 

Bar. But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire. 
And twice it was refused. 

Lor. The better reason 

To grant it the third time. 

Bar. Unask'd? 

Lor. It shows 

The impression of his former instances : 
If they were from his heart, he may be thankful; 
If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 
Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and to remove him: since 
Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, do not 
You^ with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them : 't is his throne 
Alone is aim'd at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 

Lor. Because we have waited long enough, and he 
Lived longer than enough. Hence ! In to council ! 

[Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Enter Memmo and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten !" Why so ? 

Mein. « The Ton* 

Alone can answer ; they arc rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are sunmion'd— 
That is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not for us ; 

I would know why. 

Mem. You will know why anon, 

If you obey ; and, if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obey'd. 

Sen. I mean not 

To oppose them, but 

Mem. In Venice " 6«<" *8 a traitor. 

But mo no " ftuto," unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. I am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate ? « Tho Ten" have call'd in aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of iho senate — you are one, 
And I another; and it seoms to mo 
Botli honour'd by tho choice or chance which leads us 
To mingle witli a body so august. 

Sen. Most true. I say no more. 

Mem. As wo hope, signor, 



304 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



And all may honestly (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may) one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
Be thus admitted, though as no\aces, 
To view the mysteries. 

Sen. Let us view them: they, 

No doubt, are worth it. 

Mem. Being worth our lives 

If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

Mem. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying " The Ten's" summons. 

Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
So far — let 's in. 

Mem. The earliest are most welcome 

In earnest councils — we will not be least so. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, father ! though I must and will depart, 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time as beacon to my heart, 
With any penalty annex'd they please, 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will : 't is not 
For us to look beyond. 

Jac. Fos. But still I must 

Look back. I pray you think of me. 

Doge. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
The exile of the disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 
And their desponding shades came flitting round 
To impede the act, I must no less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband I let us on : this but prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

Jac. Fos. But we are not summon'd yet ; 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows ? 
The wind may change. 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's oars 
Will quickly clear the harbour. 

Jac. Foa. Q ye elements ! 

Where are your storms ? 

Mar. In human breasts. Alas! 

Will nothing calm you ? 

Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt 
The land I love, and never shall see more ! 

Mar. And wish you this with me beside you? 

Jac. Fos. No— 

No— not for thee, too good, too kind ! May'st thou 
Live long to be a mother to those children 
Thy fond fidelity for a lime deprives 
Of such support ! But for myself alone, 
May all the winds of heaven howl down the Guli^ 
And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 



i 



Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me, 

As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 

Cast me out from among them, as an offering 

To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 

Will be more merciful than man, and bear me. 

Dead, but still bear me to a native grave. 

From fisher's hands upon the desolate stremd, 

Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 

One lacerated lilce the heart which then 

Will be But wherefore breaks it not ? why live I ? 

Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
A sufferer, but not a loud one : why 
What is this to the things thou hast borne in silence- 
Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

Doge. Would 

It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 

Jac. Fos. Forgive 

Doge. What? 

Jac. Fos. My poor mother, for my birtl^ 

And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you) for the gift of life, 
Which you bestow 'd upon me as my sire. 

Mar. What hast thou done? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter! 

Mar. Fear not : that 's reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar. Hope not? 

Jac. Fos. 1 carmot wish them aU they have inflicted. 

Mar. All ! the consummate fiends ! A thousand fold 
May the worm which ne'er dieth, feed upon them ! 

Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

Mar. And if they do, Heaven will not 

Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and Guards. 

Offi. Signor ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 

Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
Your hand! 

Doge. Take it. Alas ! how thine own trembles ! 

Jac. Fos. No — ^you mistake; 'tis yours .that shakes, 
my father. 
Farewell ! 

Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fos. No— nothing. 

[To the Officer. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

Iffi. You turn pale — 

Let me support you — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
Some water ! 

Mar. Ah, he is dying! 

Jac. Fos. Now, I 'm ready — 

My eyes swim strangely — ^where 's the door? 

Mar. Away ! 

Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
How faintly beats this heart — this pulse! 

Jac. Fos. The light! 

Is it the light? — I am faint. 

[Officer presents him with water. 

Offi. He will be better, 

Perhaps, in the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father — wife — 

Your hands ! 

Mar. There's death in that damp, clammy grasp. 



THE TWO POSCARI. 



305 



Oh God! — My Foscari, how fare you? 

Jac.Fos. Well! 

[He dies. 

Offi. He 's gone ! 

Doge. He 's free. 

Mar, No — no, he is not dead ; 

There must be Ufe yet in that heart — he could not 
Thus leave me. 

Doge. Daughter ! 

Mar, Hold thy peace, old man ! 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh, Foscari! 

Ojffi. We must remove the body. 

Mar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! your base 
office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder, 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honour them. 

Offi. I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 

Doge. Inform the signory from me, the Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes : 
While he lived, -he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy ! 

[Eaai Officer. 

Mar. And I must live ! 

Doge. Your children live, Marina. 

Mar. My children ! true — they live, and I must live 
To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice! Would my mother 
Had been so ! 

Doge. My unhappy children ! 

Mar. What! 

You feel it then at last — you ! — Where is now 
The stoic of the state ? 

Doge, {throwing himself down by the body.) Here ! 

Mar. Ay, weep on ! 

I thought you had no tears — ^you hoarded them 
Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Lor. What 's here ! 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead ! Avaunt ! 
Incarnate Lucifer ! 't is holy ground. 
A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 

Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event. 
But pass'd here merely on our path from council. 

Mar. Pass on. 

Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Mar. {pointing to the Doge, who is still on the ground 
by his son's body.) He 's busy, look. 

About the business you provided for him. 
Are ye content ? 

Bar. We will not interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

Mar. No, ye only make them, 

Then leave them. 

Doge, {rising.) Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No^not now. 

Lor. Yet 't was important. 

Doge. If 't was so, I can 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar. It shall not bo 

Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
Arc evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him ihou look'st on there. 
If they be good, say on ; you need not /car 
That they can comfort me. 

Bar. I would they could! 

Doge. I spoke not to yort., but to Loredano. 
2 O 



He understands me. 

Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so 

Doge. What mean you ? 

Mar. Lo ! there is tlie blood beginmng 

To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

[To Loredano. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 

Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. [To his Attendants.] Signers, 

if it please you. 
Within an hour I '11 hear you. 

[Exeunt Doge, Marina, and Attendants with 
the body. 

[Manent Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that naught 

Could give him trouble farther. 

Bar. These are words ; 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all business ? 

Lor. The thing 's decreed. The Giunta and " the Ten" 
Have made it law — who shall oppose that law ? 

Bar. Humanity! 

Lor. Because his son is dead? 

Bar. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act was passmg, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 

Bar. I '11 not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that 's essential — leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 

Lar. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and had a father. 

Bar. Still so inexorable ? 

Lor. Still. 

Bar. But let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

Lfir. Let him call up into life 

My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be. 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal : he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons, and ho had four, are dead, without 
My dabbhng in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art tJiou sure 

He dealt in such? 

/xw. Most sure. 

Bar. And yet ho seems 

All openness. 

//>r. And so ho socm'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 



306 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



And foreign traitor ? 

Ijot. Even so: when ^e, 

After the very night in which " the Ten" 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
"The good day or good night?" his Doge-ship answer'd. 
" That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
There often has been question about you."* 
'T was true ; the question was the death resolved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled on him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long months beforehand — 
Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his brethen — 
I never smiled on them. 

Bar. Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
Its saviour first, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seems 

The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to her sway, i 

Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 
To him who took a city : and they gave 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 
In battle: the rewards are equal. Now, 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 
Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
To private havoc, such as between him 
And my dead father. 

Bar. Are you then thus fk'd ? 

Z/w, Why, what should change me ? 

Bar. That which changes me : 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded. 
His sons all dead, his family depress'd, 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep ? 

Lor. More soundly. 

Bar. That's an error, and you 11 find it 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

I^T' They sleep not 

In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

Bar. Fancy's distemperature I There is no passion 
More spectral or fantastical than hate ; 
Not even its opposite, love, so peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 
Enter an Officer. 

Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 

^- By the ducal order 

To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

J5«-. Their 

"Vault has been often open'd of late years. 

Lor. 'T will be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 

Qffi. May I pass on ? 

^^- You may. 

-^°''- How bears the Doge 

This last calamity ? 

Qffl. With desperate firmness. 

In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move now and then ; 



An hietorifnl facl 



And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — " My son !" 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. 

[Exit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favour. 

Lor. Right! 

We must be speedy : let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I '11 take their voices on it ne'ertheless, 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 

[Exeunt Barbarigo and LoREDANOr 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — The Doge's Apartment. 
The Doge and Attendants. 

Ait. My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge. To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 
[Exit Attendant. 

An Officer. Prince ! I have done your bidding. 

Doge. What command ? 

Offi. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
Of 

Doge. True — true — true : I crave your pardon. I 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. 

Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of the Signory, 
and the Chief of the Ten. 

Noble men, your pleasure ! 

Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the Council doth 
condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 

Doge. No more — no more of that. 

Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 

Accept the homage of respect ? 

Doge. I do 

Accept it as 't is given — proceed. 

Chief of theTen. "The Ten," 

With a selected giunta from the senate 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Having deliberated on the state 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 
Now to solicit from your wisdom, (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this,) 
The resignation of the ducal ring, 
Which you have worn so long and venerably ; 
And to prove that they are not ungrateful nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 

Doge. Did I hear rightly ? 

Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 

Doge. No. — Have you done? 

Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty-four 

Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 

Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 

Chief of theTen. -vVe 

Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay 1 Four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



307 



Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 

Doge. When I twice before reiterated 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me ; 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions, which 
My country call'd me here to exercise, 
According to my honour and my conscience— 
I cannot break my oatlu 

Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 

To the alternative of a decree. 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
But ye have no right to reproach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 
I am ready to lay down my life for her, 
As I have laid down dearer things than life; 
But for my dignity — I hold it of 
The whole republic ; when the general will 
Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 

Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer ; but 
it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Doge. I can submit to all things, 

But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 

Return to those who sent us? 

Doge. You have heard me. 

Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence we retire. 
[Exeunt the Deputation^ ^c. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
Doge. My time is hers. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude — 

Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 

Doge. Alone ! 

Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 

Mar. We will ; and for the sake of those who are, 
Endeavour Oh my husband ! 

Doge. Give it way ; 

I cannot comfort thee. 

Mar. He might have lived, 

So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 
So loving, so beloved; the native of 
Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
As my poor Foscari? Nothing was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to other men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition. 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The country and the people whom he loved, 
The prince of whom he was the elder born. 
And 

Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 

Mar. How? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now aim 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws ! 

Mar. Oh the tyrants ! 

In such an hour too ! 

Doge. 'T is the fittest time : 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 
But he, who, had he been enough protected, 



Might have repaid protection m this moment, 
Cannot assist his father. 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar, They tortured from him. This 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman: 
To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 
And I, who would have given my blood for him. 
Have naught to give but tears ! But could I compass 
The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, well ; 
I have sons, who shall be men. 

Doge. Your grief distracts you. 

Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when I saw him 
Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolong'd captivity: — I am punish'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 

Doge. I must look on him once more. 

Mar. Come with me ! 

Doge. Is he 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 

Mar. Come, come, old man! 

[Exeunt the Doge and Marina. 

Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

Bar. {to an Attendant.) Where is the Doge ? 

Att. This instant retired hence 

With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 

Lor. Where? 

Alt. To the chamber where the body lies. 

Bar. Let us return, then. 

Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
To await their coming here, and join them 
Their office : they '11 be here soon after us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the Doge ? 

Lor, 'T was his own wish that all should be done 
promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd ; 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for — what would he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes : 

He could not have lived long; but I have done 
My best to save his honours, and 0[)posed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would tlic general vote compel mc hither? 

Lor. 'T was fit that some one of such different thought* 
From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
A very Ovid in the art of hating ; 
'T is thus (although a secondary object, 
Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 
This undo.sired association in 
Your Giuntu's duties. 

/x;r. How ! — my Giunta ! 

Bar. Yours! 

They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
Your jtlans, and do your work. Are they not yours ? 

Ijtr. You talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear not 
This from you. 

Bar. Oh! tlioy 'II hear as much one day 

From louder tongues than mine; thoy have goao beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
This happens in the most conlcinn'd and abject 



308 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

Lor. You talk but idly. 

Bar. That remains for proof. 

Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the DepiUatixm as before. 

Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 

Att. He shall be inform'd. 

[Exit Attendant. 

Bar. The Duke is with his son. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. 'T is time enough to-morrow. 

Lor. {aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's hell-fire upon 
your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I '11 have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage signers, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human! 

Lor. See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the DOGE. 

Doge. I have obey'd your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. We come once more to urge our 
past request. 

Doge. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What? 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point — 

To the point ! I know of old the forms of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge 5 you are 
released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention 'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, eis to place 
His own high dignity before his country; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being render'd, I obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three days 
named extended, 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Not eight hours, signer, 

Nor even eight minutes— There 's the ducal ring, 

[Taking off Ms ring and cap. 
And there the ducal diadem. And so 
The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 

^(>Se. 1 am old, sir, 

And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Melhinks I see among you 
A face I know not — Senator ! your name. 
You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ! 

Mem. Signer, 

I am the son of Marco Memmo. 



Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend, — But sons and fathers !'— 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

Att. My prince ! 

Doge. No prince- 

There are the princes of the prince ! [Pointing to the 

Teri's deputation.'] — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly? 'twill give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that; 

[To the Tea. 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[To the Servants. 
There is one burden which I beg you bear 
With care, although 't is past all farther harm — 
But I will look to that myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter! 

Enter Marina. 

Doge. Get thee ready, we must mourn 

Elsewhere. 

Mar. And every where. 

Doge. True ; but in freedom, 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signors, you may depart : what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I'm very old, 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signors ! 
May the next duke be better than tiie present! 

Lor. The present duke is Paschal Malipiero. 

Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 

Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Doge. Earth and heaven! 

Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er heard 
Such sound for his successor! Happier he, 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. What! 

Do you regret a traitor ? 

Doge. No— I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you towards 
The landing-place of the canal. 

Doge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty — the Giants' Stairs, on whose 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have call'd me up those steps. 
The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
There five and thirty years ago was I 
Install'd, and traversed these same halls, from which 
I never thought to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow citizens. 
But come ; my son and I will go together^ 
He to his grave, and 1 to pray for mme. 

Chief of the Ten. What! thus in public? 

Doge. I was publicly 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



309 



Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou willing ? 

Mar. Here 's my arm I 

Doge. And heremys^o^-" thuspropp'd will I go forth. 

Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people will 
perceive it. 

Doge. The people! — There's no people, you well 
know it, 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 

you, 
Save v/ith their hearts and eyes. 

Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion, 

Else 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due respect, 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
My brethren, wiU we not ? 

Different voices. Ay '. — Ay ! 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more. 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — I am none ! — That 's false, 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 

Lor. Hark! 

[The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 

Bar. The bell! 

Chi^ of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls for the 
election 
Of Malipiero. 

Doge. Well I recognize 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
And that is five and thirty years ago; 
Even then I was not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord! 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'T is the knell of my poor boy ! 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. I pray you sit. 

Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 
Marina ! let us go- 

Mar. Most readily. 

Doge, {walks a few steps, then stops.) I feel athirst — 
will no one bring me here 
A cup of water ? 

Bar. I 

Mar, And I 

Lfir. And I 

[The Doge takes a goblet from the hand 

of LOREDANO. 

Doge. 1 take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
Most fit for such an hour as this. 

Lor. Why so ? 

Doge. 'T is said that our Venetian crystal has 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
To burst, if aught of venom touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 

Ijor. Well, sir ! 

Doge. Then it is false, or you aro true. 

For my own part, I credit neither ; 't is 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk swildly, and 



Had better now be seated, nor as yet 

Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband ! 

Bar. He sinks I — support him ! — quick — a chair — 
support him! 

Doge. T?he bell tolls on! — let's hence — my brain's 
on fire! 

Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 

Doge. No! 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
Off with your arms l—That bell ! 

[TTie Doge drops down and dies. 

Mar. My God ! My God ! 

Bar. {to Lor.) Behold ! your work 's completed ! 

Chief of the Ten. Is there then 

No aid? Call in assistance! 

Att. 'T is all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
His rank and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
Say, shall it not be so ? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
He reign'd : then let his funeral rites be princely. 

Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then? 

All, except Lor. answer, Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him! 

Mar. Signers, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place, with such relentless coldness ; 
And now, when he can neither know these honours, 
Nor would accept them if he could, you, signors, 
Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp. 
To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honour. 

Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. I know it. 

As far as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the dead had been beyond even you. 
Though (some, no doubt) consign 'd to powers^ which 

may 
Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 
His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd: 
It is my last of duties, and may prove 
A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Ten. Do you 

Pretend still to this office ? 

Mar. I do, signer. 

Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites. 
And those of [She slops with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 

lYTar. Ay, tliey are fatherless, I thank you. 

Chief of tlie Ten. Wa 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall bo exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, but simply as a senator. . 

Mar. I have hoard of murderers, who liavo intorr'd 
Their victims ; but ne'er hcarti, until this hour. 
Of so muoli splendour in hypocrisy 
O'er ihoso tiioy slow. I 'vo hoard of widows' t« 
Alas ! I have shod some — always thanks to you ! 
I've heard of Aeir« in sables — you have loft now 



310 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



To the deceased, so you would act the part 

Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one day 

I trust, Heaven's will be done loo! 

Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady, 

To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech ? 

Mar. 1 know the former better than yourselves ; 
The latter — like yourselves; and can face both. 
Wish you more funerals ? 

Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearmg. 

Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 



Bar. {turning to Lor. who is writing upon his tablets.) 

What art thou viriting, 
With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 
Lor. {pointing to the Doge's body.) That he has paid 

me!* 
Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you? 
Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt and mine. 

ICurtainfaUs. 



" L'ha pagata." An historical fact. See the history of Venice, by 
P. Daru, page 4U, vol. 2. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Extrait de VHistoire de la Repuhlique de Venise par 
P. Daru, de VAcadtmie Fran^aise, tom. II. 

Depuis trente ans, la republique n'avait pas depose 
les armes. Elle avait acquis les provinces de Brescia, 
de Bergame, de Creme, et la principaute de Ravenne. 

Mais ces guerres continuelles faisaient beaucoup de 
malheureux et de mecontents. Le doge Franfois Fos- 
cari, a qui on ne pouvait pardonner d'en avoir ete le 
promoteur, manifesta une seconde fois, en 1442, et pro- 
bablement avec plus de sincerite que la premiere, I'in- 
tention d'abdiquer sa dignite. Le conseil s'y refusa en- 
core. On avait exige de lui le sermeni de ne plus quit- 
ter le dogat. II etait deja avance dans la vieillesse, 
conservant cependant beaucoup de force de tete et de 
caract^re, et jouissant de la gloire d'avoir vu la repub- 
lique etendre au loin les Umites de ses domaines pen- 
dant son administration. 

Au milieu de ces prosperites, de grands chagrins vin- 
rent mettre a I'epreuve la fermete de son ame. 

Son fils, Jacques Foscari, fut accuse, en 1445, d'avoir 
re^u des presents de quelqiies princes ou seigneurs 
etrangers, notamment, disait-on, du due de Milan, Phi- 
lippe Visconti. C'etait non seulement une bassesse, 
mais une infraction des lois positives de la republique. 

Lo conseil des dix traita cette affaire comme s'il se 
fut agi d'un delit commis par un particulier obscur. 
L'accuse fut amene devant ses juges, devant le doge, 
qui ne crut pas pouvoir s'abstenir de presider le tribu- 
nal. Lk, il fut interroge, apphque a la question,* de- 
clare coupable, et il entendit, de la bouche de son p^re, 
I'arret qui le condamnait a un bannissement perpetuel, 
et le releguait a Naples de Romanic, pour y finir ses 
jours. 

Embarque sur une galore pour se rendre au lieu de 
son exil, il tomba malade a Trieste. Les soUicitations 
du doge obtinrent, non sans difficulte, qu'on lui assigndt 
uiie autre residence. Enfin, le conseil des dix lui per- 
mit de se retirer a Trevise, en lui imposant I'obligation 
d'y rester sous peine de mort, et de se presenter tous 
les jours devant le gouverneur. 

II V etait depuis cinq ans, lorsqu'un des chefs du con- 
seil des dix assassine. Les soup9ons se port^rent sur 
lui : un de ses domestiques qu'on avait vu a Venise fut 
arrfite et subit la torture. Les bourreaux ne purent 
lui arracher aucun aveu. Ce terrible tribunal se fit 
amener le maitre, le soumit aux mfimes epreuves ; il 



• E datagli la cordo per avere da lui la veritd ; chiamato il consiglio 
de dieci colla giunta, nel quale (ix inesser lo doge, fii senlenuato. (Marin 
Sanulo, Vile de' Duchi. F. Foscari.) 

t Kfii lormentato n« mai confess!) cosa alcuna. pure parve al consielio 
de' dieci di confinarlo lu viiaalla Canea (Ibid.) Voici le lexte du juge- 
menl : Cum Jacobus Foscari per occnsioncm percussionis et mortis 
HermolM nonali fuit retenlus et examinalus, et propter siguificaliones, 
teslificationes, el scnplur«s qum habentur contra eum, clare apparet Ip- 
«urn esse reuin criminis pra:dicli, sed propter iiicantationes et verba ou£e 
■ibi reperta sunt, de quibus existit indiciia manifesta, videlur propter 
obstmalam mentem suam, non esse possibile exirahere ab ipso illam 
veritatem, qua clara est per scripluras et per teslificationes, quoniam in 
fune aliquam nee vocem, nee gemilum, sed solum inlra denies voces ipse 

videlur et auditur infra se loqui, etc Tameu non eat standum in istis 

lerminis, propter honorem slnOs noslri el pro niultis respectibus nrieser 
tlrnquo<l regimen nostrum occupatur in hacre, et qui inteidictuin est am- 
pliuB progredere: vadit jMirs, quod dictus Jacobus Foscari, propter ea quie 
hsbenturde Ulo, miiutur In confinium in clvilate Canea.'' elc.-Noti« 



resista h tous les tourments, ne cessant d'attester son 
innocence ;! mais on ne vit dans cette Constance que 
de Vobstination ; de ce qu'il taisait le fait, on conclut que 
ce fait existait ; on attribua sa fermete h. la magie, et on 
le relegua a la Canee. De cette terre lointaine, le ban- 
ni, digno alors de quelque pitie, ne cessait d'ecrire k 
son pere, a ses amis, pour obtenir quelque adoucisse- 
ment a sa deportation. N'obtenant rien, et sachant 
que la terreur qu'inspirait le conseil des dix ne lui per- 
mettait pes d'esperer de trouver dans Venise une seule 
voix qui s'elevat en sa faveur ; il fit une lettre pour le 
nouveau due de Milan, par laquelle, au nom des bons 
offices que Sforce avait refus du chef de la republique, 
il implorait son intervention en faveur d'un innocent, du 
fils du doge. 

Cette lettre, selon quelques historiens, fut confiee k 
un marchand, qui avait promis de la faire parvenir au 
due ; mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il avait h craindre 
en se rendant I'intermediare d'une pareille correspon- 
dance, se hata, en debarquant a Venise, de la remettre 
au chef du tribunal. Une autre version, qui parait plus 
sure, rapporte que la lettre fut surprise par un espion, 
attache au pas de I'exile.* 

Ce fut un nouveau delit dont on eut h punir Jacques 
Foscari. Reclamer la protection d'un prince etranger 
etait un crime, dans un sujet de la republique. 'Une 
galore partit sur-le-champ pour Tamener dans les prisons 
de Venise. A son arrivee il fut soumis a I'estrapade. j 
C'etait une singuliere destinee, pour le citoyer d'une 
republique et pour le fils d'un prince, d'etre trois fois 
dans sa vie applique a la question. Cette fois la torture 
etait d'autant plus odieuse, qu'elle n'avait point d'objet, 
le fait qu'on avait a lui reprocher, etant incontestable. 

Quand on demanda a l'accuse, dans les intervalles que 
les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi il avait ecrit la 
lettre qu'on lui produisait, il repondit que c'etait precise- 
ment parce qu'il ne doutait pas qu'elle ne tombat entre 
les mains du tribunal, que toute autre voie lui avait 
ete fermee pour faire parvenir ses reclamations, qu'il 
s'attendait bien qu'on le ferait amener a Venise ; roais 
qu'il avait tout risque pour avoir la consolation de voir 
sa femme, son pfere, et sa m^re, encore une fois. 

Sur cette naive declaration, on confirma sa sentence 
d'exil ; mais on I'aggrava, en y ajoutant qu'il serait retenu 
en prison pendant un an. Cette rigueur, dont on usait 
envers un malheureux, etait sans doute odieuse ; mais 
cette politique, qui defendait a tous les citoyens de faire 
intervenir les etrangers dans les affaires interieures de 
la republique, etait sage. Elie etait chez eux une max- 
ime de gouvernement et une maxime inflexible. L'- 
historien Paul Morosini J a conte que I'empereur Fre- 
deric III. pendant q.u'il etait I'hote des Venitiens, de- 
manda, comme une faveur particuli^re, I'admission d'un 



sur le procfis de Jacques Foscari, dans un volume, intitulfe Raccolta di 
memorie storiche e annedole, per formar la Storia dell' eccellentiaginno 
consigliu di X della sua prima inslilU7,ione sino .t.' giorni nosiri, con la di- 
verse variazioni e riforme nelle varie epoche successe. (Archive* de 
Venise.) 

" 1 .a notice cil6e ci-dessus, qui rapporte les actes de cette procedure. 

t Kbbe prima per sapere la verit4 trenta squassi di corda. (Marin 
Sanulo, Vitede' Duchi. P. Foscari.) 

I Historia di Yenezia, lib. ;@. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



311 



citoyen dans le grand conseil, et la grace d'un ancien 
gouverneur de Candie, gendre du doge, et banni pour 
sa mauvaise administration, sans pouvoir obtenir ni 
I'une ni I'autre. 

Cependant, on ne put refuser au condamne la per- 
mission de voir sa femme, ses enfants, ses parents, qu'il 
allait quitter pour toujours. Cette derni^re entrevue 
m6me fut accompagnee de cruaute, par la severe cir- 
conspection, qui retenait les epanchements de la dou- 
leur paternelle et conjugale. Ce ne fut point dans I'in- 
terieur de leur appartement, ce fut dans une des 
grandes salles du palais, qu'une femrae, accompagnee de 
ces quatre fils, vint faire les derniers adieux a son mari, 
qu'un p6re octogenaire et le dogaresse accablee d'infir- 
mites, jouirent un moment de la triste consolation de 
meler leurs larmes a celles de leur exile. II se jeta a 
leurs genoux en leur tendanl des mains disloquees par 
la torture, pour les supplier de solliciter quelque adou- 
cissement a la sentence qui venait d'etre prononcee 
centre lui. Son pere eut le courage de lui repondre : 
" Non, mon fils, respectez votre arret, et obeissez sans 
murmure a la seigneurie."* A ces mots il se separa 
de I'infortune, qui fut sur-le-champ embarque pour 
Candie. 

L'antiquite vit avec autant d'horreur que d'admira- 
tion un p^re condamnant ses fils evidemment coupables. 
EUe hesita pour qualifier de vertu sublime ou de fero- 
cite cet effort qui parait au-dessus de la nature hu- 
maine ;| mais ici, ou la premiere faute n'etait qu'une 
faiblesse, ou la seconde n'etait pas prouvee, oil la troi- 
si^nie n'avait rien de criminel, comment coiicevoir la 
Constance d'un p6re, qui voit torturer trois fois son fils 
unique, qui I'entend condamner sans preuves, et qui 
n'eclate pas en plaintes ; qui ne I'aborde que pour lui 
montrer un visage plus ausifere qu'attendri, et qui, au 
moment de s'en senarer pour jamais, lui interdit les mur- 
mures et jusqu'a 1 esperance ? Comment expliquer une 
si cruelle circonspection, si ce n'est en avouant, a notre 
honte, que la tyrannie pent obtenir de l'esp6ce hu- 
maine les mSmes efforts que la vertu ? La servitude 
aurait-elle son heroisme comme la liberte ? 

Quelque temps aprfes ce jugement, on decouvrit le 
veritable auteur de I'assassinat, dont Jacques Foscari 
portait le peine ; mais il n'etait plus temps de reparer 
cette atroce injustice, le malheureux etait mort dans 
sa prison. 

II me reste ci raconter la suite des malheurs du p^re. 
L'histoire les attribue a I'impatience qu'avaient ses en- 
nemis et ses rivaux de voir vaquer sa place. Elle ac- 
cuse formellement Jacques Loredan, I'un des chefs du 
conseil des dix, de s'etre livre contre ce vieillard aux 
conseils d'une haine hereditaire, et qui depuis long 
temps divisail leurs maisons.J 

Francois Foscari avait essaye de le faire cesser, en 
offrant sa fille ;i I'illustre amiral Pierre Loredan, pour 
im de ses fils. L'alliance avait etc rejetee, et I'inimitie 
des deux families s'en etait accrue. Dans tons les con- 
seils, dans loules les affaires, le doge trnuvait toujours 
les Loredans pr6ts <i combattre ses propositions ou ses 
interfits. II lui echappa un jour de dire qu'il no sc 
croirait reellement prince, que lorsque Pierre Loredan 
aurait cesse de vivre. Cet amiral mourut quelque 
i temps apr6s, d'une incommodite asscz prompte qu'on 
I ne put expliquer. II n'en fallut pas davantage aux mal- 
veillants pour insinuer que Francois Foscari, ayant de- 
sire cette mort, pouvait bien I'avoir ha tec. 



• Marin Snniilo, duns sa chroiiiqiie, Vile de' Duchi, se sert ici sans en 
Rvoir en ('intention d'nne expression assez 6nergiqiie : " II iloee crii vec- 
chio in (lecrepila el4 e caminava con una mazzella: E qnnndo rU nnil6 
parlogli mollo conslnnleinenle che parea che non fosse sno ligliiioio, licet 
fosse iij;liunlo unico, e J.icopo ilisse, messer pAdre, vi prego die procnrintc 
per me, acciocchd io torni a casu mia. II dojje ilisse: Jucupo, va u ol>- 
bedisei a qnello che vnole In terra, e non cercar piil ollre." 

t Cela fill un ncie que I'on ne scanroit ny siifTissament loner, ny assez 
blasiner: car, ou c'enloil une oxcullvnce de vertu, qui rendoit uinsi son 
e<Bur impnsiilile, on une violence de passion qui le reniloii insensihle, 
dont ne I'une nt I'aulre n'est chose pi-lite, ninsi surpassanl I'urdiniiirr 
d'hiimainc nature el tenant ou du In divinitb ou de In I>fslinlil6. Mjiis il 
est plus raisonnable que le JuKement des homines s'nccordoA sa ^Inlre, 
que la fuililusse des Jiifiuans fnsse des croire in vcrln. Maii pour lors 

aunnd il sc fui reliri, tout Ic mundu dvmeurn sur lu place, comma Iransy 
'horreur et de frayenr, par nn Ion? temps nans mot ilire, pour avoir vcu 
ee qui avait £(6 fail. (Plulnrquc, Valerius Puhlicola.) 

I .le suis prinripslomnul dans ce rAcit uni- nlution m.inuscritu do la d«- 
ixjsttlon de I-Vangois H'oscarl, qui est dans le volume Inlilide Kftccolta ill 
memorle storiclie e annedote, per formar U Sloriadcll' uccollenlUiijno 
conslgllo rli X. (Archives de Venis».) 



Ces bruits s'accreditferent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
ptjrir subitement Marc Loredan, fr^re de Pierre, et cela 
dans le moment ou, en sa qualite d'avogador, il in- 
struisait un proces contre Andre Donalo, gendre du 
doge, accuse de peculat. On ecrivit sur la tombe de 
I'amiral qu'il avait ete enleve a la patrie par le poison. 

II n'y avait aucune preuve, aucun indice contre Fran- 
cois Foscari, aucune raison meme de le soupconner. 
Q,uand sa vie enti^re n'aurait pas dementi une imputa- 
tion aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang ne lui promet- 
tait ni I'impunite ni meme I'indulgence. La mort tra- 
gique de I'un de ses predecesseurs I'en avertissait, et il 
n'avait que trop d'exemples domestiques du soin que le 
conseil des dix prenait d'humilier le chef de la re- 
publique. 

Cependant, Jacques Loredan, fils de Pierre, croyait 
ou feignait de croire avoir a venger les pertes de sa fa- 
mille.* Dans ses livres de comptes (car il faisait le 
commerce, comme a cette epoque presque tous les pa- 
triciens,) il avait inscrit de sa propre main le doge au 
nombre de ses debiteurs, pour la mort, y etait-il dit, de 
mon p6re et de mon oncle.t De I'autre cote du registre, 
il avait laisse une page en blanc, pour y faire mention du 
recouvrement de cette dette, et en effet, apr^s la perte 
du doge, il ecrivit sur son registre, il me I'a payee — I'ha 
pagata. 

Jacques Loredan fut elu membre du conseil des dix, 
en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien de pro- 
filer de cette occasion pour accomplir la vengeance 
qu'il meditait. 

Le doge en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il venait 
de subir, pendant le proems de son fils, s'etait retire au 
fond de son palais, incapable de se livrer aux affaires, 
consume de chagrins, accable de vieillesse, il ne se mon- 
trait plus en public, ni meme dans les conseils. Cette 
retraite, si facile Ji expliquer dans un vieillard octoge- 
naire si malheureux, deplut aux decemvirs, qui voulu- 
rent y voir un murmure contre leur arrets. 

Loredan commenca par se plaindre devant ses col- 
logues du tort que les infirmitt^s du doge, son absence 
des conseils, apportaient h I'expedition des affaires, il 
finit par hasarder et rtjussit a faire agreer la pioposition 
de le dcposer. Ce n'etait pas la premiere fois que Ve- 
nise avait pour prince un homme dans la caducite ; 
I'usage et les lois y avaient pourvu ; dans ces circon- 
stances le doge etait supplt^e par le plus ancien du con- 
seil. Ici, cela ne suffisait pas aux enncmis de Foscari. 
Pour donner plus de solennite h. la deliberation, le con- 
seil des dix demanda une adjonction de vingt-cinq se- 
natetn-s ; mais comme on n'en cnon^ait pas ,1'objet, et 
que le grand conseil etait loin de le soupfonner, il se 
trouva que Marc Foscari, fr<>re du doge, leur fut don- 
ne pour I'un des adjoints. Au lieu de I'admettre e la 
dtjhiwration, ou de reclamer contre ce choix, on enferma 
ce senatcur dans une chambre separee, et on lui fit 
jiircr de ne jamais parler de cette exclusion qu'il eprou-. 
vait, en lui dt^clarant gu'il y allait de sa vie ; ce qui 
n'empt^cha pas qu'on n'inscrivtt son nom au has dii a«5-i 
crot comme s'il y eut pris part.| 

Quand on en vint y la deliberation, Loredan la pro- 
voqua en ces termes:§ " Si I'utilite puhlique doit impo- 
ser silence <v tous les inlt'rt'ts privt^s, je ne dome pas 
que nous ne pronions aujourd'hui une mosure que la 
patrio reclame que nous lui devons. Les totals ne peu- 
vent se maintcnir dans un ordre do choses immuable ; 
vous n'avez qu'h voir comme le nAtre est change, et 
combien il le serait davantage s'il n'y avait une autorit6 
assez ferme pour y porter remade. J'ai honto de vous 
fairo remarquer la confusion qui rt^gne dans les conseils, 
l(> di'^sordre des deliberations, rencombremont des af- 
faires, ct la legerete avec lanuelle les plus importantos 
sont d^ridtM's ; la licence do notrc jcunesso, le pen 
d'assiduift'' des magistrats, I'introduction de nouveauU5s 
dangereuses. Quel est I'effet do ces di'sordres ? de 
comprometlre notre considt-ration. Quelle en est la 



Hasre tamen Injuria* quamvis ima^inarias non tarn ad animum rrro- 
caverat Jacohus I.aurednniia defuiu'torum nt-pos, quam b> abeceUarium 
rindirtam opnorlunn. (Palurrl Fasti DucalfS.) 

t Ihid, et rtlisloiio Venilienno de Vianulu. 

t II laul cependant remarquer que dans ImiPlice oil I'on racontec* fall, 
la dillWn-atloii est mppiirtte, que les »innt..inq ailjolnl* T aont nommk* 
el que li- nom de Marc FoscAri ne s'y trouva pas. 

I '"i-\f hiirang'ip sc lit dan« U nnilrs clt4e ci-d*uus. 



812 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



cause? I'absence d'un chef capable de moderer les uns, 
de diriger les autres, de donner I'exemple h tous, et de 
maintenir la force des lois. 

" Oil est le temps oil nos decrets etaient aussitOt ex- 
ecutes que rendus ? Ou Fran9ois Carrare se trouvait 
invest! dans Padoue, avant de pouvoir etre seulement 
informe que nous voulions lui faire la guerre ? nous 
avons vu tout le contraire dans la dernifere guerre con- 
Ire le due de Milan. Malheureuse la republique qui 
est sans chef! 

" Je ne vous rappelle pas tous ces inconvenients et 
leurs suites deplorables, pour vous affliger, pour vous 
affrayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir que vous etes 
los maitres, les conservateurs de cet etat, fonde par vos 
peres, et de la liberte que nous devons k leurs travaux, 
d leurs institutions. Ici, le mal indique le remade. 
Nous n'avons point de chef, il nous en faut un. Notre 
prince est notre ouvrage, nous avons done le droit de 
juger son merite quand il s'agit de I'elire, et son inca- 
pacite quand elle se manifesto. J'ajouterai que le peu- 
ple, encore bien qu'il n'ait pas le droit de prononcer sur 
les actions de ses maitres, apprendra ce changement 
avec transport. C'est la providence, je n'en doute pas, 
qui lui inspire elle-meme ces dispositions, pour vous 
avertir que la republique reclame cette resolution, et 
que le sort de I'etat est en vos mains." 

Ce discours n'eprouva que de timides contradictions ; 
cependant, la dehberation dura huit jours. L'assemblee 
ne se jugeant pas aussi sure de I'approbation universelle 
que I'orateur voulait le lui faire croire, desirait que le 
doge donnat lui-meme sa demission. II avait dejk 
proposee deux fois, et on n'avait pas voulu I'accepter. 

Aucune loi ne portait que le prince fut i-evocable ; il 
etait au contraire a vie et les exemples qu'on pouvait 
citer de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaient que de 
telles revolutions avaient toujours ete le resultat d'un 
mouvement populaire. 

Mais d'ailleurs, si le doge pouvait etre depose, ce 
n'etait pas assurement par un tribunal compose d'un 
petit nombre de membres, institue pour punir les crimes, 
et nullement investi du droit de revoquer ce que le corps 
souverain de I'etat avait fait. 

Cependant, le tribunal arreta que les six conseillers 
de la seigneurie, et les chefs du conseil des dix, se 
transporteraient aupr^s du doge pour lui signifier, que 
I'excellentissime conseil avait juge convenable qu'il 
abdiquat une dignite dont son a^e ne lui permettait 
plus de remplir les fonctions. On lui donnait 1500 
ducats d'or pour son entretien et vingt-quatre heures 
pour se decider.* 

Foscari repondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup de 
gravite, que deux fois il avait voulu se demettre de sa 
charge ; qu'au lieu de le lui permettre, on avait exige 
de lui le serment de ne plus reilerer cette demande ; 
que la providence avait prolonge ses jours pour I'e- 
prouver et pour I'affliger, que cependant on n'etait pas 
en droit de reprocher sa longue vie a un homme qui 
avait employe quatre-vingt-quatre ans au service de la 
republique ; qu'il etait pret encore a lui sacrifier sa vie ; 
mais que, pour sa dignite, il la tenait de la republique 
cnti^re, et qu'il se reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, 
quand la volonte gene rale se serait legalement mani- 

Le lendemain, a I'heure indiquec, les conseillers et 
les chefs des dix se presentferent. II ne voulut pas leur 
donner d autre reponse. Le conseil s'assembla sur-le- 
champ, lui envoya demander encore une fois sa resolu- 
tion seance tenante, et, la reponse ayant ete la meme 
on pronon^a que le doge etait releve de son serment et 
depose de sa dignite, on lui assignait une pension de 
1500 ducats d or, en lui enjoignant de sortir du palais 
dans huit jours, sous peine de voir tous ses biens con- 
fisques.J 

Le lendemain, ce decret fut porte au doge, et ce fut 
Jacques Loredan qui eut la cruelle joie de le lui pre- 
senter. II repondit: "Si j'avais pu prevoir que ma 
yieillesse fut prejudiciable k i'etat, le chef de la repub- 
lique ne se serait pas montre assez ingrat, pour pre- 
f6rer sa dignite h la patrie ; mais cette vie lui ayant 



• Ce Ofecret eat rapportfe teiiuellement dan» la notice. 
T La notice rapporle aussi ce dficret. 



ete Utile pendant tant d'annees, je voulais lui en con- 
sacrer jusqu'au dernier moment. Le decret est rendu, 
je m'y conformerai." Apr^s avoir parle ainsi, il se de- 
pouilla des marques de sa dignite, remit I'anneau ducal, 
qui fut bnse en sa presence, et d6s le jour suivant il 
quitta ce palais, qu'il avait habite pendant trente-cinq 
ans, accompagne de son fr^re, de ses parents, et de ses 
amis. Un secretaire, qui sc trouva sur le perron, I'in- 
vita a descendre par un escaUer derobe, afin d'eviter la 
foule du peuple, qui s'etait rassemble dans les cours, 
mais il s'y refusa, disant qu'il voulait descendre par ou 
il etait monte ; et quand il fut au has de I'escaher dea 
geants, il se retourna, appuye sur la bequille, vers le 
palais en proferant ces paroles; "Mes services m'y 
avaient appelle, la malice de mes ennemis m'en fait 
sortir." 

La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avail' 
peut-etre desire sa mort, etait emue de respect et d'at-I 
tendnssement.* Rentre dans sa maison, il recommanda' 
k sa famille d'oublier les injures de ses ennemis. Per- 
sonne dans les divers corps de I'etat ne se crut en droit 
de s'etonner, qu'un prince inamovible eut ete depos6t 
sans qu'on lui reprochat rien: que I'etat eut perdu soni 
chef; a I'lnsu du senat et du corps souverain lui-meme.» 
Le peuple seul laissa echapper quelques regrets : une 
proclamation du conseil des dix prescrivit le silence le 
plus absolu sur cette affaire, sous peine de mort. 

Avant de donner un successeur k Francois Foscari, 
une nouvelle loi fut rendue, qui defendait au dog» 
d'ouvrir et de lire, autrement qu'en presence de seS 
conseillers, les depeches des ambassadeurs de la repub- 
lique, et les lettres des princes etrangers.j 

Les electeurs entrerent au conclave et nomm^rent 
au dogat Paschal Malipier le 30 Octobre, 1457. La 
cloche de Saint-Marc, qui annoncait h Venise son 
nouveau prince, vint frapper I'oreille de Francois Fos- 
cari ; cette fois sa fermete I'abandonna, il eprouva un 
tel saisissement, qu'il mourut le lendemain.J 

La republique arreta qu'on lui rendrait les mfimes 
honneurs funebres que s'il fut mort dans I'exercice de 
sa dignite; mais lorsqu'on se presenta pour enlever ses 
restes, sa veuve, qui de son nom etait Marine Nani, de- 
clara qu'elle ne le souffrirait point ; qu'on ne devait pas 
traiter en prince apr^s sa mort celui qui vivant on 
avait depouille de la couronne, et que, puisqu'il avait 
consume ses biens au service de I'etat, elle saurait, 
consacrer sa dot a lui faire rendres les derniers hon- 
neurs. § On ne tint aucun comple de cette resistance, 
et malgre les protestations de I'ancienne dogaresse, le 
corps fut enleve, revetu des ornemens ducaux, expose 
en public, et les obseques furent celebrees avec la 
pompe accoutumee. Le nouveau doge assista au 
convoi en robe de senateur. 

La pitie qu'avait inspiree le malheur de ce vieillard, 
ne fut pas to|ut-a-fait sterile. Un an apres, on osa dire 
que le conseil des dix avait outrepasse ses pouvoirs, et 
il lui fut defendu par une loi du grand conseil de s'in- 
gerer a I'avenir de juger le prince, h moins que ce ne 
fut pour cause de felonie.|| 

Un acte d'autorite tel que la deposition d'un doge 
inamovible de sa nature, aurait pu exciter un soul^ve- 
ment general, ou au moins occasionner une division 
dans une republique autrement constituee que Venise. 
Mais depuis trois ans, il existait dans celle-ci une ma- 
gistrature, ou plutOt une autorite, devant laquelle tout 
devait se taire. 



Extrait de VHistoire des Republiques Italiennes du Mo- 
yen Age. Par J. C. L. Simonde de Sismondi, torn. x. 

Le Doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce traite 
une guerre non moins dangereuse que celle qu'il avait 
terminee presque en meme temps par le traite de Lodi, 
etait alors parvenu a une extr me vieillesse. Francois 



I 
1 

I 
I 

i 



On lit dans la notice ces propres mots : " Se fosse slato ia loro 
potcre volontieri lo avrebbero restituito." 

t Hist, di Venetia, di Paolo Morosini, lib. 24. 

I Hist, cii Pietro Justiniani, lib. 8. 
§ Hist. d'Egnatio, liv. 6. cap. 7. 

II Ce dfecret eat du 25 Octobre, 1458. La notice le rapporte. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



313 



Foscari occupait cette premiere dignite de I'etat d6s le 
15 Avril, 1423. Quoiqu'il fut d^a age de plus de 
cinquante-un ans h. I'epoque de son election, il etait 
Dependant le plus jeune des quarante-un electeurs. II 
avait eu beaucoup de peine a parvenir au rang qu'il 
convoitait, et son election avait ete conduite avec 
beaucoup d'addresse. Pendant plusieurs jours de 
scrutin ses amis les plus zeles s'etaient abstenus de 
lui donner leur suffrage, pour que les autres ne le con- 
siderassent pas comme un concurrent redoutable.* Le 
conseil des dix craignait son credit parmi la noblesse 
pauvre, parce qu'il avait cherche k se la rendre favor- 
able, tandis qu'il etait procurateur de Saint-Marc, en 
faisant employer yjlus de trente mille ducats a doter des 
jeunes filles de bonne maison, ou a etablir de jeunes 
gentilshommes. On craignoit encore sa nombreuse 
famille, car alors il etait pere de quatre enfans, et 
marie de nouveau ; enfin on redoutait son ambition et 
son goiit pour la guerre. L'opinion que ses adversaires 
s'etaient formee de lui fut verifiee par les evenemens ; 
pendant trente-quatre ans que Foscari fut h la t6te de 
la republique, elle ne cessa point de combattre. Si les 
hostilites etaient suspendues duraut quelques mois,c'etait 
pour recommencer bientot avec plus de vigueur. Ce 
fut I'epoque oil Venise etendit son empire sur Brescia, 
Beroame, Ravenne, et Cr6me ; ou elle fonda sa do- 
mination de Lombardie, et parut sans cesse sur le 
point d'asservir toute cette province. Profond, coura- 
geux, inebranlable, Foscari communiqua aux conseils 
son propre caract6re, et ses talens lui firent obtenir plus 
d'influcnce sur la republique que n'ava,ient exerce la 
plupart de ses predecesseurs. Mais si son ambition 
avait eu pour but I'aggrandissement de sa famille, elle 
fut cruellement trompee; trois de ses fils moururent 
dans les huit annees qui suivirent son election ; le 
quatrifeme, Jacob, par lequel la maison Foscari s'est 
perpetuee, fut victime de la jalousie du conseil des dix, 
et empoisonna par ses malheurs les jours de son pfere."!" 

En effet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de defiance 
envers le chef de I'etat, lorsqu'il le voyoit plus fort par 
ses talens et sa popularite, veilloit sans cesse sur Fos- 
cari, pour le punir de son credit, et de sa gloire. Au 
mois de Fevrier, 1445, Michel Bevilacqua, Florentin, 
exile a Venise, accusat en secret Jacques Foscari 
aupr&s des inquisiteurs d'etat, d'avoir recu de due Phi- 
lippe Visconti, des presens d'argent et de joyaux, par 
les mains des gens de sa maison. Telle etait I'odieuse 
procedure adoptee h Venise, que sur cette accusation 
secrete le fils du doge, du representant de la majeste 
de la republique, fut mis k la torture. On lui arracha 
par Testrapadfc I'aven, des charges portees contre lui ; 
il fut relegue pour le reste de ses jours a Napoli de 
Romanic, avec obligation de se presenter chaque matin 
au commandant de la place.J Ccpendant, le vaisseau 
qui le porfait ayant touche h Trieste, Jacob, grit^ve- 
ment malade des suites de la torture, et plus encore de 
I'humiliation qu'il avait eprouvee, demanda en grace 
au conseil des dix de n'fttre pas envoye plus loin. II 
obtint cette faveur, par une deliberation du 28 De- 
cembre, 1446 ; il fut rappele a Trevise ; et il cut la 
liberie d'habiter tout le Trcvisan indifferemment.§ 

II vivait en paix h. Trevise ; et la fille de Leonard 
Contarini, qu'il avait epousee le 10 Fevrier, 1441, etait 
venue le joindre dans son exil, lorsque le 6 Novembre, 
1450, Almoro Donato, chef du conseil des dix, fut as- 
sassine. Les deux autres inquisiteurs d'etat, Triadano 
Gritti et Antonio Venieri, porti^rent leur soup^ons sur 
Jacob Foscari, parcc-qu'un domestiquc h. lui, nomme 
Olivier, avait etc vu cc soir-lh, mCme h Venise, et avait 
des premiers donne la nouvclledo cet assassinat. Oli- 
vier fut mis h la torture, mais il nia iusqu'ii la fin, avec 
un courage inebranlable, le crime dont on I'accusait, 
quoique ses juges cusscnt la barbaric do lui faire don- 
ner jusqu'h. qnatre-vingts tours d'estrapadc. Ccpen- 
dant, comme Jacob Foscari avnit de puissans motifs 
d'iiiirnitif^. contre lo conseil dfs dix, (\m I'avait condamntS 
et qui UMnoignait do la haine an doge son pi^'re, on 
essaya de metlre h son tour Jacob h la torHire, et Ton 
prolongea contre lui ccs aHVeux tourmens, sans reussir 



• Mnrin ShiiiHo, Vltfl He' Diichl (II Ven«r.ln, p. 
tibld. p. WS. I ll'WI- SIbUl. p. ll'^3. 

2P 



a en tirer aucune confession. Malgre sa denegation, 
le conseil des dix le condamna k etre transporle k la 
Canee, et accorda une recompense k son delateur. 
Mais les horribles douleurs que Jacob Foscari avait 
eprouvees avaient trouble sa raison, ses persecuteurs, 
touches de ce dernier malheur, permirent qu'on le ra- 
menat k Venise le 26 Mai, 1451. II embrassa son 
p6re, il puisa dans ses exhortations quelque courage et 
quelque calme, et il fut reconduit immediatement k la 
Canee.* Sur ces entrefaites, Nicolas Erizzo, homme 
dejk note pour un precedent crime, confessa, en mou- 
rant, que c'etait lui qui avait tue Almoro Donato. | 

Le malheureux doge, Francois Foscari, avait dejk 
cherche a plusieurs reprises, k abdiquer une dignite si 
funeste a lui-m6me et a sa famille. II lui semblait que, 
redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, comme il n in- 
spirerait plus de crainte ou de jalousie, on n'accablerait 
plus son fils par ces effroyables persecutions. Abattu 
par la mort de ses premiers enfans, il avait voulu, des 
le 26 Juin, 1433, deposer une dignite, durant I'exercice 
de laquelle sa patrie avait ete tourmentee par la guerre, 
par la peste, et par des malheurs de tout genre. | II 
renouvela cette proposition apr6s les jugemens rendus 
contre son fils ; mais le conseil des dix le retenait 
forcement sur le trone, comme il retenait son fils dans 
les fers. 

En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter chaque 
jour au governeur de la Canee, reclamait contre I'ln- 
justice de sa derni^re sentence, sur laquelle la con- 
fession d'Erizzo ne lassait plus de doutes. En vain il 
demandait grace au farouche conseil des dix ; il ne 
pouvait obtenir aucune reponse. Le desir de revoir 
son p^re et sa m6re, arrives tons deux au dernier terme 
de la vieillesse, le desir de revoir une patrie dent la 
cruaute ne meritait pas un si tendre amour, se chan- 
g^rent en lui en une vraie fureur. Ne pouvant re- 
tourner k Venise pour y vivre libre, il voulut du moins 
y aller chercher un supplice. II ecrivit au due de 
Milan k la fin de Mai, 1456, pour implorer sa protec- 
tion auprfes du senat: et sachant au'une telle lettre 
seroit consideree comme un crime, il I'exposa lui-m6me 
dans un lieu ou il etait sur qu'elle seroit saisie par les 
espions qui I'entouraient. En effet, la lettre etant de- 
feree au conseil des dix, on I'envoya chercher aussitot, 
et il flit reconduit k Venise le 19 Juillet, 1456.§ 

Jacob Foscari ne nia point sa lettre, il raconta en 
meme temps dans quel but il I'avait ecrite, et comment 
il I'avait fait tomber entre les mains de son delateur. 
Malgre ces aveux, I-'oscari fut rcmis k la torture, et on 
lui donna trente tours d'estrapade, pour voir s'il con- 
firmerait ensuite ses depositions. Q,uand on le de- 
tacha de la corde, on le trouva dechire par ces hor- 
ribles sccousses. Les juges permirent alors k son 
p^re, k sa m^re, a sa femme, et k ses fils, d'aller le voir 
dans sa prison. Le vieux Foscari, appuye sur un 
baton, ne se traina qu'avec peine, dans la cnambre oil 
son fils unique etait panse de ses blessures. Ce fils 
demandait oncore la grace do mourir dans sa maison. — 
"Retourne k ton exil, mon fils, puisque ta patrie I'or- 
donne," lui dit le doge, " et soumels-toi k sa volonte." 
Mais en rcntrant dans son palais, ce malheureux vieil- 
lard s'dvanouit, cpuise par la violence qu'il s'etait faite. 
Jacob devait encore passer une annee en prison k la 
Canee, avant qu'on lui rcndit la nu^me liberie limitee 
k laquelle il etait reduit avant cct t^vencmcnt ; mais k 
peine fut il debarque sur cette terre d'e.\il, qu'il y mou- 
rul de douleur.ll 

Dt^'s-lors, el pendant quinze mois, le vioux doge, 
accable d'ann^es et chagrins, ne recouvra plus la force 
de son corps ou cello do son ame ; il n'assislait plus k. 
aucun dos conseils, et il no pouvait plus romplir aucune 
des fonctions do sa dignite. II etait entre dans sa 
qualre-vingt-sixi<"^mc anneo, et si lo conseil dos dix 
avait et^ susceptible de quelque nitie, il aurait attcndu 
en silence la fin, sans doute procnatne, d'uno carri«^re 
marqu(<o par tant do gloire et tant de malheurs. Mais 
le chef du conseil des dix etait alors Jacques Loredano^ 
fils de Marc, (>t neveu do Pierre, le grand amiral, qui 



Marin Sannlo, Vlte da' Diiflil til VenetU.p. 1188.— M. Ant. 8a< 
belllro, Deca 111. X.. VI. f. 187. 

t Murln Sunttl,>. p. im. t 'M-'- P- •"*'•...„ * '^"- P" ""■ 

II Ibi.l p. ll63.-Na»R«loro, Sior. Vi-uM. p. IHB. 



314 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI, 



toute leur vie ete les ennemis achaines du vieux doge, 
lis avaient transmis leur haine h leurs enfans, et cette 
vieille rancune n'etait pas encore satisfaite.* A I'insti- 
gation de Loredano, Jerome Barbarigo, inquisiteur 
d'etat, proposa au conseil des dix, au mois d'Octobre, 
1437, de soumettre Foscari a une nouvelle humiliation. 
D6s que ce magistral ne pouvait plus remplir ses fonc- 
tions, Barbarigo demanda qu'on nommat un autre doge. 
Le conseil, qui avait refuse par deux fois I'abdication 
de Foscari, parce que la constitution ne pouvait la per- 
meltre, hesita avant de se metlre en contradiction avec 
ses propres decrets. Les discussions dans le conseil 
et la junte se prolongcrcnt pendant huit jours, jusque 
fort avant dans le nuit. Cependant, on fit entrer dans 
I'assemblee Marco Foscari, procurateur de Saint-Marc, 
et frere du doge, pour qu'il fut lie par le redoutable 
serment du secret, et qu'il ne put arreter les menees de 
ses ennemis. Enfin,le conseilse renditauprfes dudoge, 
et lui demanda d'abdiquer volontairement un emploi 
qu'il ne pouvait plus exercer. " J'ai jure," repondit le 
vieillard, " de remplir jusqu'a ma mort, selon mon hon- 
neur et ma conscience, les fonctions auxquelles ma 
patrie m'a appcle. Je ne puis me delir moi-meme de 
mon serment ; qu'un ordre des conseils dispose de moi, 
je m'y soumettrai, niais je ne le devancerai pas." Alors 
une nouvelle deliberation du conseil delia Francois Fos- 
cari de son serment ducal, lui assura une pension de 
deux mille ducats pour le reste de sa vie, et lui ordonna 
d'evacuer en trois jours le palais, et de deposer les or- 
nemens de sa dignite. Le doge ayant remarque parmi 
les conseillers qui lui portdrent cet ordre, un chef de la 
quarante qu'il ne connoissait pas, demanda son nom : 
•' Je suis le fils de Marco Memmo," lui dit le conseiller. 
— " Ah ! ton p&re etait mon ami," lui dit le vieux doge, 
en soupirant. II donna aussitot des ordres pour qu'on 
transports t ses effets dans une maison h, lui ; et le 
lendemain 23 Octobre on le vit, se soutenat a peine, et 
appuye sur son vieux frere, redescendere ces memes 
escaliers sur lesquels, trente-quatre ans auparavant, 
on I'avait vu installe avec tant de pompe, et traverser 
ces memes salles oil la republique avait re9u ses ser- 
mens. Le peuple entier parut indigne de tant de 
durete exercce centre un vieillard qu'il respectait et 
qu'il aimait ; mais le conseil des dix fit publier une de- 
fense de parler de cette revolution, sous peine d'etre 
traduit devant les inquisiteurs d'etat. Le 20 Octobre, 
Pasqual Malipieri, procurateur de Saint-Marc, fut elu 
pour successeur dc Foscari ; celui-ci n'eut pas nean- 
moins I'humiliation de vivre sujet, 1^ ou il avait regne. 
En entendant le son des cloches, qui sonnaient en 
actions de graces pour cette election, il mourut subite- 
ment d'une hemorrhagic causee par une veinc ^qui 
e'eclata dans sa Doitrine.j 



*' Le doge, blesse de trouver constamment 'un con- 
tradicteur et un censeur si amer dans son fr^re, lui dit 
\m jour en plein conseil ; " Messire Augustin, vous 
faites tout votre possible pour hater ma mort ; vous 
vous flattez de me succeder ; mais, si les autres vous 
connaissent aussi bien que je vous connais, ils n'auront 
garde de vous elire." Lh-dessus il se le leva, emu del 
colore, rentra dans son appartement, et mourut quel- 
ques jours apr^s. Ce frfere, centre le lequel il s'etait 
emporte, fut precisementle successeur qu'on lui donna. 
C'etait un merite dont on aimait h lenir compte ; sur- 
tout il un parent, de s'etre mis en opposition avec le chef 
de la republique."J — DarUy Historie de Veniscj vol. ii. 
see. xi. p. 533. 



In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
" Italy," I perceive the expression of " Rome of the 



• Veltor Sandi Storia civile Veneiiana, P. II. I^. Vllt. p. 715—717 
1 Marin Saniilo, Vite de' Diichi di Veiiezia, p. 1164.— Chronicon Slugii. 

biniim, T. XXI. p. 992.— Chrisioforo da Soldo Istoria Bresciaiia, T. 

XXI. p. 891.— Nnvagiero, Storio Veiiciiana, XXI. p. 1120.— M. A 

Sab.'llico,necaIII.L. Vlll.f. -201, 
J The Venetians appear to have had a particular turn for breaking 

the hearlR of their Dopes ; the above i« another instance of the l(ind in the 

Poge Marco Barbarigo ; he was succeeded by bis brother Agostino 

Barbarigo, wboM chief merit it above mcotioued. 



Ocean" applied to Venice. The same phrase occurs in 
the " Two Foscari." My publisher can vouch for me 
that the tragedy was written and sent to England some 
time before I had seen Lady Morgan's work, which 1 
only received on the 16lh of August. I hasten, how- 
ever, to notice the coincidence, and to yield the origi- 
nality of the phrase to her who first placed it before the 
public. I am the more anxious to do this, as I am in- 
formed (for I have seen but few of the specimens, and 
those accidentally) that there have been lately brought 
against me charges of plagiarism. I have also had an 
anonymous sort of threatening intimation of the same 
kind, apparently with the intent of extorting money. 
To such charges I have no answer to make. One of 
them is ludicrous enough. I am reproached for having 
formed the description of a shipwreck in verse from the 
narratives of many actual shipwrecks in prone, selecting 
such materials as were most striking. Gibbon makes 
it a merit in Tasso " to have copied the minutest details 
of the Siege of Jerusalem from the Chronicles." In 
me it may be a demerit, I presume : let it remain so. 
Whilst I have been occupied in defending Pope's cha- 
racter, the lower orders of Grub-street appear to have 
been assailing mine : this is as it should be, both in 
them and in me. One of the accusations in the name- 
less epistle alluded to is still more laughable : it states 
seriously that I "received five hundred pounds for 
writing advertisements for Day and Martin's patent 
blacking !" This is the highest compliment to my 
literary powers which I ever received. It states also 
" that a person has been trying to make acquaintance 
with Mr. Townsend, a gentleman of the law, who was 
with me on business in Venice three years ago, for the 
purpose of obtaining any defamatory particulars of my 
life from this occasional visiter." Mr. To%vnsend is 
welcome to say what he knows. I mention these 
particulars merely to show the world in general what 
the literary lower world contains, and their way of set- 
ting to work. Another charge made, I am told, in the 
"Literary Gazette" is, that I wrote the notes to 
" Queen Mab ;'' a work which I never saw till some 
time after its publication, and which I recollect showing 
to Mr. Sothehy as a poem of great power and imagi- 
nation. I never wrote a line of the notes, nor ever 
saw them except in their published form. No one 
knows better than their real author, that his opinions 
and mine differ materially upon the metaphysical por- 
tion of that work ; though, in common with all who 
are not blinded by baseness and bigotry, I highly ad- 
mire the poetry of that and his other publications. 

Mr. Southey, loo, in his pious preface to a poem 
whose blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition of 
Wat Tyler, because it is equally absurd with that sin- 
cere production, calls upon the "legislature to look to 
it," as the toleration of such writings led to the French 
Revolution : not such writings as Wat Tyler, but as 
those of the " Satanic School." This is not true, and 
Mr. Southey knows it to be not true. Every French 
writer of any freedom was persecuted ; Voltaire and 
Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel and Diderot were 
sent to the Bastile, and a perpetual war was waged 
with the whole class by the existing despotism. In the 
next 'place the French Revolution was vol occasioned 
by any writings whatsoever, but must have occurred 
had no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to 
attribute every thing to the French Revolution, and the 
French Revolution to every thing but its real cause. 
That cause is obvious — the government exacted too 
much, and the people could neither give nor bear more. 
Without this, the Encyclopedists might have written 
their fingers off without the occurrence of a single al- 
teration. And the English Revolution — (the first, I 
mean) — what was it occasioned by? The puritans 
were surely as pious and moral as Wesley or his bio- 
grapher ? Acts — acts on the part of government, and 
not writings against them, have caused the past con* 
vulsions, and are tending to the future. 

I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolution- 
ist ; I wish to see the English constitution restored and 
not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally one 
by temper, with the greater part of my present property 
in the funds, what have I to gain by a revolution ? 



WERNER. 



315 



Perhaps I have more to lose in every way than Mr. 
Southey, w^ith all his places and presents for panegy- 
rics and abuse into the bargain. But that a revolution 
is inevitable, I repeat. The government may exult 
over the repression of petty tumults ; these are but the 
receding waves repulsed and broken for a moment on 
the shore, while the great tide is still rolling on and 
gaining ground with every breaker. Mr. Southey ac- 
cuses us of attacking the religion of the country ; and 
is he abetting it by writing lives of Wesley 1 One 
mode of worship is merely destroyed by another. 
There never was, nor ever will be, a country without 
a religion. We shall be told of France again : but it 
was only Paris and a frantic party, which for a moment 
upheld their dogmatic nonsense of theophilanthropy. 
The church of England, if overthrown, will be swept 
away by the sectarians, and not by the skeptics. Peo- 
ple are too wise, too well-informed, too certain of their 
own immense importance in the realms of space, ever to 
submit to the impiety of doubt. There may be a few 
such diffident speculators, like water in the pale sun- 
beam of human reason, but they are very few : and 
their opinions, without enthusiam or appeal to the pas- 
sions, can never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they 
are persecuted — that, to be sure, will increase any 
thinff. 

Mr. S. with a cowardly ferocity, exults over the an- 
ticipated " death-bed repentance ' of the objects of his 
dislike ; and indulges himself in a pleasant " Vision of 
Judgment," in prose as well as verse, full of impious 
impudence. What Mr. S.'s sensations or ours may 
be in the awful moment of leaving this state of exis- 
tence neither he nor we can pretend to decide. In 
common, I presume, with most men of any reflection, 
/have not waited for a " death-bed" to repent of many 
of my actions, notwithstanding the "diabolical pride" 
which this pitiful regenado in his rancour would im- 
pute to those who scorn him. Whether upon the 
whole the good or evil of my deeds may preponderate 
is not for me to ascertain ; but, as my means and op- 



portunities have been greater, I shall limit my present 
defence to an assertion, (easily proved, if necessary,) 
that I, " in my degree," have done more real good ia 
any one given year, since I was twenty, than Mr. 
Southey in the whole course of his shifting and turn- 
coat existence. Tliere are several actions to which I 
can look back with an honest pride, not to be damped 
by the calumnies of a hireling. There are others to 
which I recur with sorrow and repentance ; but the 
only act oi my life of which Mr. Southey can have any 
real knowledge, as it was one which brought me in 
contact with a near connexion of his own, did no dis- 
honour to that connexion nor to me. 

I am not ignorant of Mr. Southey's calumnies on * 
different occasion, knowing them to be such, which he 
scattered abroad on his return from Switzerland against 
me and others : they have done him no good in this 
world, and, if his creed be the right one, they will do 
less in the next. What his " death-bed" may be, it is 
not my province to predicate : let him settle it with his 
Maker, as I must do with mine. There is something 
at once ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant 
scribbler of all work sitting down to deal damnation 
and destruction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat 
Tyler, the Apotheosis of George the Third, and the 
Elegy on Martin the regicide, all shuffled together in 
his writing-desk. One of his consolations appears to 
be a Latin note from a work of a Mr. Landor, the 
author of " Gebir," whose friendship for Robert South- 
ey will, it seems, " be an honour to him when the ephe- 
meral disputes and ephemeral reputations of the day 
are forgotten." I for one n«itlier envy him " the friend- 
ship," nor the glory in reversion which is to accrue 
from it, like Mr. Thelusson's fortune in the third and 
fourth generation. This friendship will probably be as 
memorable as his own epics, which ^as I quoted to 
him ten or twelve years ago in "■ English Bards") Per- 
son said " would be remembered when -Homer and 
Virgil are forgotten, and not till then." For the present, 
I leave him. 



WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE. 

A TRAGEDY. 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 
THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 

The following drama is taken entirely from the " Ger- 
man's Tale, Kruitzncr" published many yeara^go in Ijie's 
Canterbury Tales; written (I believe) by two sisters, of 
whom one furnished only this story and another, both of 
which are considered superior to the remainder of the col- 
lection. I have adopted the characters, plan, and even 
the language, of many parts of this story. Some of the 
characters are modified or altered, a few of the names 
changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenhcim) added 
by myself: but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. 
When I was young (about fourteen, I think) I first read 
this tale, which made a deep impression upon me ; and 
may, indeed, bo said to contain the germ of much that I 
have since written. I am not sure that it over was very 
popular ; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been 
eclipsed by that of other great writers in the same de- 



partment. But I have generally found that (hose who had 
read it, agreed with me in their esfimato of the singular 
power of mind and conception which it developcs. I 
should also add conception, rather than e.\ectition ; for the 
story might, perhaps, have been developt-d with greater 
advantage. Among those whose opinions aoreed with 
mine upon this story, I could mention some very high 
names ; but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use ; 
for every one must judge according to his own feelings. I 
merely refer the reader to the original story, that ho may 
see to what extent I have borrowed from it : Riid am not 
unwilling that ho should find much greater pleasure iu 
perusing it than the dranm which ia founded upon its 
contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815, 
(the first T ever attempted, exce|)t one at thirteen years old, 
called *' Ulric and Jlvina^' which I had sense enough to 
burn,) and had nearly completed an act, when I wai intMv 



31S 



WERNER. 



rupted b circumstances. This is somewhere among my 
papers in England ; but as it has not been found, I have 
rewritten the first, and added the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, 
for the stage. 

Feb. 1822. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


MEN. 




Werner. 


Henrick. 


Ulric. 


Eric. 


Stralenheim. 


Arnheim 


Idenstein. 


Meister. 


Gabor. 


RODOLPII. 


Fritz. 


LUDWIG. 


WOMEN. 




Josephine. 




Ida Stralenheim. 



i — ^Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly in 
Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Time — the Close of the Thirty Years' War. 



ACT I. 



Scene I.— The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small 
Tovm on (lie Northern Frontier of Silesia — the Night 
tempestuous. 

Werner and Josephine his wife. 

Jos. My love, be calmer ! 

JVer. I am calm. 

Jos. To me— 

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
But here ! 

Wer. 'T is chill ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

Jos. Ah, no ! 

JVer. (smiling.) Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 

J°S' J would 

Have it a healthful current. 

JVer. Let it flow 

Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 

Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 

JV^' AU— all. 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must break 
mine ? 

Wer. {approaching her sloioly.) But for thee I had 
been — no matter what, 
But much of good and evil ; what I am. 
Thou knowest ; what I might or should have been, 
Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werner walks on abruptly, and then approaches 
Josephine. 

The storm of the night, 
Perhaps, affects me ; I 'm a tiling of feelings, 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
in watching me. 

Jos. To see thee well is much— 
To see thee happy 

- ^^- Where hast thou seen such ? 

Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

„'^°*- But think 

How many m this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain. 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth, 



Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

Wer. And that 's not the worst : who cares 

For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 

Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them all ? 

Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 

Jos. And that is something. 

Wer. True — to a peasant. 

Jos. Should the nobly bom i 

Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 

Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not ; we 
Have borne all this, I '11 not say patiently. 
Except in thee — but we have borne it. 

Jos^. Well ? 

Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings 
(though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, 
And leaves us — no ! this is beyond me ! — but 
For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
The splendour of my rank sustain'd — my name — 
My father's name — been still upheld ; and, more 
Than those 

Jos. {abruptly.) My son — our son — our Ulric, 
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms, 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautiful 
He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
My Ulric ! my adored ! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

Jos. Lonely ! my dear husbjmd ? 

Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 
Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they who strive 
With fortune win or weary her at last, 
So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort,— we shall find our boy. 

Wer. We were in sight of him, of every thing 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow — . 
And to be baffled thus ! 

Jos. We are not baflHed. 

Wer. Are we not pcnnyless ? 

Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. But I was bom to wealth, and rank, and 
power; 
Enjoy'd them, love them, and, alas ! abused them. 
And forfeited them by my father's wrath, 
In my o'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 

Jos. Who knows ? our son 

May have return'd back to his grandsire, ancj 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 



WERNER. 



317 



Ifer. "T is hopeless. 

Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
The promise that his anger would stop short 
Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 

Jos. I must hope better still,— at least we have yet 
Baffled the long pursuit o Stralenheim. 

fVer. We should have done, but for this fatal sick- 
ness ; 
More fatal than a mortal malady, 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace ; 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
By the snares of this avaricious fiend ;— 
How do I know he hath not track'd us here ? 

Jos. He does not know thy person; and his spies, 
Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh. 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leaves all discovery far behind : 
None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 

IVer. Save what we seem! save what we are — sick 
beggars, 
Even to our very hopes.— Ha ! ha! 

Jos. Alas ! 

That bitter laugh ! 

lyer. Who would read in this form 

The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek 
And famme-hoUow'd brow, the lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 

Jos. You 

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 

Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble, though decay'd ; 
And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 

Jos. Your father did not think so, though 't was noble ; 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 

Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 

Jos. All which it 

Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 

■^er. How,— nothing ? 

Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning: but for this, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 
Millions of myriads foel it, cheerfully ; 
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 
Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread, as thousands 

earn it ; 
Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 

Wer.{ironicaUn.) And been an Hanseatic burgher? 
Excellent ! 

Jos. Whatc'cr thou mightst have been, to me thou 
art 
What no state high or low can ever change, 
My heart's first choice ;— which choso thee, knowing 

neither 
Thy birih, thy hopes, thy pride ; naught, save thy 

sorrows ; 
While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
When they end, let mine end with them, or tlieo ! 

Wer. My belter angel I such I have ever found tljoo ; 
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
Thou didsl not mar my fortunes : my own nature 



In youth was such as to unmake an empire, 
Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
Chasten'd, subdued, out- worn, and taught to know 
Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth spring, 
My father barr'd me from my father's house 
The last sole scion of a thousand sires, 
(For I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved — exclusion ; although then 
INIy passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the gorgon's round me. 

[A loud knocking is heard. 

Jos. Hark! 

JVer. A knocking! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? We have 
Few visiters. 

Wa: And poverty hath none. 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, 1 am prepared. 

[Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to 
search for some weapon. 

Jos. Oh ! do not look so. I 

Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
In this lone spot of wintry desolation : — 
The very desert saves man from mankind. 

[She goes to the door. 

Enter Idenstein. 
Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
And worthy What's your name, my friend ? 

Wer. Are you 

Not afraid to demand it? 

Iden. Not afraid ? 

Egad! I am afraid. You look as if 
I asked for something better than your name. 
By the face you put on it. 

Wer. Better, sir ! 

Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony : what 
Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure, 
His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years — but 't is still a palace) — 
I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board: 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
The same. He is an officer of trust, 
Surgeon's assistant, (hoping to be surgeon,) 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 

Wer. To yours? 

Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 

Cannot you humour the dull gossip till [Aside to WeR. 
We learn his purpose ? 

Iden. Well, I 'm glad of that ; 

I thought so all along, such natural yearnings 
Play'd round my heart : — blood is not water, cousin 
And so let's have some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives sliould be 
Friends. 

fVer. You appear to have drank enough already ; 
And if you had not, I 've no wine to offer, 
IClso it were yours: but this you know, or slmuld know: 
You SCO I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
What brings you hero ? 

Idrn. Why, what should bring me here ? 

.JVer. I know not, though I think that 1 could gueu 
That which will s«>nd vou hence. 

Jos. (aside.) Paliencft, dear Werowl 



318 



WERNER. 



Jden. You do n't know what has happen'd, then ? 

Jos. How should we? 

Jderi. The river has o'erflow'd. 

Jos. Alas ! we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
It keeps us here. 

Iden. But what you do n't know is, 

That a great personage, who fain would cross 
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, 
Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 

Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 

Iden. Yes, of the monkey. 

And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency 's dead 
Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown. 
As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ] 
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 
It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos. And where will you receive him ? here, I hope, 
If we can be of service — say the word. 

Iden. Here ? no ; but in the prince's own apartment. 
As fits a noble guest : — 't is damp, no doubt, 
Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; 
But then he comes from a much damper place. 
So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He '11 be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
i have order'd fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

f hope he will with all my heart. 

JVer. Intendant, 

Have you not learn'd his name ? My Josephme, 

[Aside to his wife. 
Retire: I'll sift this fool. [Exit Josephine. 

Iden. His name ? oh Lord I 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
■•T is time enough to ask it when he 's able 
To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 

JVer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 

Enter Gabor. 

Gab, If I intrude, I crave 

f**^' Oh, no intrusion ! 

This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
Yourself-, I pray you make yourself at home : 
But where 's his excellency, and how fares he ? 

Ga6. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril : 
He paused to change his garments in a cottage, 
(Where I doff 'd mine for these, and came on^hither,) 
And has almost recovor'd from his drenching. 
He will be here anon, 

^<^- What ho, there ! bustle ! 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad ! 

[Gives directions to dijerent servants who enter. 
A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
All is in order in die damask chamber- 
Keep up the stove— I will myself to the cellar— 
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
Shall furnish forth the bcd-apparel ; for. 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
Within the i)alacc precincts, since his highness 
Lefl it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless? 

Gab. Faith ! 

1 cannot tell: but I should tliink the pillow 



Would please him better than the table after 
His soaking in your river : but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honour to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

Iden. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name : what is it ? 

Gab. I do not know. 

I(ien. And yet you saved his Ufe. 

Gab. I help'd my friend to do so. 

tden . Well, that 's strange, 

To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

Gab. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden. Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be ? 

Gab. By my family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden. Which is call'd? 

Gab. It matters little. 

Iden. (aside.) I think that all the world are grown 
anonymous, 
Since no one cares to tell me what he 's call'd ! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 

Gab. Sufficient. 

Ideu. How many ? 

Gab. I did not count them. 

We came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage window. 

Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great man I 
No doubt you '11 have a swinging siun as recompense. 

Gab. Perhaps. 

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 

Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
In the meantime, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockcheimer — a green glass, 
Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I own 
It seems, of all deaths, the lea.st hkely for you,) 
I '11 pull you out for nothing. Q,uick, my friend, 
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
A wave the less may roll above your head. 

Iden. (aside.) I do n't much like tliis fellow — close 
and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not ; however. 
Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Exit Ide:tstein. 

Gab. (to Werner.) This master of the ceremonies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
'T is a fine building, but decay'd. 

Wer. The apartment 

Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, 
For you seem delicate in health. 

IVer. (quicklj/.) Sir ! 

Gab. Pray 

Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you ? 

IVer. Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 

Gab. And that 's the reason I would have us less so : 
I thought our bustling guest without had said 
You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart 
Of me and my companions. 

IVer. Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
It may be, may again encounter, why, 
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The fare of my companions and myself. 

IVer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 

Gab, Even as you pleaa^ 



t 



WERNER. 



319 



I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

JVer, I have also served, and can 
Requite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service ? 

The Imperial? 
Wer. {quickly, and then interrupting himself.) I com- 
manded — no — I mean 
I served ; but it is many years ago, 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
The Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace 

Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
To live as they best may ; and, to say truth, 
Some take the shortest. 

JVer. What is that? 

Gab. Whate'er 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Their maintenance ; the Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls — beyond them 't is but doubtful 
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
1 Ve little left to lose now. 

fVer. And I — nothing. 

Gab. That's harder still. You say you were a soldier. 
TVer. I was. 

Gah. You look one still. All soldiers are 

Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 
(While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren. 
You are poor and sickly — I am not rich but healthy ; 
I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 
You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 

(Gabor pulls out his purse. 
Wer. Who 

Told you I was a beggar ? 

Gab. You yourself 

In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 

IVcr. {looking at him with suspicion.) You know me 

not? 
Gah. I know no man, not even 

Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 
Beheld till half an hour since ? 

Wer. Sir, I thank you. 

Your offer's noble were it to a friend. 
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 
Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. 
I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
And when I beg of any one it shall be 
Of him who was the first to offer what 
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [Exit Wer. 
Gah. {solus.) A goodly fellow by his looks, though 
worn. 
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
Which tear life out of us before our time ; 
I scarce know which most quickly : but he seems 
To have seen better days, as who has not 
Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
Our sage intendant, with the wine : however, 
For the cup's sake I '11 bear the cupbearer. 

EtUer Idenstein. 

Iden. 'T is hero! the supernaculum ! 'twenty years 
Of age, if 't is a day. 

Gah. Which C|)orh makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 't is great pity, 
Of two such excellent tilings, incn^ase of years, 
Which still improves the one, should spoil tlio other. 
Fill full — Here 's to our hostess ! — your fair wife ! 

Takes tfie glass. 



Iden. Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste in v/ine is equal 
To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, vvho, with 
An air, and port, and eye, which would have better. 
Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days, 
(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment,) return'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse ? 

Ide7i. I would she were ! 

But you 're mistaken : — that 's the stranger's wife. 

Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

Iden. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty, 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared — but never mind ! 

Gab. I do n't. But who 

May be this stranger? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Iden. There I differ. 

He 's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him. 
Except his name, (and that I only learn'd 
To-night,) I luiow not. 

Gah. But how came he here ? 

Lien. In a most miserable old caleche, 
About a month since, and immediately 
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 
Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 
Iden. Why, what is lifo 

Without a living? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

Iden. That's true ; but pity, as you^know, does make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time, 
Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms.. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As they could pay for fire-wood. 

Gal). Poor souls ! 

Iden. Ay^ 

Exceeding poor. 

GcJ). And yet unused to poverty, 

If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 

Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven, 
itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

Gah. Werner ! I have heard the name i 

But it may be a feign'd one. 

Iden. Like enough ! 

But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his oxccllcncy 's come. 
T must be at my post : will you not join mc, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your himiblu duty at the door ? 

Gab. I dragg'd hin» 

From out that carriage when he would have given. 
His barony or county to repel 
The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
Ho has valrts now enough : they stood aloof thcn^ 
Shaking their dripping oars upon the shore, 
All roaring, " Help I" but oflering none; and as 
For duty (as you rail it) — I did mine then. 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here f 
Iden. I cringe !— but I shall lose the a{)p.)rlunily— 



820 



WERNER. 



Plague take it ! he '11 be here, and I not there ! 

[Exit Idenstein hastily. 

Re-enter Werner. 

Wer. {to himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and 
voices. How 
All sounds now jar me ! 

Still here ! Is he not [Perceiving Gab or. 

A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
For friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt ; 

And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
Or count, (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be,) for whom this desolate village and 
Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

Iden. {without.) This way— 

This way, your excellency : — have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord! 

Enter Straleniieim, Idensteix, and Attendants — 

partly his own, and partly retainers of the domain of 

which Idensteikt is Intendant. 

Strut. I '11 rest me here a moment. 

Iden. {to the servants.) Ho ! a chair ! 

Instantly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down. 

Wer. '{aside.) 'Tishe! 

Stral. I 'm better now. 

Who are these strangers ? 

Iden. Please you, my good lord. 

One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. {aloud and hastily.) Who says that ? 

[They look at him with surprise. 

Iden. Why, no^one spoke of you, or to you ! — but 
Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 
To recognise. [Pointiiig to Gabor. 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral. I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state when I was succour'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

Iden. He ! — no, my lord ! he rather wants for rescue 
Than can afford it. 'T is a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

Stral. Methought 

That there were two. 

Gab. There were, in company ; 

But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his: it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cottage where 
Your excellency rested for an hour, 
And said he would be here to-morrow. 

Stral. Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 

So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 

Stral. {fixing his eyes upon Werner : then aside.) 
It cannot be I and yet he must bo look'd to. 



'T is twenty years since I beheld him with 

These eyes ; and, though my agents still have 

Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 

My own from his, not to alarm him into 

Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 

At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 

If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now. 

To have been lord of Sigendorf, and parted 

In haste, though even the elements appear 

To fight against me, and this sudden flood 

May keep me prisoner here till 

[He pauses, and looks at Werner ; then resumes. 
This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary: 
An error would spoil all. 

Iden. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

Stral. 'T is past fatigue which gives my weigh'd-down 
spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 

Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendour. 

{Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd, 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight; 
And that 's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 

Stral. {rising and turning to Gabor.) Good night, good 
people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the meantime I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

Gab. I attend you. 

Stral. {after a few steps, pauses, and caUs Werner.) 
Friend ! 

Wer. Sir ! 

Iden. Sir ! Lord — oh Lord ! Why do n't you say 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

Stral. {to Idenstein.) Peace, intendant 

Iden. Oh! 

I am dumb. 

Stral. {to Werner.) Have you been long here ? 

Wer. Long? 

Stral. 1 sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 
Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 

Stral. The intendant said, you had been detain'd by 
sickness — 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 

Wer. {quickly.) 1 am not journeying the same way! 

Stral. How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

Wer. Because there is 

But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer. {bitterbj.) Is it? 



WERNER. 



321 



Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb> 

IVer. 'T is well that it is not beneath it, 

As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me ? 

Stral. (startled.) 11 

Wer. Yes — you ! You know me not, and question me, 
And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 

Wer. Many have such : — ^Have you none ? 

Stral. None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. 

Wer. Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have naught in common with him. 

Stral. Sir, 

I will not balk your humour, though untoward : 
I only meant you service — but good night ! 
Intendant, show the way ! {to Gabor.) Sir, you will 
with me ? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and Attendants ; Idenstein 
and Gabor. 

Wer. {solus.) 'T is he ! I am taken in the toils. Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure, 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What 's to be done ? He knows me not by person ; 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
Have recognised him, after twenty years. 
We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
How can I hope? An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair ; and now, 't is such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day, 
And I 'm detected,— on the very eve 
Of honours, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favouring an escape. 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz, in conversation. 

Fritz. Immediately. 

Iden. I tell you, 'tis impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however ; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

Iden. I will do what I can. 

Friiz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble ; you will bo repaid 
Tenfold. 

I<len. The baron is retired to rest? 

Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
He may not bo disturb'd until eleven. 
When ho will take himself to bed. 

Iden. Before 

An hour is past I'll do my best to servo him. 

Fntz. Remember! [Exit Vk\tt. 

Iden. The devil take ihcso great men ! thoy 

2a 



Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling : 
But no, " it TOM.s^," and there 's an end. How now ? 
Are you there, Mynheer Werner ? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noble guest right quickly. 

Iden. Yes — he's dozing, 

And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses; 
But I must not lose time: Good night! [Eant Iden. 

Wer. « To Frankfort !" 

So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's .house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife 
lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
That he suspects me's certain. I'm alone; 
He with a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark! nearer still! 
1 '11 to the secret passage, which communicates 

With the No ! all is silent — 't was my fancy ! — 

Still as the breathless interval between 

The flash and thunder: — I must hush my soul 

Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire. 

To see if still be unexplored the passage 

I wot of: it will serve me as a den 

Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 

[Werner draios a panncl, and exit, closing it 
after him. 

Enter Gabor and Josephine. 

Gab. Where is your husband? 

Jos. Here, I thought: I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gono 
To accompany tlie intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to bo plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas ! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, how • 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf. 
Rather than that of him whoso life you saved? 

Gab. I help'd to save him, as in j)eril ; but 
I (lid not pledge myself to servo him in 
Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them; and my spirit boils up when 
I find Uiom practising against the weak : — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would b« 

Not easy to persuade my consort of 
Your "ood intentions. 



322 



WERNER. 



Gab. 



Is he 



so suspicious .' 



Jos. He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gab. I 'm sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 
With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 

{Eont Gab OR. 

Re-enter Idenstein and some Peasants. Josephine 
retires up the Hall. 

First Peasant. But if I 'm drown'd ? 

Iden. Why, you will be well paid for 't, 
And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 

Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 

Iden. That 's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
A soldier. 1 11 promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed; 
And you shall have besides in sparkling coin 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler? 
When had you half the sum ? 

Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were bom, knave ? 

Third Peasant. No — the prince's. 

And not the stranger's. 

Iden. Sirrah! in the prince's 

Absence, I 'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
My intimate connexion : — " Cousin Idenstein 
(Q-uoth he) you '11 order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, I say : 
And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it! 
For every page of paper, shall a hide 
Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum. 
Like Ziska's skm, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
Impossibilities — away, ye earth-worms ! 

[Exit, driving them out. 
Jos. {coming forward.) I fain would shun these 
scenes, too oft repeated, 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
In servitude, o'er something still more servile ; 
And vice in misery affecting still 
A tatter'd splendour. What a state of bebg ! 
In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 
Our nobles were but citizens and merchants, 
Like Cosmo. We had evils, but'not such 
As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
Rain'd, as it were, the beverage wliich makes glad 
The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 
(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 
His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 
But, here ! the despots of the north appear 



To imitate the ice-wind of their clime. 

Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 

To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 

His form. And 't is to be among these sovereigns 

My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 

That twenty years of usage, such as no 

Father born in a humble state could nerve 

His soul to persecute a son withal. 

Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 

But I, born nobly also, from my father's 

Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father I 

May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 

Look down on us and our so long desired 

Ulric ! 1 love my son, as thou didst me ! 

What 's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be ? and thus 1 

Enter Werner hastily, with the knife in his hand, by the 
secret pannel, vihich he closes hurriedly after him. 

Wer. (not at first recognising her.) Disco ver'd ! then 

I 'U stab (recognising her.) 

Ah! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos. What rest ? My God ! 

What doth this mean? 

Wer. (showing a rouleau.) Here 's gold— gold, Jose- 
phine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 

Jos. And how obtain'd ? — that knife ! 

W^- 'T is bloodless— ye<. 

Away — we must to our chamber. 

Jos. But whence comest thou ? 

Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where we shall go— 
This — this will make us way — (showing the gold.)— I \\ 
fit them now. 

Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonour. 

Wer. Dishonour! 

Jos. I have said it. 

^er- Let us hence : 

'T is the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 

Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 

^er- Hope ! I make sure. 

But let us to our chamber. 

Jos. Yet one question — 

What hast thou dmel 

Wer. (fiercely.) Left one thing undme, which 

Had made all well : let me not think of it! 
Away ! 

Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee! [Exeunt. 



ACT IL 

Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace. 
Enter Idenstein and Others. 

Iden. Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings ! 
A baron pillaged in a prince's palace .' 
Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 

Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should live to see this day ! 
The honour of our city 's gone for ever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 

Iden. And so am I. 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 

Iden. Suspect ! all people 

Without — within — above — ^below — Heaven help me ! 

Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the chamber *? 

Iden. None whatsoever. 

Fritz. Are you sure of that? 

Iden. Certain. I have lived and served here since 
my birth, 



WERNER. 



323 



And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 

Iden. Doubtless. 

JFVite. The man call'd Werner 'spoor! 

Iden. Poor as a miser, 

But lodged so far offj in the other wing, 
By which there 's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him " good night" in the hall, 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, aboulSihe same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 

Fritz. There 's another, 

The stranger 

Iden. The Hungarian ? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite ? 

Fritz. How? ^e. Sir! 

Iden. No — not you, 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown 5 
His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold : of which one only 
Has disappear'd: — the door unbolted, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir. 

Be not so quick ; the honour of the corps 
Which forms the baron's household 's unimpeach'd 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation ; such as in accompts, 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery. 
Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters : 
But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
Also the cabinet, if portable. 

Iden. There is some sense in that 

Fritz. No, sir, be sure 

'T was none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
The only question is — Who else could have 
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 

Iden. You don't mean me ? 

Fritz. No, sir; I honour more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point : What 's to hv 
done? 

Iden. Nothing — but there 's a good deal to be said. 
Wo 'II offer a reward ; move h(!avcn and earth. 
And the police, (though there 's none nearer than 
Frankfort ;) post notices in manuscri|jf, 
(For we 'vc no printer;) and set by my clerk 
To read them , (for few can, save he and I.) 
We '11 send out villains to strip beggars, and 
Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow ptiopjo. 
Prisoners we '11 have at least, if not the culprit ; 
And for the baron's gold — if 'tis not found. 
At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
The ghost of thiti rouleau. Here 's alchymy 



For your lord's losses ! 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

Iden. Where ? 

Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 

The late Count Siegendor^ his distant kinsman, 
Is dead near Prague, in his .castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

No heir? 

Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, 
Were he to reappear : he 's politic, 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He 's fortunate. 

Fritz. 'T is true, there is a grandson, 

Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hands, 
And educated as his heir; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

Iden. How so ? 

Fritz. His sire made 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter: 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorfs. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he 's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle your baron to unravel. 

Fritz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. 

Iden. The devil he did ! 

Fritz. Why, yes : 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 

Iden. Was there no cause assign'd ? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 

And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
It was to seek his parents ; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly, 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him;) 
A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
But peace being made soon afler his departure, 
He might have since return'd, were that the motive ; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised. 
As there was something strange and mystic in him, 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warliirc ; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

Idea. That cannot bo 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
T(» risk iiis life and honours with disbanded 
Soidiors and desperadoes! 

Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 

But there are human natures so allio<l 
l^nto the savage love of enterprise, 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I 'vo heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
Or tame the tigor, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 



324 



WERNER. 



Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
And now that they are gone, and peace pro.claim'd, 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 

Stral. Since you have refused 
All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words, 
And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly compared with what • 
Your courteous courage did in my behalf 

Ulr. I pray you press the theme no further. 

Stral. But 

Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes ; fair in favour ; 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure death to save an unknov^Ti stranger 
In an as perilous, but opposite element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 
Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends. 
Who shall be yours. 'T is true this pause of peace 
Favours such views at present scantily ; 
But 'l will not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 
And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
War will reclaim his own ; and, in the meantime, 
You might obtain a post, which would ensure 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
I stand well with the elector ; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 't is with the same feeling which 
Induced it. 

Strd. Why, this is mere usury ! 

I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

UIt. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 

You are nobly born ? 

Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your name '? 

Ulr. Ulric. 

Stral. Your house's ? 

Ulr. 
1 11 answer you. 

Stral. (aside.) Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers, 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fritz and Idenstein. 
So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches ? 

Iden. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Stral. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

Iden. Humph !— not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected? 



When I 'm worthy of it, 



Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 

Stral. Who may he be ? 

Iden. Why, do n't you know, my lord? 

Stral. How should I? I was fast, asleep. 

Iden. And so 

Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. 

Stral. Dolt ! 

Iden. Why, if 

Your lordship, being robb'd, do n't recognise 
The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The thief among so many ? In the crowd. 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
'T is only, at the bar and in the dungeon 
That. wise men know your felon by his features; 
But I '!!. engage, that if seen there but once, 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

■Stral. {to Fritz.) Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

Fritz. Faith ! 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stral. "Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects 
me 
Just now materially) I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives ; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
Leave bare your borough. Sir Intendant ! 

Iden. True ; 

If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 

Ulr. What is aU this? 

Stral. You join'd us but this morning, 

And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 

Ulr. Some rumour of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. i 

Stral. It is a strange business ; 

The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Iden. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. (impatiently.) Defer your 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Iden. That 
Can only be approved by proofs. You see 

Stral. (again interrupting hint) and addressing JJliUlC.) 
In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
My cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it, (more than I much like to lose, 
Though in part only:) some ingenious person 
Contrived to glide through all my own attendants, 
Besides those of the place, and bore away 
A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
I would be fain, and there 's an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
To yesterday's great obligation, this. 
Though slighter, not yet slights to aid these men 
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it? 

Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
(To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer! 

Iden. But so much haste bodes 

Right little speed, and 

Ulr. Standing motionless 

None ; so let 's march : we '11 talk as we go on. 

Iden. But 

Ulr. Show the spot, and then 1 11 answer you. 

I^tz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 

Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 

Fritz. Hence ! 

Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 

[Exit wHh Idenstein and Fritz. 

Stral. (solus.) A stalwart, active, soldier-looking 
stripling, 



WERNER. 



325 



Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour, 

And with a brow of thought beyond his years 

When in repose, till his eye kindles up 

In answering yours. I wish I could engage him : 

I have need of some such spirits near me now. 

For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 

And though I am not the man to yield without one, 

Neither are they who now rise up between me 

And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 

But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 

Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 

Champion his claims. That 's well. The father, whom 

For years I 've track'd, as does the blood-hound, never 

In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 

To fault ; but here I have him, and that 's better. 

It must be he ! All circumstance proclaims it ; 

And careless voices, knowing not the cause 

Of my inquiries, still confirm it — Yes ! 

The man, his bearing, and the mystery 

Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too. 

The intendant -gave' (for I have not beheld her) 

Of his wife's dignified but forei^ aspect ; 

Besides the antipathy with which we met, . 

As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 

By secret instinct that both must be. foes 

Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 

All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 

We '11 grapple, nevertheless. In a few hoiirs 

The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 

Rise not the higher, (and the weather favours 

Their quick abatement,) and I '11 have him safe 

Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 

His real estate and name; and there's no harm done. 

Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 

(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 

He 's poor, and that 's suspicious — he 's unknown, 

And that 's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 

Of guilt, but what hath he of innocence ? 

Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 

In other bearings, I should rather lay 

The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 

Hath something which I like not ; and alone 

Of all around, except the intendant, and 

The prince's household and my own, had ingress 

Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 

Gab. As those who fare well everywhere, when they 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
And you, my lord ? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

Gab. I heard 

Of your late loss ; but 't is a trifle to 
One of your order. 

Stral. You would hardly think so, 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

1 (At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came hero to seek you. 
Your couriers are turn'd back — I have outstript tliem, 
1 1n my return. 

Stral. You!— Why? 

Gab. 1 went at daybreak. 

To watch for the abatement of the river. 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all chcck'd like myself; 
And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Slral. Would tlie dogs were in it ! 

Why did they not, at least, attempt tho passage ? 
I order'd this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

The Oder to divide, aa Moses did 



The Red Sea, (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream,) and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Strai. I must see to it: 

The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall smart for this. 
[JExit Stralenhein. 

Gab. (solus.) There goes my noble, feudal, self- 
will'd baron ! 
Epitom6 of what brave chivalry 
The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands, (if he hath any,) and, still dearer. 
His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
As would have fill'd a bladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming halfway through the window 
Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance ; 
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he 's right: 
'T is strange they should, when such as he may put them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest! • [Exit Gasoh. 

Scene II. — The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 
Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
After twelve years ? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful! — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, too, 
He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 

Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — ^forgive me ! 
This long delay was not my fault. 

Jos. I know it. 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
My memory, by this oblivious transport ! — 
My son ! 

Enter Werner. 

Wer. What have we here, more strangers ? 

Jos. No ! 

Look upon him ! What do you see ? 

Wer. A stripling, 

For the first time . 

Ulr. (kneeling. ) For twelve long years, my father ! 

IVer. Oh, God ! 

Jos. He faints ! 

IVer. No — I am better now— 

Ulric ! (Embraces Mm.) 

Ulr. My fatlier, Siegendorf ! 

PVer. (starting.) Hush ! boy — 

The walls may hear that name ! 

Ulr. What then ? 

Wer. Why, then— 

But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Como to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
I should have been, and was not. Josephine! 
Sure 'l is no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
Hut had 1 seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of Uio choicest, my heart would have chosen 
This for my son ! 

Ulr. And yet you knew mo not ! 

JVir. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 
Which malics mo look on all men witli an eye 
That only knows the evil at first j,'Ianco. 

Ulr. My memory served nn> far more fondly: I 
Have not forgotten aught ; and ofltimes in 



326 



WERNER. 



The proud and princely halls of— (I'll not. name them, 

As you say that 't is perilous) —but i' the pomp 

Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back •"■ 

To the Bohemian mountains many a -sunset, ■ 

And wept to see another day go down 

O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 

They shall not part us more. 

JVer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more? 

Ulr. Oh heavens I I left him in a green old age, 
And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'T was scarce three months since. 

tVer. Why did you leave him ? 

Jos. {embracing Ulric.) Can you ask that question? 
Is he not here ? 

IVer. True ; he ha"th sought his parents, 

And found them ; but, oh ! hmu, and in what state ! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 
Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
So that I must prefer my claim for form : 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 

Ulr. I saved 

His life but yesterday : he 's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr. You speak 

Riddles : what is this Stralenheim to us ? 

Wer. Every thing. One who claims our father's 
lands : 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count, 
Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
Were never named before me — and what then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague : 

But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
By favour. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 

Wer. No 5 but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his uncertainty. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him, 

(Excuse me for the phrase ;) but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, 
He owes me something both for past and present. 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither : 
Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him: 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross. 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 

PVer. {agitatedly.) Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of " villain ?" 

Ulr. What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 

Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
being 
With an infernal stigma? 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found 
boy ! that 
It would be safe for my ov\ti son to insult me ? 



Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in common 
With such a being and my father ? 

Wer. Every thing! 

That ruffian is thy father ! 

Jos. Oh, my son! 

Believe him not — and yet!— ^(/ler voice falters.) 

Ulr. {starts, looks earnestly at Werner, cmd then 
says slowly) And you avow it? 

Wer, Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Youngs 
Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap, 
Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation? Wait — (not long. 
It Cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait !— 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bedfellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge ! should that day e'er arrive— 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, he slumbering in your path, 
With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 
When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadUest foe ; and he as 't were 
Inviting death, by looking Uke it, while 
His death alone can save you: — Thank your God! 
If then, like me, content with petty plunder, 
You turn aside 1 did so. 

Ulr. But 

Wer. {abruptly.) Hear me! 

I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I 'm in his : — are you not so ? 
Who tells you that he knows you not ? Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon? 

[He pauses. 

Ulr. Proceed — proceed! 

Wer. Me he hath ever known, 

And hunted through each change of time — name- 
fortune — 
And why not you? Are you more versed in men? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth.. I would have spum'd 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient? Ulric! — Ulric! — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

Ulr. {looks Jirst at him, and then at Josephine.) 
My mother ! 

Wer. Ay! I thought so: you have now 

Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

Ulr. But stay ! 

[Werner rushes out of the chamber. 

Jos. {to Ulric.) Follow him not until this storm of 
passion 
Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
I hadnotfoUow'd? 

Ulr. I obey you, mother, 



WERNER. 



327 



Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him, and for him, 
That this is but the surface of his soul. 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. These then are but my father's principles ? 
My mother thinks not with him? 

Jos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

Ulr. Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

Jos. Ay ! 

Hadst thou but done so ! 

Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Attendants. 

Gab. {to Ulric.) I have sought you, comrade. 

So this is my reward! 

Ulr. What do you mean? 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, and for 
this! 
(To Idenstein.) Butforvour age and folly, I would 

Iden. ' Help! 

Hands off! Touch an intendant ! 

Gab. Do not think 

I'll honour you so much as save your throat 
From the Ravenstone* by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite ; but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than I. 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then. 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintances? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 

Ulr. (interfering.) Nay, no violence : 

He 's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 

Gab. {letting go Idenstein.) True: 

I am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

Ulr. (to Idenstein.) How 

Fare you ? 

Iden. Help ! 

Ulr. I have help 'd" you. 

Iden. Kill him ! then 

I '11 say so. 

Gab. 1 am calm — live on! 

Iden. That's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

Gab. Does ^e abet you in your accusation ? 

Tden. Does he not ? 

Gab. - Then next time let him go sink 

Ere 1 go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
But hero he comes ! 



Etiter Stralenheim. 
Gab. {goes up to him.) My noble lord. 



'm here! 



• The RftTenBioiie. " B«veinicin," ii (he ttone gibbtt of Garauuy, 
and to called from to* itivent perchlug uii it. 



Have you aught with me ? 

What should I 



Stral. Well, sir! 

Gab. 

Stral. 
Have with you ? 

Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood has not wash'd away your memory ; 
But that 's a trifle. I stand here accused. 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his ? 

Stral. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron ? 

Stral. 1 know not whom to accuse, or to acquit, 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted — 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty I 
To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
If duly taught ; but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal. 

Stral. You ! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed — 
I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me, 
To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame. 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
But this is nothing : I demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more. 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Stral. This tone 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeatli! who dare doubt it. 

Except such villains as ne'er had it? 

Stral. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master? 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; I found him in 
Your company. 

Gab. We found ymi in the Odor 

Would we had left you there ! 

Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 

Gab. I've earnld them; but might have eam'd more 
from others, 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 

Strcd. Ulric ! you know this man ? 

Gab. No more than you do. 

If he avouches not my honour. 

Ulr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connexion led me, honour. 

Stral. Then 

I 'm satisfied. 

Gab. {ironically.) Right easily, metlunks. 
What is tlio spell in his asseveration 
More than m mine? 

Stral. I merely said that / 

Was satisfied — not that you are absolvetl. 

Gab. Again ! Ajn I accused or no ? 

Stral. 
You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And g^n^rnl pimpicion bo against you. 



Go to! 



328 



WERNER. 



Is the fault mine ? Is 't not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 

Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
A vile equivocation ; you well know 
Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
Your looks a voice — your frowns a sentence ; you 
Are practising your power on me — because 
You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stral. Threat'st thou ? 

Gab. Not so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you some- 
thing, 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

GcJ). Not with your gold. 

Stral. With bootless insolence. 

[To his Attendants and Idenstein. 
You need not further to molest this man. 
But let him go hLs way. Ulric, good morrow ! 

[Exit Strai.enheim, Idenstein, and Attendants. 

Gab. (following.) I '11 after him and 

Ulr. (storing him.) Not a step. 

Gab. Who shall 

Oppose me ? 

C/Zr. Your own reason, with a moment's 

Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this? 

U^^' Pshaw ! we ?dl must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I 've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silkworm cast his skin — 
And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words ? 

Gab. Must I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 't were 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There 's something daring in it ; — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

C^''- It seems, then. 

You are not guilty ? 

Gab. Do I hear aright? 

FotMoo! 

Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 

Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would answer " No" — 
To you I answer thus. (He draws.) 

Ulr. (drawing.) With all my heart ! 

Jos. Without there! Ho! help! help !— Oh God! 
here 's murder ! [Exit Josephine, shrieking. 

Gabor and Ulric .fight. Gaeor is disarmed just as 
Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, ^c. re-enter. 

Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He 's safe ! 

Stral. (to Josephine.) Who 's safQ ? 

Jos. ' My 



Ulr. (interrupting her with a stern look, and turning 
afterwards to Stralenheim.) Both ! 

Here 's no great harm done. 

S^ol- What hath caused all this ? 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor ! 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it next, 
Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last words slowly and empha- 
tically in a low voice to Gabor. 
Gob. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. (taking his sword.) They^ shall. You have 
wrong'd me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword: I would 
The last were m my bosom rather than 



I 

i! 



The first in yours. I c6uld have borne yon noble's 

Absurd insinuations — ignorance 

And dull suspicion are a part of his 

Intail will last him longer than his lands. — 

But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquish'd me. 

I was the fool of passion to conceive 

That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 

Already proved by greater perils than 

Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 

However — but in friendship. [Exit Gabor. 

Stral. I wUl brook 

No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succour. '' 

Ulric, you are not hurt ? — 

Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. (to Idenstein.) Intendant ! take your measures 
to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

Iden. Secure him ! He hath got his sword again— 
And seems to know the use on 't ; 't is his trade, 
Belike ; — I 'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such? Hence ! after him 
Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 
Stral. I must be 

Obey'd. No words ! 

Iden. Well, if it must be so— 

March, vassals ! I 'm your leader, and will bring 
The rear up : a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 
Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric : what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 
I recognise her, 't is the stranger's wife 
Whom they name " Werner." 

Ulr. 'T is his name. 

Stral. Indeed ! 

Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? — 
Jos. Who seeks him? 

Stral. No one — for the present : but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 
Jos. Not so: 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
All places here. 
(Aside to Ulric as she goes out.) O Ulric ! have a 

care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word ! 

Ulr. (to Josephine.) Fear not ! — 

[Exit Josephine. 
Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you : 
You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

Ulr. Say on. 

Stral. Mysterious 

And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 
Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 
Stral. No — this « Werner"— 

With the false name and habit. 

Ulr. How can this be ? 

He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is — 'tis no matter*,— 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 



WERNER. 



329 



That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 

He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 

Ulr. And what have I to do with this ? 

Stral. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg,) 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 

Ulr. It is abating. 

Stral. That is well. 

XJlr. But how 

Am I concern'd ? 

Stral. As one who did so much 

For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me than 
The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on himl 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know him.— 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar when 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

Ulr. Why so ? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 

Ulr. I hope so. 

Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd it lightly : so ihat now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms far and near 
Made deserts. 

Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 

Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would say so — 
but, 
As I have said, you shall. 

Ulr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me. 
Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
And services to me and mine for ever. 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 
This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
The devil and \\\s)— [Aside.] 

Stral. He doth. 

Ulr. Hath he no right ? 

Stral. Right! none. A disinherited prodigal, 
Who for these twenty years disgraced liis lineage 
In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage, 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 

Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 

Stral. You 'd be sorry to 

Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calU hia wife. 

Ulr. Is she not so ? 

Stral. No more 

Then he 's your father :— an Italian giil, 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this eanio Werner. 

Ulr. They are childless, then ? 

Stral. There is or was a bastard, 

Whom the old man— the grandsiro (as old ago 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
As it wont chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled, 
No one knows whither ; and if he had not. 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. Why do you smile ? 

Ulr. At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp— a child 
Of doubtful birlh — can startle a grandoe ! 

Stral. All 's to bo fcar'd, where all is to bo gain'd. 
(7fr. True; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 
2 R 



Strod. You have harp'd the very string next to my 
heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

Ulr. 'T were too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 

Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine: and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine. 
To deem he would descend to such an act : 
Besides he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 

By our experience never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes them 

heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel naaght, can lose 

nothing, 
Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest- 
No more. 

Stral. Go to! you are a\»ag. But say 
I may be sure you '11 keep an eye on this man. 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Concealment or escape ? 

Ulr. You may be sure 

You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and for ever. 

Ulr. Such is my intention. [Exeunt 



ACT HI. 

Scene I. — A haU in the same Palace, from whence the 
secret Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I '11 try my fortune elsewhere. 

IVer. How 

Can I, so wrf'tchfd, give to misery 
A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert—— 

Gab. Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Mcthinks 
You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

JVer. Ah? 

Gab. 1 care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
Tho same myself. But will you shelter me 7 
I am ojjpre.ssd like you — and poor like you— 
Di.'Jgraced 

PVer. {nhruptly.) Who told you that I was disgraced? 

Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your |)ovorty my likeness ended ; but 
I said / was so— and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as yoxi. 

JVer. Again ! 

As / ? 

Gab. Or nny otiier honest man. 
What tho d<-vil would you have? You don't believe mo 
Guilty of this baso theft? 

JfVr. No, no— I cannot. 

Gab. Why that's ray heart of lionour! yon young 
gullunt — 
Your miserly intvndant and di^nso noble — 
AH— all suspected ni«> ; and why ? because 



S30 



WERNER. 



I am the worst-clolbed, and least named among them ; 

Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts, 

My soul might brook to open it more widely 

Than theirs : but thus it is — ^you poor and helpless — ■ 

Both still more than myself. 

Wer. How know you that ? 

Cfab. You 're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
"Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

IVer. What do you mean? 

Gab. Just what I say; I thought my speech was 
plain: 
You are no thief — nor I — and,, as true men. 
Should aid each other. 

Wer. It is a damn'd world, sir. 

Gab. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
The priests say, (and no doubt they should know 

best,) 
Therefore I '11 stick by this — as being loth 
To suffer martyrdom, at least vv-ith such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 
To-morrow I will try the waters, as 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 
Wer. Abated ? Is there hope of that ? 
Gab. There was 

At noontide. 

IVer. Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are you 

In peril? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gab. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less ? 

PVer. Your poverty ? 

Gab. No — you do n't look a leech for that disorder ; 
I meant my peril only : you 've a roof, 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly ; for how should such a \vretch as I 
Have gold? 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on 't, 

Although I almost wish you had the oaron's. 
Wer. Dare you insinuate? 
Gab. What ? 

Wer. Are you aware 

To whom you speak? 

Gab. No ; and I am not used 

Greatly to care. {A noise heard without.) But hark! 
they come ! 
Wer. Who come ? 

Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds after me : 
I 'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go? 
But show me any place. I do assure you, 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
Think if it were your own case ! 

Wer. (Aside.) Oh, just God ! 

Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

Gab. 1 see you 're moved ; and it shows well m you : 
I may live to requite it. 

^^- Are you not 

A spy of Stralenheim's? 

Gab. Not I ! and if 

I were, what is there to espy in you ? 
Although I recollect his frequent question 
About you and your spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion ; but you best know — what— and why. 
I am lus deadliest foe. 



You? 



i 



Wer. 

Gab. After such 

A treatment for the serviee which in part 
I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

Wer. I wiU. 

Gab. But how ? 

Wer. (showing the pannel.) There is a secret spring: 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance. 
And used it but for safety. 

Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same, 

Wer. I found if. 

As I have said: it leads through winding walls, 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or statehness,) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither ; you must not advance: 
Give me your word. 

God). It is unnecessary r 

How should I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 

Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it may 
lead? 
/ kno%v not — (mark you!) — but who knows it might not 
Lead even uito the chamber of your foe? 
So strangely were contrived these gedleries 
By our Teutonic fathers in old days. 
When man built less against the elements 
Than his next neighbour. You must not advance 
Beyond the two first windings ; if you do, 
(Albeit I never pass'd them,) I '11 not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

Gab. But I will. 

A thousand thanks! 

Wer. You '11 find the spring more obvious 

On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
It yields to the least touch. 

Gab. I '11 in — farewell ! 

[Gabor goes in by the secret panel. 

Wer. (solus.) What have I done? Alas! what had 
1 done 
Before to make this fearful? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man. 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 

Enter Ideitstein and Others. 
Iden. Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd tlien 
Through the dim gothic glass by pious aid 
Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow 
Casements, through which the sunset streams like sun- 
rise 
On long pearl-colour'd beards and crimson crosses,^ 
And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls. 
And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords,. 
All the fantastic ftirniture of windows 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whos& 
Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He 's gone, however. 

Wer. Whom do you seek ? 

Iden. A villain 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then? 

Iden. In the search 

Of him who robb'd the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man? 

Iden. As sure as you 

Stand there : but where 's he gone ? 

Wer. Who? 

Iden. He we 8on^. 

Wer. You see he is not here. 

Iden. And yet we traced him 



WERNER. 



831 



Up to tJus hall. Are you accomplices ? 
Or deal you in the black art ? 

Wer. I deal plainly, 

To many men the blackest. 

Iden. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter; but we must continue now 
Our search for t'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now; I may not be 
So patient always. 

Id^n. I should like to know, 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim 's in quest of 

Wer, Insolent ! 

Said you not that he was not here ? 

Iden. Yes, one; 

But there 's another whom he tracks more keenly, 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Botli paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 



Wer. 



[Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 
In what 



A maze hatli my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hadi done me less ill than 
The leaving xmdone one far greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil, ris'mg in ray heart! 
Thou art too late ! I '11 naught to do with blood. 

Enter Ulric. 

Vlr. I sought you, father. 

Wer. Is 't not dangerous ? 

Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

Wer. T cannot Ihink it: 

'T is but a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

Ulr. I cannot 

Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briers in eur path, 
But must break through them, as an unarm'd carle 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf rustling 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
Nets are for dirushcs, eagles are not caught so: 
We '11 overfly or rend them. 

Wer. Show me hov)? 

Ulr. Can you not guess? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange. 

Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night ? 

Wer. I understand you not. 

Ulr. Then we shall never 

More understand each other. But to change 
The topic 

Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 

'T is of our safety. 

Ulr. Right,- I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters arc abating ; a few hours 
Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse. 
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to mak(i way for him. 

Wer. And now your remedy ! I llionoht to escape 
By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
I dare not use it, show if, scarce look on it. 
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintage of the state; 
And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples. 
And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain I | 



Ulr. You must not use it, at least now ; but take 
This ring. [He gives Werner a jetoel. 

Wer. A gem ! It was my father s ! 

Ulr. And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Bribe the intendant for his old caleche 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

Wer. And leave you, 

So lately found, in peril too ? 

Ulr. Fear nothing ! 

The only fear were if we fled together, 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in flood between 
This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favour. 
The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you 're safe. 

Wer. My noble boy ! 

Ulr. Hush I hush '. no transports : we '11 indulge in 
In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold: [thera 

Show Idenstein the gem, (1 know the man. 
And have look'd through him:) it will answer thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
N^o jewel : therefore it could not be his ; 
And then the man who was possest of this 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could tlius convert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
And Idenstein will serve you. 

Wer. I will Ibllovv 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble ; but had I appear'd 
To take an interest in you, and still more 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favour, 
All had been known at once. 

Wer. My guardian angel ! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence ? 

Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 

Of me as aught of kindred wiih yourself 
I will but wait a day or two with him 
To lull all doubts, ajid then rejoin my father. 

Wer. To part no more ! 

Ulr. I know not that ; but at 

The least we'll meet again once more. 

Wer. Mv boy ! 

My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver ! 
Oh, do not hate me ! 

Ulr. Hate my father ! 

Wer. Ay, 

My father hated me. Why not my son ? 

Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 

I Ver. Scorpions 

Are in thy words! Thou know me? in this guise 
Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 

Ulr. I'll wait! 

Tn the mean time be sure that all a son 
("an do for parents shall be done for mine. 

Jl''rr. 1 see it, and I fool it ; yet 1 feel 
Fiirtiicr — Uiat you despise me. 

Ulr. Wherefore should I 

J^rr. Must I repeat my humiliation? 

Ulr. No! 

r have fathoui'd it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if it must bo over, 
Not ttouK Your error has redoubled all 
The present diiru'ulties of our iiouso, 
At secret war with that Stralenheim: 



^s^ 



WERNER. 



AU we have now to think of is to baffle 
Him. I have shown one way. 

tVer. The only one, 

And I embrace it, as I did my son, 
Who show'd himself and father's safety in 
One day. 

Ulr. You shall be safe ; let that suffice. 
Would Stralenheini's appearance in Bohemia 
Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
Admitted to our lands ? 

TVer. Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although the first 
Possessor might, as iisua!, prove the strongest, 
Especially the next in blood. 

Ulr. Blood! 'tis 

A word of mtmy meanings ; in the veins 
And out of them, it is a different thing — 
And so it should be, when the same in blood 
(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other, 
Like Theban brethren : \-.-Iien a part is bad, 
A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 
fVer. 1 do not apprehend you. 
Ulr. That may be— 

And should, perhaps — and yet but get ye ready ; 

You and my mother must away to-night. 

Here comes the intent'ant : sound him with the gem ; 

'T will sinl: into his "cnal soul like lead 

Into the deep; and bring up slime and mud, 

And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 

With its greased undcrctratum ; but no less 

Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 

The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 

Farewell! I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 

My father ! 

Wer. Let lae embrace thee ! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed ; subdue your nature to the hour ! 
Keep off from me as from your foe ! 

IVer. Accursed 

Be he who is the stiffing cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest fcbling of our hearts ; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 

Here is the intei:dant. 

Enter Idenstein 

Master Idenstein, 
How fare you in your i'urpose ? Have you caught 
The rogue? 

Iden. No, faidi! 

Ulr. Well, there are plenty more : 

You may hava better luck another chase. 
Where is the baron? 

Iden. Grone back to his chamber : 

And now I think on 't, asking after you 
With nobly-born impatience, 
■ Ulr. Your great men 

Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
Of the stung steed replies unto tlie spur : 
'T is well they have horses, too ; for if they had not, 
I fear that men must draw their chariots, aa 
They say kings did Sesostris. 

Id^- Who was he ? 

Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 

Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same, 
For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 

Ulr. I 've heard so; but I must take leave. In- 
tendant, 
Your servant !— Werner, {to Werner slightly,) if that 

be your name, 
Yours. [Exit Ulric. 

Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man ! 
And prettily behaved ! He knows his station. 
You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
Precedence ! 



Wer, I perceived it, and applaud 

His just discernment and your own. 

Iden. That 's well- 

That 's very well. You also know your place, too; 
And yet, I do n't know that I know your place. 

Wer. (showing the ring.) Would this assist your 

knowledge ? 
Iden. How !— What !— Eh ! 

A jewel ! 

JVer. 'T is your own on one condition. 
Iden. Mine ! — Name it ! 

IVer. That hereafter you permit me 

At thrice its value to redeem it : 't is 
A family ring. 

Iden. A family \— yours .'^-a gem ! 

I 'm breathless ! 

tVer. You must also furnish me 

An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit 
This place. 

Iden. But is it real ? Let me look on it : 

Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 

We/. Come, I 'II trust you : 

You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was bom above 
My present seeming. 

Iden. I can 't say I did. 

Though this looks hke it: this is the true breeding 
Of gentle blood ! 

Wer. I have important reasons 

For wishing to continue privily 
My journey hence, 

Iden. So then you are the man 

Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of.^ 

Wer. I am not ; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
To much embarrassment to me just now, 
And to the baron's self hereafter — 't is 
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 

Fdeir. Be you the man or no, 't is not my business ; 
Besides, T never should obtain the half 
From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
The country for some missing bits of coin, 
And never offer a precise reward — 
But this ! — another look ! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely ; 

At day-dawn it is yours. 

Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine I thou loadstar of 
The soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles ! 
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 
Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already 
A Ut'Ie king, a lucky alchymist ! — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

Wer. Call me Werner still ; 

You may yet know me by a loflier title. 

Iden. I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream'd in a low garb. — 
But come, I '11 serve thee ; thou shall be as free 
As air, despite the waters ; let us hence : 
I '11 show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel !) 
Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such means 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again! 
I have a foster-brother in the mart 
Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones. How many 
Carats may it weigh ? — Come, Werner I will wing thee. 

[Exeunt. 



WERNER. 



333 



Scene II. — Stralenheim's Chamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

Fritz. All 's ready, my good lord ! 

-> Strcd. I am not sleepy, 

And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber. 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky. 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
And man, an everlasting mist ; — I will 
Unto my pillow. 

Pritz. May you rest there well ! 

Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 

Fritz. And wherefore fear? 

Sired. I know not why, and therefore do fear more. 

Because an undescribable but 't is 

All folly. Were the locks (as 1 desired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

Pritz. Certainly, 

According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they call him " Ulric." 

Stral. You think ! you supercilious slave ! what right 
Have you to tax your memory, which should be 
Cluick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
Of him who saved your master, as a Utany 
Whose daily repetition marks your duty. — 
Get hence ! " You think^'' indeed ! you who stood still 
Howling and drippling on the bank, whilst I 
Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 
The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
Thank him — and despise you. " You think .'" and scarce 
Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
More words on yon. Call me betimes. 

Fritz. Good night ! 

I trust to-morrow will resiore your lordship 
To renovated strength and temper. 

[The scene closes. 

Scene III. — Tlie secret Passage. 

Gab. {solus.) Pour — 

Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock: 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell. 
Though for a marriage-feast it rings : each stroke 
Peals for a hope the less ; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 

I 'm cold — 
I 'm dark ; — I 've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wings 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
A light! It is at distance, (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance :) but it blinks 
As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 
The inhibited direction : 1 must on. 
Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident 
In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
To nothing that may tempt mo ! Else — Heaven aid mc 
To obtain or to escape it! Shining still! 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself, 
Or he himself girt with ite beams, I could 



Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 

That corner 's turn'd — so — ah ! no ; — right ! it draws 

Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — ^30 

That 's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose i: lead 

Into some greater danger than that which 

I have escaped — no matter, 't is a new one ; 

And novel perils, like fresh mistresses. 

Wear more magnetic aspects : — I will on, 

And be it where it may — I have my dagger. 

Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 

Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 

My stationary WHl-o'the-wisp ! — So 1 so ! 

He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes. 

Scene IV. — A Garden. 

Enter Werner, 
I could not sleep — and now the hour 's at hand ; 
All 's ready. Idenstein has kept his word ; 
And station'd in the outskirts of the town. 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I ^ 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonour 'd: and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart! — a never-dying canker-worm, 
Which all the coming splendour of the lands, 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
Can scarely lull a moment. I must find 
Some means of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part ; but how without discovery ?^ 
It must be done, however ; and I '11 pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my misery led to this 
Base infamy; repentance must retrieve it: 
I will have naught of Stralenheira's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps ! as soundly, 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 

Such as when Hark! what noise is that? Again! 

The branches shake ; and some loose stones have fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[Ulric leaps down from, the terrace, 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Before 

We approach, toll nio 

IVer. Why look you so ? 

Ulr. Do I 

Beliold my father, or 

fVcr. What? 

Ulr. An assassin? 

JVer. I nsanc or insolent ! 

Ulr. Reply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine ! 

JVcr. To what must I 

Answer ? 

Ulr. Are yon or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenhcim? 

IVer. I never was <as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 

Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenlieim's chamber ? and 

[Ui.Ric patises, 

IVer. Proreed. 

Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 

IVer. ' Great Gt^ ! 

Ulr. Von arc iniioreni, Ihon ! my father's innocent: 
Embrace me ! Ves, — your i»no — y(»ur look — yes, yes, — 
Yet any so. 



334 



WERNER. 



pf^er. If I e'er, in heart or mind. 

Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes ! 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 

Wer. 'T is horrible ! 't is hideous, as 't is hateful !— 
But what have I to do with this ? 

IPtr. No bolt 

Is forced ; no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature 

Wer, Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 

Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ! 

Ulr. My father ! I acquit you ! 

But will the world do so ? will even the judge, 
If But you must away this instant. 

Wer. No ! 

I '11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 

Ulr. Yet 

You had no guests — no visiters — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

Wer. Ah ! 

The Hungarian ! 

Ulr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 

Ere sunset. 

Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 
Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 

Ulr. There I 'U find him. 

[Ulric is going. 

Wer. It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
Which masks it: I but thought he had snatch'd the 

silent 
And favourable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
Dogging him yester-even. 

Ulr. You reclosed 

The panel ? 

Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 

(And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

Ulr. You are sure you closed it? 

Wer. Certain. 

Ulr. That's well ; but had been better, if 
You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for [He pauses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father ; do not speak of this : 

This is no hour to think of petty crimes. 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man ? 

Wer. Could I shun it? 

A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
For my own crime ; a victim to my safety, 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have m such circumstances thrust him forth. 

Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the murderer, if 't is possible. 

Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch 



Suspicion', two new victims in the heu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the culprit, and 

Ulr. Who seems 7 Who else 

Can be so? 

Wer. Not /, though just now you doubted— 
You, my son I — doubted 

Ulr. And do you doubt of him 

The fugitive ? 

Wer. Boy ! since I fell into 

The abyss of crime, (though not of such crime,) 
I, having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, 
May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
Appearances ; and views a criminal 
In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
Because 'tis dusky. 

Ulr. And if I do so, 
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress? You must not stand the hazard. 
Away ! — I 'II make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 
Your flight — moreover 

Wer. Fly ! and leave my name 

Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as poorest, 
To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 

Ulr. Pshaw! leave anytftmg 

Except our father's sovereignty and castles, 
For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
What name ? You have no name, since that you bear 
Is feign'd. 

Wer. Most true ; but still I would not have it 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 

Though in this most obscure abode of men 

Besides, the search 

Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 
As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 
Suspects, 't is but suspicion, and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such employment, 
Too, that the unknov.'n Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
With the late general war of thirty years. 
Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust. 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
Here, save as sv£h — without lands, influence, 
Save what hath perish'd with him. Few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
Alone, unknown. — a solitary grave, 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 
Is all he '11 have, or wants. If / discover 
The assassin, 't will be well — if not, believe me 
None else ; though all the full-fed train of menials 
May howl above his ashes (as they did 
Around him in his danger on the Oder) 
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
Hence I hence ! I must not hear your answer. — Look! 
The stars are almost faded, and the gray 
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
You shall not answer — Pardon me that I 
Am peremptory ; 't is your son that speaks. 
Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let's call my mother! 
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
To me : I '11 answer for the event as far 
As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We 'II meet in Castle Siegendorf— once more 
Our banners shall be glorious! Think of that 
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me, 
Whose youth may better battle with them. — ^Hence 



WERNER. 



335 



And may your age be happy ! — I will kiss 

My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you ! 

Wer. This counsel 's safe — but is it honourable ? 

Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief honour. 

[Exemit. 



Wallenstein either; — they are gone tc 

Eric. 



Rest: 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A Gothic Hcdl in the Castle of Siegendorf. 
near Prague. 

Enter Eric and Henrick, retainers of the Count. 

Eric. So better times are come at last ; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — both 
A long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for master s^ 

It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendoif maintain'd 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

Eric. Why, 

For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he 's boun- 
teous, 
And we all love him 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon. 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray heaven he keep the present ! 

Then his brave son, Count Ulrie — there 's a knight ! 
Pity the wars are o'er ! 

Hen. Why so ? 

Eric. Look on him! 

And answer that yourself. 

Hen. He 's very youthful, 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 

Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said. 

The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
Which awes, but yet offends not ? in the field. 
Who like him with his spoar in hand, when, gnashing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket ? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 

Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do you mean ? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
As ( Pauses . ) 

Eric. What ? 

Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living. 
Like other parents, she spoils hur worst chililron. 

Eric. Nonsense! they are all bravo iron-visaged 
fellows, 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 

Ask that at Magdebourg— or for that matter 



But what beyond 't is not ours to pronounce. 

Hen. I wish they had left us something of their rest 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is overrun with — God knows who : they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
Than the most open warfare. 

Erice. But Count Ulric — 

What has all this to do with him ? 
Hen. With him! 

He might prevent it. As you say he 's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 
Eric. You 'd better ask himself? 
'Hen. I would as soon 

Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 
Eric. And here he comes ! 

Hen. The devil ! you 11 hold your tongue f 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 
Hen. 'T is nothing— but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will upon what you have said. 
Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport 
Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise, 
He is to espouse the gentle baroness 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress; 
And she no doubt vvill soften whatsoever 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The keees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
On all that I have said! 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count. 

Ulr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

Eric. The dogs are order'd 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
What courser will you please to mount ? 

Ulr. The dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has rccover'd 
The toils of Monday : 't was a noble chase : 
You spear'd /our with your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric ; 

I had forgotten — ^let it be the gray, then. 
Old Ziska : he has not been out tliis fortnight. 

Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgh, our 

Master of the horse. [Exit Ekig* 

Rodolph ! 

Rod. My lord \ 

Ulr. ' The news 

Is awkward from the — (Rodolph points to Eb:NRicK) 
How now, Henrick ? why 
Loiter you here ? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord. 

Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty, 
And learn if he would aught with mo before 
I mount. [Exit Henrick 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Krancouia, and 
'T is rumour'il that the column sent against them 
Is to be striMi^tlicu'd. I uiust join thi'ni soon. 

Rod. Best wail for further and more sure advices. 

Ulr. I mean it — antl indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 



836 



WERNER. 



Rod. It will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your father. 

Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
In high Silesia will permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
Whom WolfFe leads— keep the forest on your route : 
You know it well ? 

Rod. As well as on that night 

When we 

Ulr. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success : 
And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter. 

[Gives a letter. 
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
To our force with you and WolfFe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries. 
Are rung out with its peal of nuplial nonsense. 

Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida ? 

Ulr. Why, 

I do so — ^but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years. 
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone. 
Although 't were that of Venus ; — but I love her. 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Rod. And constantly ? 

Ulr. 1 think so ; for I love 

Naught else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good Rodolph ! 

Rod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ? 

Ulr. Perhaps — my father wishes it ; and sooth 
'T is no bad policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Rod. Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 

Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off. 
And do as I have said. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — 't was a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

Especially as little kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

Rod. The late baron died 

Of a fever, did he not ? 

Ulr. How should I know ? 

Rod. I have heard it whisper'd there was something, 
strange 
About Ws death — and even the place of it 
Is scarcely knowTi. 

Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

Rod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah! here 's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralenheim. 

Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 

Ida. Not too early. 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me " cousin .'?" 

Ulr. {smiling.) Are we not so ? 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 



Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 

Ulr. (starting.) Blood! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 

Ulr. Ay! doth it? 

Ida. It doth— but no ! it rushes like a torrent 
Even to your brow again. 

Ulr. {recovering himself.) And if it fled, 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin ! 

Ida. " Cousin" again. 

Ulr. Nay, then I '11 call you sister. 

Ida. I like that name still worse.— Would we had 
ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 

Ulr. {gloomily.) Would we never had 

Ida. Oh heavens ! and can you wish thai 7 

Ulr. Dearest Ida I 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All— all 

Ida. And you to me are so already •, 

But 1 can wait. 

Ulr. Dear Ida ! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 

[She pauses. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 

My father could but view my happiness. 
Which wants but this ! 

Ulr. Indeed ! 

Ida. You would have loved him, 

He you; for the brave ever love each other: 
His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud, (as is birth's prerogative ;) but under 

This 'grave exterior Would you had known each 

other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his journey 
He had not died without a friend to sooth 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr, Who says that 

Ida. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general rumour 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 

Ulr. If they were near him, 

He could not die neglected or alone. 

Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
It loves ?— They say he died of a fever. 

Ulr. s^y ■ 

It was so. 

Ida. I sometimes dixam otherwise. 

Ulr. All dreams are false, 

Ida. And yet I sec him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where 7 

Ida. In sleep— I see him he 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Ulr. But you do not see his /ace." 

Ida. {looking at him.) No! Oh, my God! do you? 

Ulr. Why do you ask? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 

Ulr. {agitatedly.) Ida, this is mere childishness ; 
your weakness 
Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 



WERNER. 



837 



Of yours are common to me, it aiFects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change — >— 

Ida. Child, indeed ! I have 

Full fifteen summers I [A bugle sounds. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida. (peevishly to Rodolph.) Why need you tell 
him that? Can he not hoar it 
Without your echo ? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day 

Rod. You will not. 

Lady, need aid of oiine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall! 

Ida. Yes, or be 

No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not: — ask of Rodolph. 

Rod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'T is nothing ; but if 't were, the air 
Would soon restore me. I'm the true chameleon, 
And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit — I 'm a forester and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 

Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You shall not go ! 
Come ! 1 will sing to you. 

Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 

To be so ; for I trust these wars are over. 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf. 

Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
With such brief greeting. — You have heard our bugle; 
The vassals wait. 

Sieg. So let them. — You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow 
The chase with such an ardour as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg. No, Ulric : 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanour. 

Sieg. {to Ida.) True, dear child, 

Thou<;h somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel. — 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position. 
So lately reinstated in our honours. 
Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house. 
But most in ours, that one should be found wauling 
At swell a tinu^ and place. Besides, the 1 leaven 
Wliieh gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving : first, for our country ; 
2S 



And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 

Ulr. {aside.) Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey at once. 

{Then aloud to a Servant.) 

Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! [Exii LuDwio. 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. (smiling.) You are ilot jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel! who ^ 

Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself? But fear not; thou shalt rule him 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg. You shall, 

Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chamber. She complains 
That you are a sad truant to your music : 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 

Ulric, you '11 come and hear me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I '11 sound it better than your bugles ; 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 
I'll play you Kang Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. And why not 

Old Tilly's ? 

Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with music, 
Could aught of his sound on it : — but come quickly ; 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit Ida. 

Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 

Ulr. My time 's your vassal.— 
{Aside to Rodolph.) Rodolph, hence ! and do 
As I directed : and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 

Rod. Count Siegendorf, command you aught ? I am 
bound 
Upon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieg. {starts.) Ah !— 

Where? on what frontier? 

Rod. The Silesian, on 

My way — {Aside to Ulric.) — IVhere shall I say ? 

Ulr. {aside to Rodolph.) To Hamburgh. 

{Aside to himself.) That 
Word will I think put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 

Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. {agitated.) Hamburgh ! No, I have naught to 
do there, nor'' 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you ! 

Rod. Fare ye well. Count Siegendorf! 

[Exit Rodolph. 

Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
One pf those strange companions whom I fain 
Would reason witli you on. 

Ulr. My lord, ho is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 
But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 

Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the monarcR 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom ho has mado 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I m;iU bo plain. 

The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph : 
They say he is leagued with the "black bands" who still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will you bolievo 

The world ? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr. In (my case, 

I thought you knew it better than to tako 
An accusation for a sentence. 



338 



WERNER. 



Sieg. Son ! 

I understand you: you refer to— —but 
My Destiny has so involved about me 
Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
Ulric ; you have seen to what the passions led me : 
Twenty long years of misery and famine 
duench'd them not — twenty thousand more, perchance, 
Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial) 
May not obliterate or expiate 
The madness and dishonour of an instant. 
Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 
By mine, and you behold me ! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour'd 
By those he rules and those he ranks with. 

Sieg. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me— 
But if my son's is cold !-^— 

Ulr. Who dare say that ? 

Sieg. None else but I, who see it — feel it — keener 
Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 
Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
The wound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondhng ; how should it be so, 
After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 

Sieg. And did not / too pass those twelve torn years 
In a like absence ? But 't is vain to urge you — 
Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
Let 's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
That these young violent nobles of high name, 
But dark deeds, (ay, the darkest, if all Rumour 
Reports be true,) with whom thou consortest, 
Will lead thee 

Ulr. {impatiently.) I '11 be led by no man. 

Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — more 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. I have said 

I wiU obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 

Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
(For Glory's pillow is but restless if 
Love lay not down his cheek there :) some strong bias, 
Some master fiend is in thy service to 
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave. 
And mcikes his every thought subservient ; else 
Thou 'dst say at once — " I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her ;" or, « I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
Would I have answer'd. 

Ulr, Sir, you wed for love. 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 

Sieg. StiU 

Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now? 

Ubr. Did you not warn mo 

Against your own example ? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist! 

In & word, do you We, or love not, Ida ? 



Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her ? 

Sieg. As far 
As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She 's young — all beautiful — adores you — b 
Endow'd with qualities to give happiness, 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom; 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 
A httle in return. I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to break ; 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 
According to the Orient tale. She is 

Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe : 
I '11 wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 
Just now I am not violently transported 
In favour of such unions. 

Sieg. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think twice. 

Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 

Ulr. Then 'tis timo 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps : till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent ? 

Ulr. I did and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. 'T is usual, 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 

Ulr. So will not I 

For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I '11 give mine. 

Sieg. But 't is your office 

To woo. 

Ulr. Count, 't is a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
I will now pay may duty to my mother, 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is.— 
What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 
And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles. 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles. 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminie, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
What can a son or man do more ? [Exit U];.Ric. 

Sieg. (solus.) Too much!— 

Too much of duty and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found him ! 
But how ! — obedient, but with coldness ; duteous 
In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious, 
Abstracted— distant — much given to long absence. 
And where — none know — in league with the most riotous 
Of our young nobles ; though, to do him justice, 
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures 
Yet there 's some tie between them which I cannot 
Unravel. They look up to him— consult him— 
Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood ? or— oh ! if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 



I 



^F. 



# 



WERNER. 



839 



To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
Unlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 'T was not 
Our fault, nor is our sin: thou wert our foe, 
And yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
And only took — Accursed gold ! diou liest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee. 
Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
Thou villanous gold ! and thy dead master's doom. 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you, [Exit Attendant, 

Enter the Prior Albert. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them ! 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent. 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers, 

Where there is everlasting wail and wo. 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not ! 

Sieg. True, father: and to avert those pangs from one, 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church. 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices. 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[Siegendorf offers the gold which he had taken 
from Stralenheim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms. 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours. 
Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 't is fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said 7 

Sieg. {faltering.) For — for — the dead. 

Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'T is from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. Wo will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret! I have none; but, father, he who's 
gone 
Might have one ; or, in short, he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — But I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg. But he who 's gone was not my friend, but foe. 
The deadliest and the stanchcst. 

Prior. Better still ! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 



Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living, 

Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. I do not love him now. 

But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure rehgion 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 

Sieg. Father, 't is not my gold. 

Prior. Whose then ? You said it was no legacy. 
Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars: 
'T is yours, or theirs. 
Prior. Is there no blood upon it? 

Sieg. No; but there's worse than blood — eternal 

shame ! 
Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bed 7 
Sieg. Alas ! 

He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge. 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 
Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 
Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 
Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the dark, 
And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon me ! 
/ am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point 
As I can one day God's. 

Prior. Nor did he die, 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 
Sieg No ! by the God who sees and strikes ! 
Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him ? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one^ 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected. 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 
Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 
Sieg. (eagerly.) Oh! am I? — say! 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 
Sieg. Father! I have spoken 

The truth, and naught but truth, if not the wJiole : 
Yet say I am not guilty ! for tlie blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it. 
Though, by the Power who abhorrefh human blood, 
I did not ! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
And could — ay, perhaps, should (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attack of over-potent foes :) 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 

Prior. I will. 

Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

Sieg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so. 

When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
Remember the groat festival to-morrow, 
In which you rank amidst our chiefost nobles, 
As well as your bravo son; and smooth your aspect; 
Nor in the general orison of tlianks 
For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shod not rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 

[Emmtt, 



340 



WERNER. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — A large and magnificent Gothic Hall in the 
Castle of Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies, Ban- 
ners, and Arms of that Family. 

Enter Arnheim and Meister, Attendants of Coctnt 
Siegendorf. 

Am. Be quick ! the count will soon return: the ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 

Meis. I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
As far as the man's dress and figure could 
By your description track him. The devil take 
These revels and processions! All the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
I 'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

Arn. Go to! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I 'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
Than follow in the train of a great man 
In these dull pageantries. 

Arn. Begone! and rail 

Within. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Cottntess Josephine Siegendorf and Ida 
Stralenheim. 

Jos. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 

Ida. How can you say so ! never have I dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs. 
The banners, and the nobles, and t'..e knights, 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even tlie tombs, 
Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns. 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder ; • 
The white robes and the lifted eyes; the world 
At peace! and all at peace with one another! 
Oh, my sweet mother! [Embracing Josephine. 

Jos. My beloved child ! 

For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

Ida, Oh! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it throb 
With aught more bitter. 

Ida. Never shall it do so ! 

How should it ? What should make us grieve ? I hate 
To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
The count, and Ulric, eind your daughter Ida, 

Jos. Poor child! 

Ida. Do you pity me ? 

Jos. No; 1 but envy, 

And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida. I '11 not hear 

A word against a world which still contains 
you and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
Aught like him ? How he tower'd among them all ! 
How all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster — 
Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
Will wither. 

Jos, You will spoil him, little flatterer, 

If he should hear you, 

Ida. But he never will. 

I dare not say so much to him — 1 fear him. 

Jos. Why so ? he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of liim into words to him. 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me, 



Jos. How so? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
Yet he says nothing. 

Jos. It is nothing : all men. 

Especially in these dark troublous times, 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

Jos. Yet there are other men, 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance, 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. I did not see him, 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept : and yet methought, 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 

warm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. I could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
Together with the people's. 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Let us retire ; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 

Ida. And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels. 
Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear mother, I am with yoa. [Exeunt. 

Enter Count Siegendorf, in /mZZ dress, from the solem- 
nity, and LuDwiG. 

Sieg. Is he not found ? 

Lvd. Strict search is making every where ; and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

Sieg. Where 's Ulric ? 

Lud. He rode round the other way 

With some young nobles ; but he left diem soon ; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, with his train. 
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 

Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed. 
Sieg. (to Lud wig.) See they cease not 

Their quest of him I have described. (Exit Ludwig.) 

Oh, Ulric ! 
How have I long'd for thee ! 

Ulr. Your wish is granted — 

Behold me ! 



"leg. 



I have seen the murderer. 



Ulr. Whom? Where? 

Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 

Ulr, You dream. 

Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 

Heard him ! he dared to utter even my name. 

Ulr. What name ? 

Sieg. Werner ! i'ujos mine. 

Ulr. It must be so 

No more : forget it. 

Sieg. Never! never! all 

My destinies were woven in that name : 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb. 
But it may lead me there. 

Ulr. To the point — the Hungarian? 

Sieg. Listen ! — The church was throng'd ; the hymn 
was raised ; 
" Te Deum" peal'd from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praised" 
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years, 
Each bloodier than the former : I arose, 
With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 



WERNER. 



341 



Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw 
A moment and no more,) what struck me sightless 
To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
Was over, and we marcja'd back in procession. 
Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge 

The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 
Which shot along the glancing tide below, 
The decorated street, the long array, 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings. 
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round, 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. * 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then ? 

Sieg. I look'd, as a dying soldier 

Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
But still I saw him not ; but in his stead — 

Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Sieg. My eye for ever fell 

Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest. 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes. 
Which overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague. 

Ulr. What 's this to the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Much ; for I 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — " Werner .'" 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him ! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 

Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 

Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause ; 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
(The old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me. 

Ulr. But I '11 aid you now. 

Sieg. In what? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he's 

found, 
What shall we do with him ? 

Sieg. I know not that. 

Ulr. Then wherefore seek? 

Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted ! nor can be 
Unravell'd, till 

Enter an Attendant. 

Alt. A stranger to wait on 

Your excellency. 

Sieg. Who? 

Att. He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him, no'erthcless. 

[The Attendant introduces Gaboh, and aftcru>ards 
exit. 

Ah! 
Gab. 'T is, then, Werner ! 

Sieg. {haughtili/ .) The same you knew, sir, by that 

name ; and i/on ! 
Gab. {looking round.) I recognize you both : fatlior 
and son, 



It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you : you 
are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
A crime as [He pauses. 

Gab. Give it utterance, and then 

I '11 meet the consequences. . 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unless 

Gab. First, who accuses me ? 

Sieg. All things, 

If not all men : the universal rumour — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the time — 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on me mly ? 

Pause ere you answer : is no other name, 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 

Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all that breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slander. 
But I will talk no further with a wretch. 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. 'T is false ! 

Sieg. Who says so? 

Gab. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gab. By 

The presence of the murderer. 

Sieg. Name him! 

Gab. He 

May have more names than one. Your lordship had so 
Once on a time. 

Sieg. If you mean mc, I dare 

Your utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 

I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Gab. (pointing to Vi^Ric.) Beside you! 

[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor ; Siegev- 
DORF interposes. 

Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 

[He turns to Ulric. 
Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
It will refute itself But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 

Gal). Look at him, count, and then hear me. 

Sieg. {first to Gabor, and tlicn looking at Ulric.) 

I hear thee. 
My God ! you look 

Ulr. How ? 

Sieg. As on that dread night 

When we met in the garden. 

Ulr. {composes himself.) It is nothing 

Gab. Cmint, you are bound to hoar mo. I came 
hither 
Not seeking you, but sought. When I knell down 
Amitlst tiic people in the church, I dream'd not 
To lind the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
Of Kcnutors and princes; but you have call'd mc, 
Ami we have met. 

Sirg. Go on, sir. 

Gab. Ero I do so, 

Allow mo to inquire who profited 
l^y Stralciiln'mi's death? Was 't I — a-s poor u over; 
And poorer hv suspicion on my name! 
The barun lo^t in that last outrage neither 
Jewels nor gold ; hi.s life alone was sought,— 



342 



WERNER. 



A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honours and estates scarce less than princely. 

Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
To me than to my son. 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one among us. 
I speak to you, Count Siegendorfj because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me ? 
Dare you command me ? 

[SiEGENDORF^rsf looks at the Hungarian, and then 
at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre and is 
drawing lines with it on the floor — stiU in its 
sheath. 

Ulr. {looks at his father and says) Let the man go on ! 

Gab. I am unarm'd, count — bid your son lay down 
His sabre. 

Ulr. {offers it to him contemptuously.) Take it. 

Gab. No, sir, 'tis enough 

That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Vlr. {casts the sabre from him in contempt.) It — or 
some 
Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
Once when disarm'd and at my mercy . 

Gab. True — 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
Your ovm especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further? 

[To SlEGENDOEF. 

Sieg. {takes his son by the hand.) My son ! I know 
my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you 

By speaking of myself much ; I began 
Life early — and am what the world has made me. 
At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
A vidnter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
To hear related a strange circumstance 
In February last. A martial force. 
Sent by the state, had after strong resistance 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Blarauders from the hostile camp. — They proved, 
However, not to be so — but banditti. 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
Many among them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 
And placed beneath the civil.jurisdiction 
Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 
I know no more. 

Sieg. And what is this to Ulric ? 

GcA. Among them there was said to be one man 
Of wonderful endowments : — birth and fortune, 
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman, 
And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 
His by the public rumour ; and his sway 
Not only over his associates, but 
His judges, was attributed to witchcraft. 
Such was his influence : — I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of the mine — 
I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
This prodigy, if only to behold him. 



Sieg. And did you so? 

Gab. You '11 hear. Chance favour'd me 

A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
The moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
" This is the man !" though he was then, as since, 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly : 
I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
Stature, and bearing — and amidst them all. 
Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Ulr. {smiling.) The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And may sound better. — He appear'd to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft depend ; besides. 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
Was to be fix'd by him. — There I was -wrong. 

Sieg. And may not be right now. 

Gab. I foUow'd him, 

SoUcited his notice — and obtained it — 
Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 
To leave the city privately — ^we left it 
Together — and together we arrived 
In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succour'd Now we are on 

The verge — dare you hear further ? 

Sieg. 1 must do so — 

Or I have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above his station — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions, 't was that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear'd in height of mind 
In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags : I would have shared 
My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it. 

Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it? 

Gab. Still you owe me something, 

Though not for that ; and I owed you my safety, 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That /had robb'd him. 

Sieg. / conceal'd you — I, 

Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving viper ! 

Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge : 
Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and I '11 be merciful ! 

Sieg. You merciful 

You ! Base calumniator ! 

Gab. I. 'T will rest 

With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me — 
In secret passages known to yourselfj 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night. 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer, 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light : 
I follow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where. 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I look'd through and beheld a purple bed. 
And on it Stralenheim ! — 

Sieg. Asleep ! And yet 

You slew him ! — Wretch ! 

Gab. He was already slain, 

And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 



WERNER. 



343 



Sieg. But he was all alone ! 

You saw none else ? You did not see the 

[He pauses from agitation 
Gab. No, 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. {to Ulric.) Then, my boy ! thou art guiltless 
still— 
Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gab. Be patient I I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, — or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same night : how he had enter'd 
He best knows — but within an antechamber. 
The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh ! God of fathers ! 

Gab. I beheld his features 

As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
When I first charged him with the crime — so lately. 

Sieg. This is so 

Gab. (interrupting him.) Nay — but hear me to the 
end! 
jNow you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Betray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short poniard 
(Having left my sword without) I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I tum'd, and fled — i' the dark : chance rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall. 
And thence the chamber where you slept : if I 
Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief 
sleep. 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out ! 

Gab. 'T is not my fault, 

If I have read it. — Well ! I fled and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me and have found me — now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. (after a pause.) Indeed ! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gab. You shall know it 

At once : — When you were poor, and I, though poor. 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I offor'd you 
My purse — you would not share it : — I '11 be franker 
Witli you : you arc wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The imperial powers — you understand me ? 

Sieg. Yes. — 

Gab. Not quite. You think mo venal, and scarce 
true; 



'T is no less true, however, that my fortunes 

Have made me both at present. You shall aid me: 

I would have aided you — and also have 

Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 

Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation ? 

Gab. (casts his eyes on Ulkic, who is leaning against 
a pillar.) If I should do so ? 

Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
This tower. [Opens a turret door. 

Gab. (hesitatingly.) This is the second safe asylum 
You have offer'd me. 

Sieg. And was not the first so? 

Gab. I know not that even now — but will approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision ! 

Sieg. I will be so. — 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further 

Gab. I '11 take it for so much. 

Sieg. (points to Ulric's sabre still upon the' ground.) 
Take also that— 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab. (takes up the sabre.) I will; and so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 

[Gabor goes into the turret, which SiEGENBORr 
closes. 

Sieg. (advances to Ulric.) Now, Count Ulric ! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou? 

Ulr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster ! 

Ulr. Most true, father ! 

And you did well to listen to it: what 
We know, we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 

And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villany. 

Ulr. It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 

As never to have hit on this before ? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? Or had the prince's household been 
Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could you, IVemer, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Have fled, unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you, 
Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

Sieg. Parricide ! no less 

Than common slabber ! What deed of my life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay btMwocn us. This 
Is (imo for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While you wpro tortured. 
Could / be calm? Thuik you tliat I have heard 
This fellow's talo without sonu» f»>eling ? — you 
Have taught nic feeling for you and myself; 
For whom or what olso did you over teach it ? 

Sieg. Oh! my dead fathtr's curse! 'tis working now. 



344 



WERNER. 



Ulr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep it down ! 
Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 
To baffle such, than countermine a mole. 
Which winds its blind but living path beneath you. 
Yet hear me still ! — If you condemn me, yet 
Remember toko hath taught me once too often 
To listen to him! Who proclaim'd to me 
That there were crimes made venial by the occasion ? 
That passion was our nature? that the goods 
Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
Who show'd me his humanity secured 
By his nei'ves only ? Who deprived me of 
All power to vindicate myself and race 
In open day? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
Himself— a /e/on's brand! The man who is 
At once both warm and weak invites to deeds 
He longs to doj but dare not. Is it strange 
That I should act what you could think ? We have done 
With right and wrong ; and now must only ponder 
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, - 
Whose hfe I saved from impulse, as, unknoum, 
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 
Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
Was a rock in our way which I cut through, 
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
And our true destination — ^but not idly. 
As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
His life: when due, I but resumed the debt. 
He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 
The torch — you show'd the path ; now trace me that 
Of safety — or let me ! 

Sieg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers 
hfe— 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
No more to learn or hide : I Icnow no fear, 
And have within these very walls men whom 
(Although you know them not) dare venture all things. 
You stand high with the state ; what passes here 
Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me : 
We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric. 

Sieg. (solus.) Am I awake ? are these my father's 
halls? 
And yon — my son ? My son ! mine ! who have ever 
Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's! — Ulric — he hath partisans. 
It seems: I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool ! 
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
Than of the criminal! Ho! Gabor ! Gaborl 

[Exit into the turret^ closing the door after him. 

Scene II.— The Interior of the Turret. 

Gabor and Siegendorf. 

Gab. Who calls ? 
L seg-. I— Siegendorf! Take these, and fly! 

Oe not a moment ! 

[Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, and 
thrusts them into Gabor's hand. 

Gab. What am I to do 

With these ? 

Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 

And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 

Gab. You pledged your honour for my safety ! 



Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so ? 

Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
You sought this fatal interview ! 

Sieg. I did: 

Let it not be more fatal still ! — Begone ! 

Gab. By the same path I enter'd ? 

Sieg. Yes ; that 's safe still : 

But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well — 

And knew it ere yourseli^ unhappy sire I 
Farewell ! [Emt Gabor. 

Sieg. (solus and listening.) He hath clear'd the 
staircase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 

Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

[He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with weapons drawn. 

Ulr. Despatch ! — he 's there ! 

Lud. The count, my lord! 

Ulr. (recognizing SiKGENDOHT.) Fou here, sir ! 

Sieg. Yes : if you want another victim, strike ! 

Ulr. (seeing him stript of his jewels.) Where is the 
ruffian who hath plunder'd you ? 
Vassals, despatch in search of him ! You see 
'T was as I said — the wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom! 
Away ! I '11 follow you forth\vith. 

[Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric. 
What 's this ? 
Where is the villain ? 

Sieg, There are two, sir : which 

Are you in quest of? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

Sieg. He's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance ? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well ! 

[Ulric is going. 

Sieg. Stop I I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, 
Ulric ! 
Will you then leave me ? 

Ulr. What ! remain to be 

Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity. 
Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

Sieg. I never had one ; 

And would you ne'er had borne the useless name ! 
Where will you go ? I would not send you forth 
Without protection. 

Ulr. Leave that unto me. 

I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 

Sieg. The foresters ! 

With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frankfort ? 
Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the name ! Go tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
With Wallenstein ! 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



345 



Enter Josephine and Ida. 

Jos. What is 't we hear ? My Siegendorf ! 

Thank Heav'n, I see you safe ! 

Sieg. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear father ! 

Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord ? 

Sieg. That you have given birth 

To a demon '. 

Ida. {taking Ulricas hand.) Who shall dare say this 
of Uh-ic? 

Sieg. Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that hand ! 



Ida. {stooping to kiss it.) I 'd kiss it off, though it were 

mine ! 
Sieg. It is so ! 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 

Ida. Oh, great God ! 

And I have loved this man ! 

[Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speecUes» 
with horror. 
Sieg. The wretch hath slain 

Them both! — My Josephine! we are now alone ! 
Would we had ever been so! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
In mine ! — The race of Siegendorf is past ! 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 

A DRAMA. 



[This production is founded partly on the story of a 
novel called The Three Brothers, published many years 
ago, from which M. G. Lewis' IVood Demon was also 
taken — and partly on the Faust of the great Goethe. 
The present publication contains the two first Parts only, 
and the opening chorus of the third. The rest may per- 
haps appear hereafter.] 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 
Strangeb, afterwards Cmsar. 
Arnold. 
Bourbon. 
Philibert. 
Cellini. 



WOMEN. 



Bertha. 
Olimpia. 



Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Pnests, Peasants ^c 



PARTI. 

Scene I.— A Forest. 
Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 

Bert. Out, hunchback ! 

jlrn I was born so, mother ! 

Beri 0"< 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sons 
The sole aborUon ! 

j^rn. Would that I had been so, 

And never seen the light ! 

p^^^ I would so too ! 

But as thou hast— hence, hence— and do thy best ! 
That back of thine may bear its burden ; 't is 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

Am. It bears its burden ;— but, my heart ! Will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother ? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : notliiiig 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like mo. 
You nursed me— do not kill mo ! 

jj^ Yes — I nursed theo, 

Because thou wcrt my first-bom, and I knew not 
2T 



If there would be another unlike thee. 

That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, 

And gather wood ! 

Arn. I will : but when I bring it, 

Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me ; 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 

Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not 
Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out 

[Exit Bertha. 

Am. {solus.) Oh mother ! She 's gone, and 1 

must do 
Her bidding ;— wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood: in doing thi$ he 
wounds one of his hands. 
My labour for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home. — What home? I have no home,. no kin, 
No kind— not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too 
Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as tlicy have stung me ! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken mc. 
Would aid his likeness I If I must partake 
His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too? For one kind word 
From her who bore mo would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to xvash hit 
hand : he starts back. 
They are right ; and Natures mirror shows me 
What she hath made mo. I will not look on it 
Again, ami scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wretch 
That I am! The very waters mock mo with 
My horrid shadow— like a demon |)lacod 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. [^« pauset. 



346 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



And shall I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myselfj and shame 
Unto what brought me into life ? Thou blood, 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if tliou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if it wll sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's- nightshade— my 
Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground, with the 
point upwards. 

Now 't is set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but 
In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, his 
eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, which 
seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir, 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What's here? A mist! No more? — 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stanas 
gazing upon it : it is dispelled, and a tall black 
man comes towards him. 
Am. What would you ? Speak ! 

Spirit or man ? 

Stran. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Am. Your form b man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men are that 

Which is so called or thought, that you may add me 
To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
But come : you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Am. You have interrupted me. 

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made you 
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Am. I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society) you can't tell how he approaches ; 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Look likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Am. Do you — dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity ? 

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Botli beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty 
In acUon and endurance than thyself, 



And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural : 't was only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

Arn. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot, 
When he spurns high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
The helmless dromedary ; — and I 'II bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 
Stran. I will. 

Am. {with surprise.) Thou canst 7 
Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else? 

Arn. Thou mockest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking ? That 's poor sport, methinks. 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mhie) the forester 
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,— 
Now / can mock the mightiest. 

Am. Then waste not 

Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I am not so easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 
Am. What wilt thou do for me ? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you ; 
Or form you to your wish in any shape. 

Arn. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Naught else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. 1 11 show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 
Thy choice. 
Am. On what condition? 

Stran. There 's a questicm .' 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Am. No ; I will not. 

I must not compromise my soul. 

Stran. What soul, 

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a ca.rcass ? 

Am. 'T is an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement 
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: 
Must it be sign'd in blood ? 

Stran. Not in your own. 

Am. Whose blood then? 

Stran. We will talk of that hereafter 

But I '11 be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
Are you content ? 
Am. I take thee at thy word. 

Stran. Now then! — 

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to 
Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 
Am. For what ? 

Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters, 
And make the charm effective. 
Am. {holding out his wounded arm.) Take it all. 
Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 
[The Stranger takes some q/" Arnold's blood in Ja$ 
hand, and casts it into the fountain. 

Stran. Shadows of beauty ! 
Shadows of power I 
Rise to your duty — 
This is the hour ! 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



347 



Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz mountain.* 
Come as ye were, 

That our eyes may behold 
The model in air 

Of the form I will mould, 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd ; — 
Such his desire is, [Pointing to Arnold. 

Such my command! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 

Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor, 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman's picture, 

Who breath'd to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power I - 
Up to your duty — 

This is the hour! 
[ Vcaious Phantoms arise from the waters, and pass 
in succession before the Stranger and Arnold. 

Am. What do I see? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 

Am. The phantom 's bald ; my quest is beauty. 
Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 

Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than 
hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Arn. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[The phantom of Julius Coesar disappears. 

Am. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone. 
And left no footstep ? 

Stran. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 't is no more than yours, 
Except a little longer and less crooked 
I' the sun. Behold another! 

[A second phantom passes. 

Am. Who is he? 

Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 

Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias ; — wouldst 
thou 
Invest thee with his form? 
• Am. Would that I liad 

Been born with it! But since I may choose further, 
I will look further. 

[The shade of Alcibiades disappears. 



Thii Is a well-known Germnn supetslillon— a glgnnlic shadow pro- 
ed b/ rtfloction on the Urocken. 



Stran. Lo! behold again! 

Am. What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
eyed satyr. 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

Stran. And yet he was 

The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification o.f all virtue. 
But you reject him ? 

Arn. If his form could bring ma 

That which redeem'd it — no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Arn. No. I was not born for philosophy, 
Though I have that about me which has need on 't. 
Let him fleet on. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 

[The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises. 

Arn. What 's here ? whose broad brow and whoso 
curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world. 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest. 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Arn. I cannot blame him, 

Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchang'd the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features? 

Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult. 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir! 

Thy Cleopatra 's waiting. 

[The shade of Antony disappears: another rises. 

Am. Who is this ? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod. 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature. 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs. 
Which he wears as the sun his rays — a something 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human oniy ? 

Stran. Let the earth speak, 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

Arn. Who was tliis glory of mankind? 

Stran. The shame 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt ia waur — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Am. Yet one shadow more. 

Stran. {addressing the' shadow.) Got thee to Lamia's 
lap! 
[The shade of Demetrius Poliocetes vamshes. 
another rises. 

I '11 fit you still, 
Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadows of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I 'II animate tlie ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her now garment. 

Am. Content ! I will ftx hero. 

Stran. I must commend 

Your choice. The godlike son of Uio soa-goddess, 
The vuishom boy of Peleus, witli his locks 
As beautiful and clear as tlio amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, roU'd o 'er sands of gold. 



348 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 

Rippled like flowing waters by the wmd, 

All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold them ! 

And him — as he stood by Polixena, 

"With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 

The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 

"With some remorse w^ithin for Hector slain 

And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 

For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 

Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 

He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 

Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant 

Ere Paris' arrow flew, 

■Arn. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

Stran. You have done well. The greatest 

Deformity should only barter wilh 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

■^"- Come ! Be quick ! 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 

Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
But dream it is what must be. 

•^'^- Must I wait ? 

Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two : 
His stature is twelve cubits ; would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak? 
Am. Why not? 
Stran. Glorious ambition! 

I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David: 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
"Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed engines. 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel, 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. ^ 

Arn. Then let it be as thou deera'st best. 

Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thins thou 



And strong as what it was, and— 
_^'""- I ask not 

For valour, smce deformity is daring. 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal- 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in its halt movements, to become 
AU that the others cannot, in such things 
As sun are free to both, to compensate 
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
And oft, like Tmiour the lame Tartar, win them 

Stran. Well spoken ! And thou doubtless wilt rer 
Form d as thou art, I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it ? 

Am. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way, with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discoiiraging weight upon me, like a mountain. 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders— 
An hateful and unsightly molehill to 






The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 

On beauty in that sex which is the type 

Of all we know or dream of beautiful 

Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 

Not of love, but despair ; nor sought to win. 

Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 

In turn, because of this vile crooked clog. 

Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 

It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 

The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 

Of shape ;— my dam beheld my shape was hopeless. 

Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 

I knew the passionate part of hfe, I had 

Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 

Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 

UgUest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 

And perseverance could have done, perchance 

Had made me something — as it has made heroes 

Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 

Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 

And he who is so is the master of 

Whatever dreads to die. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you have been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste ! haste ! 

Stran. And what shall / wear ? 

Am. Surely he 

Who can command all forms will choose the highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who sle%v him, that of Paris : or— still higher— 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Stran. Less will content me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Am. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If 1 chose, 

I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear : 
But I have worn it long enough of late, 
And now I 'II take your figure. 
Am. Mine ! 

Stran. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, 
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes ; 
You have yours — I mine. 
Arn. Despatch! despatch! 

Stran. Even so. 

[The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it along 
the turf, and then addresses the phantom of 
Achilles. 
Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis's boy! 
Who sleeps m the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 
From the red earth, like Adam,* 

Thy likeness I shape. 
As the being who made him, 

Whose actions I ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing, 

Till the rose in his cheek 

Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak ! 



Adam meana "red earth.'' from which the first man wm formed. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



349 



Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes ! 
And thou sunshiny water. 

Of blood take the guise ! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 

Be his long flowing hair, 
And wave o'er his brows. 

As thou wavest in air ! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I tear from the rock ! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The Uly-root surest, 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound, 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirr'd, 
Know me, and hear me, 

And leap to my word ! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation ! 
'T is done ! He hath taken 

His stand in creation ! 

[Arnold falls senseless ; his soul passes into the 
shape of Achilles, which rises from the ground; 
while the phantom has disappeared, part by part, 
as the figure was formed from the earth. 

Am. {in his new form.) I love, andj I shall be 
beloved ! Oh life ! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 

Stran. Stop ! 

What shall become of your abandon'd garment, 
Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness. 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

Am. Who cares ? Let wolves 

A.nd vultures take it, if they will. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you '11 say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Am. Let us but leave it there; 

No matter what becomes on 't. 

Stran. That 's ungracious. 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be. 
It hath sustain d your soul full many a day.] 

Am. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 

Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men. 
Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship : — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 

Am. Who would do so? 

Stran. That I know not. 

And therefore I must. 

Am. You! 

Stran. I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran. In a few moments 

I will bo as you wore, and you shall sec 
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 

Arn. I would be spared this. 

Stran. But it cannot bo. 



What ! shrink already, being what you are, 
From seeing what you were ? 
Arn. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. {to the late form of Arnold, extended on the 
earth.) 
Clay I not dead, but soul-less ! 

Though no man would choose thee, 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire ! without which naught can live ; 
Fire ! but in which naught can live. 
Save the fabled salamander, 
Or immortal souls, which wander. 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water. 

Burning in a quenchless lot: 
Fire ! the only element 

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm. 

Save the worm which dieth not,! 
Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must with thyself be blent : 
Fire! man's safeguard and his slaughter: 
Fire! Creation's first-born daughter. 
And Destruction's threaten'd son. 
When heaven with the world hath done]: 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stifl:* and cold! 
His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
One little, marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same ; 
But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
[An ignis-faiuus flits through the wood, and rests 
on the brow of the body. The Stranger dis- 
appears : the body rises. 
Am. {in his new form.) Oh! horrible! 
Stran. {in Arnold's late shape.) What! tremblest 

thou? 
Am. Not so— 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest ? 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou? 
Am. Must thou be my companion ? 
Stran. Wherefore not? 

Your betters keep worse company. 

Arn. My betters ! 

Stran. Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new 
form : 
I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 's well ; 
You improve apace : — two changes in an instant. 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with me: indeed you '11 find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant ? 

Arn. ^Where the world 

Ts thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stran. That 's to say, where there is war 

And woman in activity. Let's see! 
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth. 
There is small choice : the whole race arc just now 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 
Arn. 1 have heard great things of Rome. 
Stran. A goodly choice— 

And scarce a better to be found on earth. 
Since Soilom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
Of tlio old Vandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Arn. How 

Shall wo prorop<l ? 



360 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 

What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better, 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pages with four coal-black horses. 

Am. A noble sight : 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these! 

Am. The mighty steam, which volumes high 

From their proud nostrils, burns the very air : 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-fhes, wheel 
Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord : 

They and I are your servitors. 

Am. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 
Stran. You shall baptize them, 

Arn. What ! in holy water ? 

Stran. Why not ? The deeper sinner, better saint. 
Am. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons. 
Stran. True ; the devil 's always ugly ; and your 
beauty 
Is never diabolical. 

Arn. I '11 call him 

Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon ; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 
But looks as serious though serene as night, 
.He shall be Mernnon, from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you ? 

■Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
As many attributes ; but as I wear 
A human shape, will take a human name. 

Arn. More human than the shape (though it was 
mine once) 
I trust. 

Stran. Then call me Csesar. 
Arn. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me, 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Am. Well, then, 

Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Shall be plain Arnold still, 

Cces. We '11 add a title— 

" Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound. 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 
Am. Or in an order for a battle-field, 
C<BS. {sings.) To horse! to horse! my coal-black steed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air I 
There 's not a foal of Arab's breed 

More knows whom he must bear ; 
On the hill he will not tire. 
Swifter as it waxes higher ; 
In the marsh he will not slacken. 
On the plain be overtaken ; 
In the wave he will not sink, 
Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 
In the race he will not pant. 
In the combat he'll not faint ; 
On the stones he wU not stumble, 
Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 
In the stall he will not stiffen. 
But be winged as a griffin. 
Only flying with his feet ; 
And will not such a voyage be sweet? 



Merrily ! merrily ! never unsound. 
Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground ! 
From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 
For we '11 leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
[Tfiey mount their horses ^ and disappear. 

Scene IL — A Camp before the WaUs of Rome. 
Arnold and Caesar. 

Cces. You are well entered now, 

Arn. Ay ; but my path 

Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
Of blood, 

Cces. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 
Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France: and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
Under its emperors, and^-changing sex. 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
iMdy of the old world. 

Am. How old? What ! are there 

New worlds? 

Cces. To you. You '11 find there are such shortly, 
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
From one half of the world named a whole new one, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and cars. 

Arn. I'll trust them, 

CcBS. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 

And that is better than the bitter truth, 

Arn. Dog ! 

CcBS. Man! 

Arn. Devil ! 

Cces. Your obedient humble servant. 

Arn. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 

CcBS. And where wouldst thou be ? 

Am. Oh, at peace — in peace ! 

Cces. And where is that which is so? From the star 
To the winding worm, all hfe is motion ; and 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way. 
Living upon the death of other things, 
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
Of something which has made it live and die. 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

Am. And when it prospers 

Cces. 'T is no rebellion. 

Am. Will it prosper now? 

Cass, The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Arn. Alas! 

And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross. 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy, (as once of torture unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge.) 

Cces. 'Tis there, and shall be. 

Am. What? 

Cces. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon the walls. 
And hsirquebusses, and what not ; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

Am. And those scarce mortal archeSi 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



851 



The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those suojects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
In the arena, (as right well they might, 
When they had left no human foe unconquer'd ;) 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
For a sole instant's pastime, and "Pass on. 
To a new gladiator !"— Must it fall ? 

Cobs. The city, or the amphitheatre? 
The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
Both them and me. 

Arn. To-morrow sounds the assault 

With the first cock-crow. 

Cces. Which, if it end with 

The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
For men must have their prey after long toil. 

Am. The sun goes dowTi as calmly, and perhaps 
More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
On the day Remus leapt her wall. 

C(BS. I saw him. 

Am. You ! 

C<BS. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 

Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
And a worse name. I 'm Caesar and a hunchback 
Now. Well ! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 
And loved his laurels better as a wig 
(So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
The world runs on, but we '11 be merry still. 
I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
Slay his o\vn twin, quick-born of the same womb, 
Because he leapt a ditch, ('t was then no wall, 
Whate'er it now be ;) and Rome's earliest cement 
Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
As e'er 't was yellow, it will never wear 
The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
For ages. 

Am. But what have these done, their far 

Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety? 

CcBS. And what had they done, whom the old 
Romans o'erswept? — Hark! 

Am. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 

C(Bs. And why should they not sing as well as swans? 
They are black ones, to be sure. 

Am.. So, you are learn'd,^ 

1 I see, too ? 

C(B8. In my grammar, certes. 1 
i Was educated for a monk of all times, 
' And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could maKe tVieir hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your ali>habet. 

Am. And wherefore do you not? 

Cass. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
And prophet, pontiff", doctor, alchymist, 
Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
The stammcnng yovmg ones of the flood's dull ooze. 
Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why, marry, 
Because no man could understand his neighbour. 
They are wiser now, and will not se|)arato 
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 
Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 



Cabala; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
They build more — 

Arn. {interrupting him.) Oh, thou everljisting sneerer! 
Be silent 1 How the soldier's rough strain seems 
Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 
Listen ! 

C(BS. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 

Arn. And demons howl. 

CcBs. And man too. Let us listen : 

I love all music. 

Song of the Soldiers voit/nn. 
The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow ; 
With Bourbon, the rover, 

They pass'd the broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen, 

We have captured a king. 
We have turn'd back on no men, 

And so let us sing! 
Here 's the Bourbon for ever ! 

Though pennyless all. 
We '11 have one more endeavour 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon well gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wall: on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot, 
Our shouts shall grow gladder. 

And death only be mute. 
With the Bourbon we '11 mount o'er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall count o'er 

The spoi's of each dome? 
Up ! up with the lily ! 

And down with the keys ! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 

We '11 revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory, 

Her Tiber all red, 
And her temples so hoary 

Shall clang with our tread. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon I 

The Bourbon for aye ! 
Of our song bear the burden 1 

And fire, fire away ! 
With Spain for the vanguard. 

Our varied host comes ; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's driuns ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch'd at their mother ; 
But our leader from France is, 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 

Sans country or homo. 
We 'II follow the Bourbon, 
^ To plunder old Rome. 

C<BS. An indifferent song 

For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 

Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But her© 
comes 
The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
A goodly rebel I 

Enter the Constable Bourbon, "cam stus^ ^. 4^. 

Phil. How now, noble prince. 

You arc not cheerful ? 

Bourb. Why sliouki I b« so ? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such u can, 
Most men would b« bo. 

ffourh If I were ■•"«• ' 



352 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



PhU. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of 
adamant, 
They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 

Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears. 
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief] and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods 
Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ; — 
But now — 

Phil. They are but men who war with mortals, 

Bourb. True ; but those walls have girded in great 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth [agi 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart. 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
And beckon me away ! 

Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have faced, 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 
And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eves 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb, And there! 

Phil. Not even 

A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Sheltered by the gray parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practice in the cool twilight. 

Bourb. You are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Be so. 

Bourb. A thousand years have mann'd the^walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the first Caesar with his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement 

Phil. Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater ! 

Bourb. True : so I will, or perish. 

Phil- You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

[Count Arnold and C^sar advance. 

Cees. And the mere men — do they too sweat beneath 
The noon of tJiis same ever-scorching glory ? 

Bourb. Ah ! 

Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master, 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

CcBs. You will find, 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a labourer 
More forward, hunchback ! 

C<Bs. You may well say so, '^ 

For you have seen that back — as general, 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

Bourb. That 's a fair retort, 

For I provoked it :— but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

CcBS. And if I were, I might have saved myself 
The toil of coming here. 

Phil. Why so? 

C<B8. One half 

Of your hrave bands of their own bold accord 
Will go to him, the other half be sent. 
More swiftly, not less surely. 



Bourb. Arnold, your 

Slight crook'd friend 's as snake-Uke in his words 
As his deeds. 

Caes. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
And for my deeds, T only sting when stung. 

Bourb. You are brave, and that 's enough for me ; 
and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that 's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Cces. They are but bad company, your highness ; 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

Phil. How now, fellow ! 

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

CcBS. You mean I speak the truth. 

I '11 lie — it is as easy : then you '11 praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Let him alone ; he 's brave, and ever has 
Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoulder, 
In field or storm, and patient in starvation ; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence. 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere faraish'd, sullen, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis. 
With which he deems him rich. 

C(BS. "' It would be well 

If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

Bourb. Be silent ! 

C(BS. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with words ! 
You have few to speak. 

Phil. What means the audacious prater ? 

CcBs. To prate, like other prophets. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Why will you vex him ? Have we not enough 
To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

Arn. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb. And you will follow ? 

Arn. i.j- Since I must not lead. 

Bourb. 'T is necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step. 

Cobs. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 

So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the seven-hill'd city hath 
Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian. 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well! 
'T was their turn — now 't is ours ; and let us hope 
That we will fight as well, and rule much better. 
" Cobs. No doubt, the camp 's the school of civic 

rights. 
What would you make of Rome ? 

Bourb. That which it was. 

Cces. In Alaric's time? 

Bourb. No, slave ! in the first Caesar's, 
Whose name you bear like other curs 

CcBS. And kings ! 

'T is a great name for bloodhounds. 

Bourb. There 's a demon 

In that fierce rattlesnalte thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious ? 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



363 



Cobs. On the eve of battle, no ; — 

That were not soldier-like. 'T is for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think ? 
Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape. 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourh. You may sneer, since 

'T is lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 

C(BS. I thank you for the freedom ; 't is the only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
But, Philibert, we '11 in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

Am. Prince ! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bourh. In both we prize it, 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 

Cass. And mine ? 

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 

Good night ! 

Am. {to Cesar.) Prepare our armour for the assault. 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, ^c. 

C(BS. \solus.) Within thy tent ! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence ? 
Or that this crook'd coffer, which contain'd 
Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards! 
This is the consequence of giving matter 
The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 
Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
Well ! I must play with these poor puppets : 't is 
The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
When I grow weary of it, I have business 
Among the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
Were made for them to look at. 'T were a jest now 
To bring one down among them, and set fire 
Unto their anthill : how the pismires then 
Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
One universal orison ! Ha! ha! [Exit Cjesar. 



PART II 

Scene I. — Before the walls of Rome. — The Assault . 
the army in motion^ with ladders to scale the walls. 
'BouRBON^with a white scarf over his armour, faremost. 

Chorus of Spirits in the air. 



'T is the morn, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies the silent lark ? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melanclioly 
O'er the city high and holy: 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within. 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
Oh yo seven hills! awaken. 
Ere your very base bo shaken ! 

2. 
Hearken to the steady stamp ! 
Mars is in their every tramp! 
Not a step is out of tune, 
As the tides obey the moon ! 
2 U 



On they march, though to self-slaughter, 
Regular as rolling water, 
Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 
Of huge moles, but keep their order, 
Breaking only rank by rank. 
Hearken to the armour's clank ! 
Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 
How he glares upon the barrier : 
Look on each step of each ladder, 
As the stripes that streak an adder. 

3. 

Look upon the bristling wall, 
Mann'd without an interval ! 
Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon, 
Gaping to be murderous soon. 
All the warlike gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold. 
In this strife 'tvvixt old and new, 
Gather like a locusts' crew. 
Shade of Remus ! 't is a time ! 
Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine : — 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 



Near — and near— and nearer still, 
As the earthquake saps the hill. 
First with trembling, hollow motion. 
Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean. 
Then with stronger shock and louder, 
Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 
Onward sweeps the rolling host! 
Heroes of the immortal boast! 
Mighty chiefs ! eternal shatlows ! 
First flowers of the bloody meadows 
Which encompass Rome, the mother 
Of a people without brother! 
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
Plough the root up of your .'aurels ? 
Ye who wept o'er Carthage burning. 
Weep not — strike ! for Rome is mourning ! 



Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger. 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city. 
Must thou be a theme fbr pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Rather give Uie torch 
With thy own hand to thy porch, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwcUmg with tlicir foot. 



Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
Ilion's children find no Hector ; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
Rome's sire forgot his mother, 
When he slew his gallant twin, 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When the first o'crloapt thy wall, 
Its foimdation mourn'd thy fall. 



• Scipio, tho Mcoiid Afiicaniw, i« mid to hare repented n »«iti< of 
Homer, and wept over tlio lui! nlng of C«rtli«gc. Ha liad b«liei havt 
grai)t«u il a cnpiiulalion. 



354 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able? 
Stalkmg o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome! 



Now they reach thee in their anger : 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangour 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder ! 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes. 
Downward then the ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleaming, 
Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
Up again! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier 
Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall may perish, 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome I — 
Yet be Rome amid thine anguish. 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 



Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 

Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's ! 

Yet again, ye shadowy heroes. 

Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 

Though the son who slew his mother 

Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 

'T was the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 

Brennus was a bafiled foeman. 

Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, 

Rise ! for yours are holier charters ! 

Mighty gods of temples falling, 

Yet in ruin still appalling ! 

Mightier founders of those altars, 

True and Christian, — strike the assaulters I 

Tiber! Tiber ! let thy torrent 

Show even nature's self abhorrent. 

Let each breathing heart dilated 

Turn, as doth the lion baited I 

Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 

But be still the Roman's Rome ! 

Bourbon, Arnold, C^sar, and others^ arrive cd the 

foot of the wall. Arnold is about to plant his ladder. 

Bourh. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 

Am. Not so, my lord. 

Bourh. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ! I am proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

[A shot strikes him, and Bourbon falls. 

CcBs. And off! 

Am. Eternal powers ! 

The host will be appall'd, — but vengeance ! vengeance ! 

Bourb. 'T is nothing — lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand and rises; 
but as he puts his foot on the step, falls again. 

Bourh. Arnold! I am sped. 

Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it ! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

Am You must be 

Removed 5 the aid of — 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy ; 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay. 
Till they are conquerors — tlien do as you may. 

CcBS. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
cross? 



We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead: — ^it did the same for Bayard. 

Bourh. Thou bitter slave ! to name him at thb time ! 
But I deserve it. 

Am. {to C^sAR.) Villain, hold your peace I 

Cces. What, when a Christian dies ? Shall I not 
offer 
A Christian " Vade in pace ?" 

Arn. Silence ! Oh ! 

Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the world, 
And saw no equal. 

Bourh Arnold, should'st thou see 

France But hark ! hark ! the assault grows warmer — 

Oh! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee. 

Arn. And without <Aee.' 

Bourb. Not so ; 1 11 lead them still 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
Victorious I 

Am. But I must not leave thee thus. 

Bourb. You must — farewell — Up ! up ! the world is 
winning. [Bourbon dies. 

Cass, {to Arnold.) Come, count, to business. 

Am. True. I'll weep hereafter. 

[Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, 
and mounts the ladder, crying 
The Bourbon! Bourbon I On, boys I Rome is ours ! 

CcBs. Good night, lord constable! thou wert a man. 
[CAESAR follows Arnold ; they reach the battle- 
ment ; Arnold and C^sar are struck down. 

CcES. A precious somerset ! Is your countship injured? 

Am. No. [Remounts the ladder. 

CcBS. A rare blood-hound, when his own is heated ! 
And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar ; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here ? — a Roman ? 

[A manfalli. 
The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow? 

Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 

C(BS. Blood 's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 
Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. [Dies. 

CcBS. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge! charge! 

[CiESAR mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 

Scene 11. — The city. — Combats betiveen the Besiegers 
and Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in con- 
fusion. 

Enter C^sar. 

C(BS. I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 
With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 
Their hose as they have doff 'd their hats, 't would be 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
Is of the self-same purple hue. 

Enter a party fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He comes. 
Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and Glory. 
Holloa ! hold, count ! 



I 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



355 



Am. Away ! they must not rally. 

Cces. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave theo 
A form of beauty, and an 
Exemption from some maladies of body, 
But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 
And know thyself a mortal still. 

Arn. And who 

With aught of soul would combat if he were 
Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 

[Aknold rushes into the combat. 

CcBS. A precious sample of humanity ! 
Well, his blood 's up ; and if a little 's shed, 
'T will serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman, who retires 
towards a portico. 

Am. Yield thee, slave! 

I promise quarter, 

Rom. That 's soon said. 

Arn. And done — 

My word is known. 

Rom. So shall be my deeds. 

[They re-engage. CjEsar comes forward. 

C(BS. Why, Arnold ! hold thine own : thou hast in 
hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor ; 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musqucteer; 'twas he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. Ay, did he so ? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Rom. I yet 

May live to carve your betters. 

'Cobs. Well said, my man of marble I Benvenuto, 
Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 

[Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, but slightly; 
the latter draws a pistol, and Jires ; then retires, 
and disappears through the portico. 

CcBS. How farest thou ? Thou hast a taste, methinks, 
Of red Bellona's banquet. 

Arn. (staggers.) 'T is a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 

CcBS. Where is it ? 

Arn. In the shoulder, not the sword arm — 

And that's enough. I am thirsty: would I had 
A helm of water! 

Cees. That 's a liquid now 

In requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

Arn. And my thirst increases ; — but 

I '11 find a way to quench it. 

CcBS. Or be quench'd 

Thyself.? 

Am. The chance is even; we will throw 
The dice thereon. But I loose time in prating ; 
Prithee be quick. [Caesar binds on the scarf. 

And what dost thou so idly ? 
Why dost not strike ? 

CcBs. Your old philosophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may bo found a Milo. 

Am. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 

Cobs. A forest, when it suits me. 

I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine ; 
Which is just now to gaze, since all those labourers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 



Am. Thou art stiU 

A fiend ! 

C(BS. And thou — a man. 
Am. Why, such I fain would show me. 
C(BS. True — as men are. 

Am. And what is that? 

C<ss. Thou feelest and thou see'st. 

[Exit Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
continues betvjeen detached parties. The scene 
closes. 

Scene III.— St Peter's— The Interior of the Church — 
The Pope at the Altar — Priests, fyc. crowding in con- 
fusion, and Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by 
Soldiery. 

Enter C^SAR. 

A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades! seize 
upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveUng to the chine ! 
His rosary's of gold! 

Lutheran Soldier. Revenge! revenge! 
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 

CoES. (interposing.) How now, schismatic ! 

What would'st thou ? 

Luth. Sol. In the holy name of Christ, 

Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

CcBS. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 

Luth. Sol. I say he is the devil. 

CcBs. Hush ! keep that secret, 

Lest he should recognise you for his own. 

Luth. Sol. Why would you save him ? I repeat he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

CcBS. And that 's the reason : would you make a 
quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet ; 
His hour is not yet come. 

Luth. Sol. That shall be seen I 

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward ; a shot strikes 
him from one of the Pope's Gttards, and he falls 
at the fool of the Altar. 

C<ss. (to the Lutheran.) I told you so. 

Luth. Sol. And will you not avenge me ^ 

CcES. Not I! You know that "Vengeance ia the 
Lord's :" 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sol. (dying.) Oh ! 

Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'T is 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon 's 
No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes ! [The Lutheran diet. 

Ca:s. Yes, thine own amid the rest. 

Well done, old Babel ! 

[The Guards defend themselves desperately, tohile ttit 
Pontiff" escapes, by a private passage, to Uie Vatican 
and t/ie Castle of St. Angclo. 

Cos. Ha I right nobly battled ! 

Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great professions, 
Together by iho ears and hearts! I have not soon 
A more comic panlomimo since Titus 
Took Jewry. Hut the Romans had the best then; 
Now they must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 

Follow ! 

Another Sol. They have bnrr'd the narrow passage up, 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to tl)o door. 

Cos. I am glad he hath escaped : ho may thank roe 
for 't 



356 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd— 
'T were worth one half our empire : his indulgences 
Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 
A future miracle, in future proof 
Of his infallibiUty. [To the Spanish Soldiery 

Well, cut-throats! 
What do you pause for ? If you make not haste, 
There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you too. Catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a rehc ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion ; 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

Soldiers. By holy Peter ! 

He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

C<Es. And that were shame ! Go to ! 

Assist in their conversion. 

[The Soldiers disperse ; many quit the Church, 
otiiers enter. 
C'tES. They are gone, 

And others come ; so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity. 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 



Enter Olimpia, fcying from the pursuit— She springs 
upon the Altar. 
Sol. She 's mine 

Another Sol. {opposing the former.) You lie,rtrack'd 
her first ; and, were she 
The Pope's niece, I '11 not yield her. [Tliey fight. 

M Sol. {advancing towards Olimpia.) You may 
settle 
Your claims ; I '11 make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slave! 

You touch me not aUve. 

^d Sol. Alive or dead ! 

Olimp. {emb)-acing a massive crucifix. ) Respect your 

God! 
^d Sol. Yes, when he shines in gold. 

Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and sudden 
effcnt, casts down the crucifix: it strikes the Soldier, 
who falls. 
^dSol. Oh, great God! 

Olimp. Ah I now you recognise him. 
2^ Sol. ^ My brain 's crush'd ! 

Comrades, help, ho ! All 's darkness ! [He dies. 

Other Soldiers, {coming up.) Slay her, although she 
had a thousand lives : 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

^'f^P- Welcome such a death ! 

You have no hfe to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, 
And thee! 

Enter Arnold. 

Am. What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear! 

CcBS. {aside, and laughing.) Ha! ha! here's equity' 
The dogs •' ' 

Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade, 

-^7' . ^ , With what weapon? 

iSol. 1 he cross, beneath which he is crush'd : behold 
him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

Arn. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such. 
Ye would have honour'd her. But get ye hence, 



And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
For your existence. H:ad you touched a hair 
Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones tlie lion leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A Sol. {murmuring.) The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Arn. {cuts him down.) Mutineer ! 

Rebel in heU — ^you shall obey on earth ! 

[The Soldiers assault Arnold. 
Am. Come on ! I 'm glad on 't ! I will show you, 
slaves. 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were as shy to scale. 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you are bold within it. 

[Arnold mows down the foremost ; the rest throw 
down, their arms. 
Soldiers. Mercy! mercy! 

Am. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements? 

Sokliers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 

^'■"- Get you hence ! 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace. 

Olimp. {aside.) In my father's 

House ! 

Arn. {to the Soldiers.) Leave your arms; ye have no 
further need 
Of such : the city 's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find a stream, 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers, {deposing their arms and departing.) We 

obey ! 
Arn. {to Olimpia.) Lady, you are safe 

ry^j7P\ ., I should be so, 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not— 

Death hath a thousand gates; and on the marble. 

Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 

Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 

Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man! 
Arn. 1 wish to merit his forgiveness, and 

Thine own, aUhough I have not injured thee. 

Olimp. No ! thou hast only sack'd my native land — 

No injury !— and made my father's house ' 

A den of thieves ! No injury !— this temple— 

Shppery with Roman and with holy gore. 

No injury! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 

To be — but that shall never be ! 

[She raises h^r eyes to Heaven, folds her robe rouna 
her, and prepares to dash herself dawn on the side 
of the Altar opposite to that wAere Arnold stands. 

^ ^'■"- Hold! hold! 

I swear. 

Olimp. Spare thme already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

Am. No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 

Of these men, though — 

Olimp 1 judge thee, by thy mates; 

It IS for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take m^ie, 't is all thou e'er shalt have of me ! 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where the baptismal font baptised me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia ivaves her hand to Arnold with disdain, 
and dasfies herself on the pavement from the 
Altar. 



I 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



357 



Am. Eternal God ! 

I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 

C(BS. (approaches.) I am here. 

Arn. Thou ! but oh, save her ! ' 

Cobs, (assisting him to raise Olimpia.) She hath done 
it well ! 
The leap was serious. 

Arn. Oh ! she is Ufeless ! 

CCBS. If 

She be so, I have naught to do with that : 
The resurrection is beyond me. 

Arn. Slave ! 

CcBS. Ay, slave or master, 't is all one : methinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Arn. Words! — Canst thou aid her ? 
Cobs. I will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[He brings some in his helmet from the font. 

Arn. 'T is mix'd with blood. 

CcBS. There is no cleaner now 

In Rome, 

Am. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

CcBS. Even so Achilles loved 

Penthesilea: with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 

Arn. She breathes! But no, 't was nothing, or the last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

CcBS. She breathes. 

Arn. Thou say'st it ? Then 't is truth. 

CcBS. You do me right — 

The devil speaks truth much oftener than he 's deem'd : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Arn. (unthoui attending to him.) Yes ! her heart beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

CcBS. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear 

her? 
I say she lives. 

Arn. And will she live ? 

CcBS. As much 

As dust can. 

Am. Then she is dead ! 

CcBS. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

Am. We will 

Convey her unto the Colonna palace. 
Where I have pitch'd my banner. 

Cees. Come then! raise her up ! 

Am. Softly! 

Cces. As softly as they bear the dead. 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Arn. But doth she live indeed ? 

CcBS. Nay, never fear ! 

But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

Arn. Let her but live ! 

Caes. The spirit of her life 

Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Count ! count ! I am your ser/ant in all things, 
And this is a new oflice : — 't is not oft 
I am cmploy'd in such ; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fi(!nds for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

Arn. Thou ! 

Cass. I ! But fear not. I '11 not bo your rival. 

Arn. Rival ! 



Cobs. I could be one right formidable •, 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride, (and after all 
'T was suck'd out by some incense,) I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 't is rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again; for there 's 
The rub ! at least to mortals. 

Arn. Prithee, peace ! 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

CcBs. Like stars, no doubt; for that's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Am. To the palace 

Colonna, as 1 told you ! 

CcBS. Oh ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Arn. Now onward, onward ! Gently . 

[Exeunt, hearing Olimpia. — The scene closes 



PART HI. 

Scene I. — A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a 
wild but smiling country. Chorum of Peasants singing 
before the Gates. 



I. 

The wars are over, 

The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home: 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let tlieir hearts have an echo in every voice ! 

2. 
The spring is come ; the violet 's gone. 
The first-born child of the early sun : 
With us she is but a winter's flower. 
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 



And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues. 



Pluck the others, but still remember 
Thei» herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
Nor, mid the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter Caesar. 

C(BS. (singing.) The wars are all over. 

Our swords arc all idle, 

The steed bites the bridle, 
The casque's on the wall. 
There 's rest for the rover ; 

But his armour is rusty. 

And tlie veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall. 

He drinks — but what 's drinking ? 

A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awnkog him with lifc-and-dcatl) call. 

CHORUS. 

But the hound bavoth loudly, 

The boar 's in tho wood, 
And tho falcon lungs proudly 

To spring from hor hood : 



358 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



On the wrist of the noble 

She sits hke a crest, 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 

Cobs. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 
Dim image of war ! 

But the chase hath no story, 
Her hero no star, 

Since Nimrod the founder 
Of empire and chase, 

Who made the woods wonder 
And quake for their race. 

When the lion was young, 
In the pride of his might, 

Then 't was sport for the strong 
To embrace him in fight ; 



To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear 'gamst the mammoth, 
Or strike through the ravine 

At the foaming behemoth ; 
While man was in stature 

As towers in our time, 
The first-bom of nature. 

And, like her, sublime ! 

CHORUS. 

But the wars are over, 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice ! 

\Exmnt the Peasantry j singing. 



1 



HEAVEN AND EAR^H 

A MYSTERY, 



FOTJITDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VI. 

" And it came to pass .... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair ; and they 
took them wives of all which they chose." 



And woman wailing for her demon lover." — Coleridge. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

ANGELS. 
Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael the Archangel. 

MEN. 

Noah and his Sons. 

Irad. 

Japhet. 

WOMEN. 
Anaii. 
Aholibamah. 

Chorus of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 



PART I. 

Scene I. — A woody and mountainous district near 
Mount Ararat. — Time, midnight. 

Enter Anaii and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat: — 
How my heart beats ! 

Aho. Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah. But the stars are hidden. 

I tremble. 

Aho. So do I, but not with fear 
Of aught save their delay. 

Anah. My sister, tliough 



I love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! 

What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious. 

Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me : 
This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Aho. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
There 's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long 
Marry, and bring forth dust ! 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 
Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph, 
And he the perishable. 

Aho. Rather say. 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 

Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him, 
Better thus than that he should weep for me, 

Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All seraph as he is, I 'd spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation ! 'T is the hour. 

Anah. Seraph ! 

From thy sphere! 

Whatever star contain thy glory ; 
In the eternal depths of heaven 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



359 



Albeit thou watchest with "the seven"* 
Though through space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear I 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear! 

And though she nothing is to thee, 
Yet think that thou art all to her. ' 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thy years, 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
With me thou canst not sympathize. 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more lovmg dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who made thee great. 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou forget'st in thine eternity 
Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er- 
flowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight. 

Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite.— 
Appear ! Appear ! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel I be but here. 
And leave the stars to their own light. 
Aho. Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with him 
Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Soms wandering star, which shoots through the abyss. 
Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling. 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and share my lot ! 

Though I be form'd of clay, 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams, 
Thine immortality can not repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 

In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long : death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away. 
Is that a cause for thee and mo to part? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 
I feel my immortality o'ersweep 



' The arctiBDgeli ^aitl lo be acven in iiuniboi . 



All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal. 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
Into my ears this truth — " thou liv'st for ever !" 
But if it be in joy 

I know not, nor would know ; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver 

Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and wo. 
But thee and me he never can destroy ; 

Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 

Of as eternal essence, and must war 

With him if he will war with us : with thee 
I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 

For thou hast ventured to share life with me, 

And shall I shrink from thine eternity ? 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me 
thorough. 

And thou thyself wert like the serpent coil 

Around me still ! and I will smile 
And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend ; and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 

Anah. Sister! sister! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Aho. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 

Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Anah. They come ! he comes ! — ^Azaziel ! 

Aho. Hast© 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there. 
To Samiasa's breast! 

Anah,L,o\ they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 

On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-colour'd bow. 
The remnant of their flashing path, 
Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as rippling foam, 

Which the leviathan halh lash'd 
From his unfathomable home. 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep. 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 

Aho. They have touch'd earth! Samiasa! 

Anah. My Azaziol ! 

\Exeunt. 

Scene II. — Enter Irad and Japhet. 

Irad. Despond not: wherefore wilt thou wander thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
They cannot aid thee. 

Japh. But they sooth me — now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Bccometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah ! 

Irad. But she lovos thee not. 

Japh. Alas ! 

Iraii. And proud Aholibamali spurns mu also. 

Japh. I feel for ihoe too. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride, 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn: 
It may bo, lime too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought ? 

Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow. 



360 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met vi^ith love ; as 't is, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

Japh. What destinies ? 

Irad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 

Japh. Anah ! 

Irad. No ; her sister. 

Japh. What other ? 

Irad. That I know^ not ; but her air, 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

Japh. Ay, but not Anah: she but loves her God. 

had. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not. 
What can it profit thee ? 

Japh. True, nothing ; but 

I love. 

Irad. And so did I. 

Japh. And now thou lov'st not. 

Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier ? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 

Irad. Me ! why ? 

Japh. For being happy, 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 
And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain— 
The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
As if such useless and discolour'd trash, 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and vnlderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars as wolves howl to the moon — 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I 

If 1 could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 

Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

What would'st thou there ? 

Japh. Sooth further ray sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot. 
And I am hopeless. 

Irad. But 't is dangerous ; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors. 
I must go with thee. 

Japh. Irad, no ; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 

Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
As not being of them : tm-n thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad ; 

I must proceed alone. 

Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

[Exit Irad. 

Japh. {solus.) Peace! 1 have sought it where it 
should be found. 
In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it ; 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
A weakness of the spirit — listless days. 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the calm 
Of desolation, and the stillness of 
The untrodden forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 
Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
Of my mind overworn. The earth 's grown wicked, 
And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 
A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
To perishable beings. Qh. my Anah ! 
When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 



The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 

Have lain within this bosom, folded from 

The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 

Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 

While thine Oh, God ! at least remit to her 

Thy wrath ! for she is pure amid the failing 

As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench. 

Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 

How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not 5 

And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 

When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 

By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 

Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 

Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit Japhet. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

IVoah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 

Shem. He went forth 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers nightly 
Lilie a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

JVoah. What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race. 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days. 
And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
In such forbidden yearnings! Lead the way; 
He must be sought for ! 

Shem. Go not forward, father: 

I will seek Japhet. 

JVoah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah — let us on. 

Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 

JVoah. No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem. 

Scene 111.— The JMountains. — A Cavern, and the Rocks 
of Caucasus. 

Japh. (solus.) Ye wilds, that look eternal; and thou 
cave, 
Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
In perpendicular places, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them — ^yes, 
Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days. 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave. 
Which seems to lead into a lower world. 
Shall have its depth search'd by the sweeping wave, 
And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 

And man Oh, men ! my fellow-beings ! Who 

Shall weep above your universal grave, 

Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 

Alas ! what am I better than ye are. 

That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be ? 

The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 

While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 

Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for her? 

And can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak, 

Whose glittering top is like a distant star. 

Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 

No more to have the morning sun break forth, 

And scatter back the mists in floating folds 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



361 



From its tremendous brow? no more to have 

Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 

Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 

No more to be the beacon of the world, 

For angels to alight on, as the spot 

Nearest the stars ? And can those words " tu> more'^ 

Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us, 

And the predestined creeping things reserved 

By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 

He preserve them, and I not have the power 

To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 

A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 

Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd, 

To hiss and sting through some emerging world. 

Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 

Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this imtii 

The salt morass subside into a sphere 

Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 

The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre. 

Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 

Breath will be still'd at once ! All beauteous world ! 

So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 

With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 

And night by night, thy number'd days and nights. 

I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 

Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 

A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 

Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 

Such as — Oh God! and canst thou [He pauses. 

A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and shouts 
of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 

Japh. In the name 

Of the Most High, what art thou ? 
Spirit, {laughs.) Ha! Ha! Ha! 

Japh. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 
Spirit, {laughs.) Ha! Ha! 

Japh. By the approaching deluge! by the earth 
Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas. 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 

Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 

Japh. For earth and all her children. 
Spirit. Ha! Ha! Ha! 

[Spirit vanishes. 
Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 
The coming desolation of an orb, 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
Why should they wake to meet it? What is here. 
Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
Bom ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 

[Varuma Spirits pass from the cavern. 
Spirit. Rejoice ! 
The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 

But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 

Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
motion, 
Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
Earth shall be ocean ! 
And no breath, 
Save of the winds, be on the unboimded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from otit the hquid grave 
Shall lift its point to save. 
2V 



Or show the place where strong despair hath died, 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not ; 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth naught left but the unbroken blue ; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall naught remain 
Unchanged, nor of the level plain ; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain: 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die. 
And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 
Japh. {coming forward.) My sire! 
Earth's seed shall not expire ; 
Only the evil shall be put away 

From day. 
Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroy ; 
Hence ! heiste ! 
Back to your inner caves! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place. 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be rolld upon the tossing winds 
In restless wretchedness along all space ; 
Spirit. Son of the saved ! 

When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent. 
Shall thou and thine be good or happy ! — No ! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of wo — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride. 
The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive. 
And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
Without such grief and courage, as should rather 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favouHd father, 
And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave ? 
Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hateth thine 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live ! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 

Above what they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more, 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
Thyself for being his son ! 

Chorus of Spirits issuingfrom the cat^n. 

Rejoice ! 
No more Uie human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer ; 



362 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



No more 
Shall they adore ; 
And we, who ne'er fw ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice ; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos ; until they, 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 

And the striped tiger shall he down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother ; 
Till all things shall be as they were, 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation, 
To generate new nations for his use ; 
This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
With all companionship of hate and toil, 

Until 

Japh. (interrupting them.) The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 

Unto himself all times, all thbgs ; 
And, gather'd under his almighty wings, 
Abolish hell ! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 
Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do well ! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous 

spell 7 
Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain, 

And then in glory. 
Spirit. Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain. 
Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain, 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reekmg from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
Shall be among your race in different forms ; 
But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giant's graves.* 

Chorus of Spirits. 
Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
^ Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 

The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ! 
The clouds have nearly fiU'd their springs ; 
The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, 

And heaven set wide her windows ; while mankind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
We hear the sound they carmot hear, 
The mustering thunders of the threatening sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd ; 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high. 



• "And there were giants in thoie days, and after; mighty men, 
vnlcb vers of old men of reDOwa."--G>erM«i«. 



Yet undisplay'd, 
Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 

Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow ! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

The little shells, of ocean's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole space brings 
Naught to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
Brethren, rejoice ! 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
All die, 
Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain ; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters ; 
Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel Heaven upbraid, 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It is decreed, 
All die 5 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed I 
Fly, brethren, fly ! 
But still rejoice ! 
We fell ! 
They fall I 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 

[The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards.] 
Japh. (solus.) God hath proclaim'd the destiny of 
earth ; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll* of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
And yet men listen'd not, nor Usten ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh, 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose, j 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
The sun wiU rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, " Shine !" and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind— but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites : 
Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling — 
And they will sing ! and day will break ! Both near, 
So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day. 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows,— 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? — a chaos, 
Which was ere day ; and which, renew'd, makes time 



• The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, is said by thsm to 
be anterior to the flood. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



363 



Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours ? 

No more to dust than is eternity 

Unto Jehovah, who created both. 

Without him, even eternity would be 

A void : without man, lime, as made for man, 

Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 

Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 

Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world. — 

What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air ? 

No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 

I cannot trace their features ; but their forms. 

How lovelily they move along the side 

Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist ! 

And after the swart savage spirits, whose 

Infernal immortality pour'd forth 

Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 

Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 

To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 

For which I have so often pray'd — They come ! 

Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 

Enter Sarhasa, Azaziel, Anah, and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Japhet ! 

Sam. Lo! 

A son of Adam : 

Aza. What doth the earthborn here, 

While all his race are slumbering? 

Japh. Angel! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou should'st be on high ? 

Aza. Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? 

Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
Which is condemn'd; nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! ray 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved I 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below ? 

Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee ; yet, yet 
Forgive me 

Japh. May the Heaven, which soon «o more 

Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

Japh. The hour may come when thou 

May'st know me better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts, 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
How have Azaziel, or myselfj brought on thee 
Wrong? 

Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of al! wrongs ; but thou 
Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain ? 

Aza. From what ? 

Japh. And is it so. 

That ye too know not? Angels! angels! yc 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
Partake his punishment ; or at the least 
My sorrow. 

Sam. Sorrow ! I no'er thought till now 

To hear an Adamite speak riddles to mo. 

Japh. And hath not tlie Most High expounded thorn? 
Then ye arc lost, as they are lost. 

Aho. So hf it! 

If they love as they aro loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiastt! 



Sister! sister! speak not 



Anah. 
Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

Anah. Yes, for thee: 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This httle life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Japh. It is for him^ then ! for the seraph thou 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
Left thy God too ! for unions like to these, 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannoit 
Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
Are made to minister on high unto 
The Highest: but if he can save thee, soon 
The hour will come in which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah! he speaks of death 

Sam. Of death to tfs .' and those who are vdth us : 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grieve not for myself nor fear 

I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers. 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
The last and loveliest of Caun's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Aho. And dost thou think that we, 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! who was be- 
gotten 
In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril! 
Our race hath alway dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah ! 
Too much of the forefather whom thou vauntest 
Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not ; 'tis a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favour 

Alio, (interrupting him.) And wouldst tliou have her 
like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If J partook thy thought, 
And dreain'd that aught of AM was in her ! — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou tnakest strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth; and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God and him ? 

Japh. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged 
him, and 
f had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He was our father's father ; 
The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
And most enduring : — Shall I blush for him 
From whom wo had our being? L<xik upon 
Our race ; behold llioJr stature and their beauty, 
Thoir courage, strength, and Icngtli of days 

Japh. They are numbered. 

uiho. Be it so ! hut while yet thoir hoiu^ endure, 
I glory in my broihrt i» ami (nir fathors. 



364 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Japh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Anah. Whate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey. 
And will endeavour patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in his dread hour 
Of universal vengeance, (if such should be,) 
It would not be to Uve, aJone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my sister! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, without the sweet past— 
Thy love— my father's— all the life, and all 
The things which sprang up with me, like the stars 
Making my dim existence radiant with 
Soft lights which were not mine ? Aholibamah ! 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it : 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

Aho. What ! hath this dreamer, with his father's ark, 
The bugbear he hath.built to scare the world, 
Shaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 
Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender'd 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
Who shall do this? 

Japh. He whose one word produced them. 

Aho. Who hecard that word ? 

Japh. The universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn ? 
Turn to thy seraphs ; if they attest it not, 
They are none. 

Sam. Ahohbamah, own thy God ! 

Aho. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow? Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. . 

Aho. 'T is said so. 

Japh. It is even so. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. Japhet ! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the wicked ? 
Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom. 

Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earthbom being ; and behold, 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

Noah. These are they, then. 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heaven, 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 

Aza. Patriarch ! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Wo, wo, wo to such communion ! 

Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 

Sam. Was not man made in high Jehovah's image ? 
Did God not love what he had made ? And what 
Do we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

Noah. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing, 
Even on the very eve o( perishing, world, 
Cannot be good. 



Aza. What ! though it were to save ? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
What he who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh. Oh father ! say it not. 

Noah. Son! son! 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist ; they soon shall cease to be, 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 
And better. 

Japh. Let me die with tMs, and them! 

Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt 
Who can redeems thee. [not ; he 

Sam. And why him and thee, 

More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 

Noah. Ask him who made thee greater than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his ovm 
Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 

Enter Raphael the Archangel. 

Raph. Spirits ! 

Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye here ? 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone ? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn 
In glorious homage with the elected " seven." 
Your place is heaven. 
Sam. Raphael ! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 

How long hath this been law, 
That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 

Earth ! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod I 
The world he loved, and njade 
For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
His frequent mission with delighted pinions : 

Adoring him in his least works display'd ; 
Watching this youngest star of his dominions; 
And, as the latest birth of his great word, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Why is thy brow severe ? 
And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction near ? 
Raph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angeUc choir, 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree. 
And not inquired their Maker's breath of me : 
But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 

As they wax proud within ; 
For Blindness is the first-bom of Excess. 

When all good angels left the world, ye stayed, 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

By mortal feelings for a mortal maid ; 
But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away ! 
Or stay. 
And lose eternity by that delay ! 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 
Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



365 



That which I came to do : till now we trod 
Together the eternal space ; together 

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die ! 
Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
And much which she inherits ; but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
Rather than long worship dared endure ! 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Thmk how he was undone ! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late ! 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 

I loved him — beautiful he was : oh heaven ! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice : 
He hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt : 

But man hath listen'd to his voice, 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is, 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will draw 
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. 
Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
Ye cannot die; 
But they 
Shall pass away, 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay, 
Whose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
Think how your essence diffcreth from theirs 
In all but suffering ! why partake 
The agony to which they must be heirs — 
Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares, 
And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? 
Even had their days been left to toil their path 
Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 

Aho. Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die 
Sooner than our white-beardcd patriarchs died ; 
And that on high 
An ocean is prepared. 
While from below 
The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared. 
It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister ! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would bo implored 
For the remission of one hour of wo, 
Let us resign even what wo have adored, 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And wailing loss for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 

And, when the fatal waters are allay'd. 
Weep for the myriads who can weop no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 



Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die. 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will ; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep.— 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
Anah. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 

Azaziel ? 
Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true ! 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new ; 
But yet depart ! 
Ah! why? 
Yet let me not retain thee — fly ! 
My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
To one of Adam's race ! 
Our doom is sorrow: not to us alone. 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To love us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
From his once archangelic throne 
Into some unknown world : 
And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
Thou shalt not suffer wo 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
Mayst suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
Japh. Oh say not so ! 

Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
That pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong ! 
Live as ho wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or bo sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint 
Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And boar what Adam's race must bear, and con. 
Japh. Ay, father ! but when they are gone. 
And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hi<ics our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
Buried in its immrnsurable broa.st, 
Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then command 7 
Can wo in desolation's peace have rest ? 
Oh God ! be thou a God, and spar© 
Yet while 'l is time ! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 



366 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Mankind were then but twain, 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain, 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would their graves, 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
Noah. Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine 's a crime. 
Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

Raph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : Ye ! 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
May now return with me, 

Sam. It may not be ; 

We have chosen, and will endure. 
Raph. Say'st thou? 

-^za. He hath said it, and I say, Amen ! 

Raph. Again ! 

Then from this hour. 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power. 
And aliens from your God, 
Farewell ! 
Japh. Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 

Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still. 
Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
There 's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
Noah. Hark, hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 

Yet dared to soar, 
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
Soon it shall be their only shore, 
And then, no more I 
Japh. The sun ! the sun ! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
And a black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone ! 

The clouds return into the hues of night, 
Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak 
The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 

Noah. And lo ! yon flash of light, 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears 

It cometh ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
Its safe and wreckless sides. 
Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides! 

Noah. Must we not leave all life to such ? Begone ! 
Japh. Not I. 

Noah. Then die 

With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 

With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same path ? 
Noah. Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur even now ? 
Raph. Patriarch, be still a father! smoolh thy brow: 
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink ; 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 

With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
But be, when passion passeth, good as tliou, 
Nor perish like heaven's children with man's daughters. 
Aho. The tempest cometh ; heaven and earth unite 
For the annihilation of all life. 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
Sam. But ours is with thee ; we will bear ye far 
To some untroubled star, 
Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot : 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth. 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
Aiwh. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of birth 



And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are not, 
Who shall dry up my tears ? 
^^«- ^ Thy spirit-lord. 

Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven, 
Yet much is ours, whence we can not be driven. 

Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword 
Which chased the first-bom out of Paradfse, ' 
Still flashes in the angeUc hands. 

Aza. It cannot slay us: threaten dust with death, 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes? 

Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy strength • 
And learn at length ' 

How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
Choncs of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling— God ! oh God ' 

What have we done ? Yet spare ! 

Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their pray'r ! 

The dragon crawls from out his den. 

To herd, in terror, innocent vnth men ; 
And the birds scream their agony through air. 
Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair ! 
Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 

Raph. Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of clay 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'T is decreed ! 

r . c< , , f^'^^ Raphael. 

Japh. bome clouds sweep on as vultures for their prey 
While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament. 
Nor spangled stars be glorious: Death hath risen : 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dyint^ air. 

Aza. Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
To which the elements again repair. 
To turn it into what it was: beneath 
The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 
As was the eagle's nestling once within 
Its mother's.— Let the coming chaos chafe 
With all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
Ethereal life, will we explore: 
These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 

[AzAZiEL and Samiasa fly off, and disappear 
with Anah and Aholibamah. 
Japh. They are gone ! They have disappear'd amid 
the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more. 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's Ufe 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Oh son of Noah! mercy on thy kind ! 
What ! wilt thou leave us all— all— aZZ behind ? 
While safe amid the elemental strife, 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
A Mother, {offering her infant to Japhet.) Oh leT 
this child embark! 
I brought him forth in wo, 

But thought it joy 
To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why was he born ? 
What hath he done — 
My unwean'd son — 
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 
My boy, 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



367 



And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
Or cursed be — with him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd ! 
Japh. Peace ! 't is no hour for curses, but for prayer 

Chorus of Mortals. 
For prayer I ! ! 
And where 
Shall prayer ascend, 
When the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend 

And burst, 
And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accurst 
Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 

But as we know the worst, 
Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 
Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
Since we must fall the same ? 
If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, 

To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they come, 
The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 
And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb! 

The forest's trees, (coeval with the hour 
When Paradise upsprung, 

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung,) 

So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
Are overtopt. 

Their summer blossoms by the surges lopt. 
Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 

They meet the seas. 
And shut out God from our beseeching eyes 
Fly, son of Noah, fly I and take thine ease 
In thine allotted ocean-tent ; 
And view, all floating o'er the element. 
The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise ! 
A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
Who die in the Lord! 
And though the waters be o'er earth outspread. 
Yet, as his word. 
Be the decree adored ! 
He gave me life — he taketh but 
The breath which is his own : 
And though these eyes should be for ever shut, 



Nor longer this weak voice before his throne 
Be heard in supplicating tone, 

Still blessed be the Lord, 
For what is past, , 
For that which is : 
For all are his. 
From first to last — 
Time — space — eternity — life — death— 

The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
He made, and can unmake; 

And shall /, for a Uttle gasp of breath, 
Blaspheme and groan? 

No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Where shall we fly ? 
Not to the mountains high ; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 

To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
Already grasps each drowning hill, 
Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 

Enter a Woman. 
Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
Our valley is no more : 

My father and my father's tent, 
My brethren and my brethren's herds. 

The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 
And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
The little rivulet which freshen'd all 
Our pastures green. 
No more are to be seen. 
When to the mountain cliff I climb 'd this mom, 

I turn'd to bless the spot. 
And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 

And now they are not! — 
Why was I born? 

Japh. To die ! in youth to die ; 

And happier in that doom, 
Than to behold the universal tomb 

Which I 
Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 

[The waters rise: Men fly in every direction. ' 
many are overtaken by the waves ; the Chorus 
of Mortals disperses in search of safety up 
the mountains: Japhet remains upon a rosk, 
while the Ark floats towards him m the 



THE ISLAND; 



CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 



The foundation of the following story will be found 
partly in the account of the mutiny of the Bounty in 
the South Seas, (in 1789,) and partly in " Mariner's 
Account of the Tonga Islands" 



CANTO I. 



The morning watch 'was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
The waters with their world were all before ; 
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore 
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white, 
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun, 
But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 

II. 
The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept: 
His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
Of toils rewarded, and of danger's o'er ; 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. 
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure. 
And why should not his slumber be secure ? 
Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet. 
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
Where summer years and summer women smile ; 
Men without country, who, too long estranged. 
Had found no native home, or found it changed. 
And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
Of some soft savsige to the uncertain wave — 
The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd ; 
The wood without a path but where they will'd ; 
The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pouHd 
Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 
The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 
In man — to have no master save his mood ; 
The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 
The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 
The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 
The general garden, where all steps may roam, 
Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 
Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 
Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know ; 
Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 
Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 
Their strangest sight, an European faw;e : — 
Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 
To see again ; a sight they dearly eam'd. 



Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 

Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast; 
The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
Glares roimd thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — ^rage. 

IV. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 

Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath :— 

They come not ; they are few, and, over-awedj 

Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 

In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 

Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 

Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 

Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 

The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 

In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 

Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming—* Fire ! 

But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 

Some lurking remnant of their former awe 

Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 

They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 

But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 

V. 

" Hoist out the boat!" was now the leader's cry; 

And who dare answer " No !" to Mutiny, 

In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 

The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power ? 

The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, 

With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 

Her only cargo such a scant supply 

As promises the death their hands deny ; 

And just enough of water and of bread 

To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 

Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and twine, 

But treasures all to hermits of the brine. 

Were added after, to the earnest prayer 

Of those who saw no hope save sea and sir ; 

And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 

The feeling compass — Navigation's soul. 

VI. 

And now the self-elected chief finds time 
To stun the first sensation of his crime. 
And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the bowl?" 
Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
" Brandy for Jieroes !" Burke could once exclaim- 
No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 
And such the new-bom heroes found it here. 
And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 
« Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry. 
How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny 



[ 



THE ISLAND. 



369 



The gentle island, and the genial soil, 
The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, 
The courteous manners but from nature caught, 
The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought ; 
Could these have charms for rudest seaboys, driven 
Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 
And now, even now prepared with other's woes 
To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? 
Alas! such is our nature! all but aim 
At the same end by pathways not the same ; 
Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 
Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 
Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din : 
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 



The lanch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes : 
While others scofT'd his augur'd miseries, 
Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail. 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
The seaborn sailor of his shell canoe. 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea. 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
He, when the lightning-wing'd tornados sweep 
The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 

VIII. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye. 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death !" 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a word recall 
Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
And what he hid from many show'd to one : 
When Bligh in stem reproach demaTided where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire. 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
«'T is that ! 't is that ! I am in hell ! in hell !" 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark ; 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 



The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave; 
As on the iEoliaii harp, his fitful wings 
Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 
With slow, despairing oar, iho abaiulon'd skiff 
Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 
Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
Thai boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
2 W 



But 't is not mine to tell their tale of griefj 
Their constant peril and their scant relief; 
Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 
Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
The ills that lessen'd still their little store, 
And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; 
The varying frowns and favours of the deep. 
That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 
The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 
The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 
And from the outspread canvass gladly wrings 
A drop to moisten life's all gasping springs ; 
The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
More hospitable shelter from the main; 
The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last, 
To tell as true a tale of dangers past. 
As ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 

X. 

We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 

Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own: 

Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 

And injured navies urge their broken laws. 

Pursue we on his track the mutineer. 

Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 

Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 

Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 

Once more the happy shores without a law 

Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 

Nature, and nature's goddess — woman — woos 

I'o lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; 

Where all partake the earth without dispute. 

And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit ;* 

Where none contest the fields, the woods, the streams : 

The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams. 

Inhabits or inhabited the shore. 

Till Europe taught them better than before ; 

Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 

But left her vices aisc to their heirs. 

Away with this ! behold them as they were. 

Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 

" Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry. 

As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 

The breeze springs up j the lately flapping sail 

Extends its arch befoioTlie growing gale; 

In swifter ripples stream aside the seas. 

Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease. 

Thus Argo plough 'd the Euxine's virgin foam; 

But those she wafted still look back to home — 

These spurn their country with their rebel bark, 

And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 

And yet they seek to nestlo with the dove, 

And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO II. 

I. 

How ploasant were the .songs of Toobonai.f 
When summer's sun went down the coral bay I 
Come, let ns to the islet's sot'test shade, 
And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 



Tlie now Ci-l*l)r.\tfd hiend-fi ui:, to Irumjilrtnt wliiih Cnptnlii Ullgh't 
flxpe<llllon wu« iiiitlurtnkan. 

f Till- Hril thr«a ii-clloni nr« Inki-n from nn ac4u.<l 1'>iik oC lh« Ton(ni 
lilnndfri, of wlilih n proie trnnnlntion in (!i»cii in '" MAiinrr'i Afcoiiiil 
of (lie Tonga IsUimIi." Toohonnl !• not hnweTor onii nl Ihrni ; but 
wu one of tluxB wlirnt C'hriadnn nn>l tlm miiUnvrni look rv-fii|o. I 
)iavfl nlicrcil ami ailcW, Ixit hnvo retniu««l ai much a* |>u«ttbU ot lh« 
uiiginal. 



370 



THE ISLAND. 



The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 

We 11 cull the flowers ihat grow above the dead, 

For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er tlie main, 

Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these ! how happy they, 

Who, from the toil and tumult of their hves, 

Steal to look down where naught but ocean strives ! 

Even he too loves at time the blue lagoon, 

And smoothes his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 

II. 

Yes— from the sepulchre we 'II gather flowers, 

Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 

Then lay our hmbs along the tender turf; 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil. 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave. 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 

But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 

The sound of mats are heard along our track ; 

Anon the torchhght dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival. 

Ere Fiji blew the sheU of war, when foes 

For the first time were wafted in canoes. 

Alas! for tliem the flower of mankind bleeds; 

Alas ! fOT them our fields are rank with weeds : 

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 

Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 

But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 

The club and rain our arrows o'er the field ; 

Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 

But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. 

Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 

Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 

In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 
Around our waists the tappa's white displa!y'd 
Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like springs 
And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings: 
fco shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 
But now the dance is o'er— yet stay awhile ; 
Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile.' 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart. 
But not to-night— to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ' ' 
How lovely are your forms! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, soflen'd, but intense, 
\:!ru l°i^^ ^°'^'''^ °" Mataloco's steep, 
Which fling their fragrance far athwarlthe deep !- 
We too wUl see Licoo ; but-oh! my heart!- 
What do I say ?— to-morrow we depart! 

ir. 

Thus rose a song— the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices— such are nature's growth— 
But only the barbarian's-we have both : 
The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign. 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ^ 

The Old World more degraded than the New — 



Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 

V. 

Such was this ditty of tradition's days, 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine • 
Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, ' 
But yields young history all to harmony ; 
A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre 
In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave, 
Rung fi-om the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
Or gathering mountam echoes as they glide, 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
Then all the columns Conquest's minions rear ; 
Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For sages' labours or the student's dream ; 

Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil, 

The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 

Such was this rude rhyme— rhyme is of the rude— 

But such inspired the Norseman's sohtude, 

Who came and conquer'd ; such, wherever rise 

Lands which no foes destroy or civilize, 

Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 

Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart ? 



And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 

The sweet siesta of a summer day, 

The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 

And the first breath began to stir the palm, 

The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 

All gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 

Where sat the scmgstress with the stranger boy, 

Who taught her passion's desolating joy. 

Too powerful over every heart, but°most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost ; 

O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire,' 

Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 

With such devotion to their ecstasy, 

That life knows no such rapture as to die : 

And die they do ; for earthly life has naught 

Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thought; 

And all our dreams of better life above 

But close in one eternal gush of love. 

VII. 

There sat the gentle savage of the wild, 
In growth a woman, though in years a child. 
As childhood dates withm our colder cHme, 
Where naught is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 
The infant of an infant world, as pure 
From nature— lovely, warm, and premature ; 
Dusky like night, but night with all her stars ; 
Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 
With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 
With all her loves around her on the deep, 
Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep; 
Yet full of life— for through her tropic cheek 
The blush would make its way, and all but speak 
The sun-bom blood suffused her neck and threw 
O'er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue. 
Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave, 
Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 
Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 
Herself a billow in her energies, 
To bear the bark of others' happiness, 
Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less ; 



THE ISLAND. 



371 



Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues ; 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 

Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot: 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 

O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 

Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the hill, 

Restore their surface, in itself so still, 

Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave. 

Root up the spring, and trample on the wave. 

And crush the living waters to a mass. 

The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 

And must their fate be hers? The eternal change 

But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 

And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, 

To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 

vni. 
And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 
Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 
The fair-hair 'd offspring of the Hebrides, 
Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 
Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind, 
The tempest-born in body and in mind. 
His young eyes opening on the ocean- foam, 
Had from that moment deem'd the deep liis home. 
The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 
The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 
The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 
His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 
A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance. 
Nursed by the legends of his land's romance ; 
Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 
Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 
Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 
As bold a rover as the sands have seen. 
And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 
As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ;* 
Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique ; 
On Hellas' mountains a rebellious Greek ; 
Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 
Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
For the same soul that rends its path to sway. 
If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 
Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,| 
Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 
Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 
A })umbler state and discipline of heart 
Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ;{ 
But grant his vices, grant them all his owo, 
How small their theatre without a throne! 

IX. 

Thou smilest; — these comparisons seem high 
To those who scan all things wilh dazzled eye ; 
Link'd wilh the unknown name of one whose doom 
Has naught to do with glory or with Rome, 
With Chili, Hellas, or wilh Araby ; — 
Thou smilest? — Smile ; 't is better thus than sigh ; 
Yet such he might have been; he was a man, 
A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 
A patriot hero or despotic chief. 
To form a nation's glory or its grief, 



•The "iihip of llie dtdert" is the Orientnl fleure for the camel or 
droro«dar]r : and they deserve the metu|>hor well, the former for hit 
endurance, the latter fur his Bwiflncss. 

t " LucuUus, when fruguUty could ch«rm, 

Had roasted turnips in theSahiiie (nrm.^'— Pope. 

X The consul Nero, who made the unequalled march which deceived 
Hannibal, and defeated Asdruhal ; tlierehy acconiplishiiiK an achieve- 
ment almost unrivalled In military annals. The first iulolliteticc of his 
return, to Huniiilial, was the sight of i^Bdruhal's head thrown into his 
camp. W'hiM IJiuniiluil huw ihi», he cxcluiiuid wilh n sigh, th.xl " Home 
would now he the iniKlicm ol the woild." And yet to this violniv of 
Nero's it micht he owinu that his Iniperl.il nnmcsiike relpntd at all. Hut 
the Infamy of the one \mt> ei Upsed the ((lory of the oiher. When the name 
of " Nero" is heard, who thinks of the consul :>— Uul such are hunmn 
things. 



Born under auspices whicii make us more 

Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 

But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 

A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 

The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 

The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 



By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters,— 

Neuha, the sunflower of the island daughters. 

Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, 

Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 

Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 

The naked knights of savage chivalry. 

Whose grassy caims ascend along the shore ; 

And thine — I 've seen — Achilles ! do no more. 

She, when the thunder- bearing strangers came. 

In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 

Topp'd with tall trees, which, lofder than the palm, 

Seem'd rooted in the deep amid its calm; 

But when the winds avvaken'd, shot forth wings 

Broad a.«! the cloud along the horizon flings. 

And sway'd the waves, Uke cities of the sea, 

Making the very billows look less free ; — 

She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 

Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow 

Swifi-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, 

Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge, 

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk. 

Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk: 

The anchor dropp'd; it lay along the deep. 

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep. 

While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 

Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 



The white man landed ! — need the rest be told ? 

The New Worid stretch'd its dusk hand to the Old ; 

Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 

Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 

Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 

And kinder still their daughter's gentler fires. 

Their union grew: the children oif the storm 

Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 

While these in turn admired the paler glow. 

Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow. 

The chase, the race, the liberty to roam. 

The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 

The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 

Which stemm'd the studded archipelago, 

O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 

The healthy slumber, carn'd by sportive toils; 

The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods. 

Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods. 

While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 

Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast; 

The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, 

Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit ; 

The broad-tree, which, without tlie ploughshare, yields 

The unreap'd harvest df unfurrow'd fields, 

And bakes its unadulterated loaves 

Without a furnace in unpurchased groves. 

And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 

A priceless market for the gathering guest ; — 

These, witli tlie luxuries of et^as and woods, 

The airy joys of social solitudes. 

Tamed each ru(li> wanderer to the sympathies 

Of those who witc more hap(*}-, if less wise. 

Did mon^ than Europe's discipline had done, 

And civilized civilization s son ! 

XII. 

Of thfso, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neidia and Torquil wore not lh« lea.st fiiir: 
Roth children of the isles, though distant far ; 
Both born bt»f alh a soa-prosiding slar^ 



372 



THE ISLAND. 



Both nourish'd amid nature's native scenes, 

Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 

Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 

Which still reverts to what first caught the eye. 

He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 

Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue. 

Hail in each crag a fi-iend's familiar face. 

And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 

Ijong have I roam'd through lands which are not mine, 

Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 

Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 

Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: 

But 't was not all long ages lore, nor all 

Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall 

The infant rapture still survived the boy, 

And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,* 

Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 

And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 

Forgive me, Homer's universal shade I 

Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 

The north and nature taught me to adore 

Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and fair, 

The youth which malces one rainbow of the air. 

The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 

The pause in which he ceases to destroy, 

The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 

Strike to their hearts hke lightning to the steel, 

United the half savage and the whole. 

The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 

No more the thundering memory of the fight 

Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 

No more the irksome restlessness of rest 

Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest. 

Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 

Darts for a victim over all the sky; 

His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 

At once Elysian and effeminate, 

Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; — 

These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 

Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid, 

Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 

Had Ceesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 

Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 

And what have CtBsar's deeds and Caesar's fame 

Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 

The gory sanction of his glory stains 

The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 

Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 

Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 

Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 

From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long, — 

Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls. 

And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 

When but a word of freedom would dispel 

These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 

Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife. 
With no distracting world to call her off 
From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
Her duty, and her glory, and her joy : 



* When very yonne, about eight ypars of a»e, after an attack of the 
•carlet fever at Al.erdeen, I was lemoveri by medical advice into the 
Highlands. Here I pi.ssed occasionally some summers, and from this 
period I dale my love of mo'intain.>ns countries. I can never forget the 
effect, a few years afterwards in K.igl.ind, of the onlv thin'' I had long 
Boen, even in miniaiure, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After I 
returned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon, at uunset 
with a sensation wliich I cannot describe. This was boyish enough • but 
I wai then only thir*e€D years of age, and it was in the holidays. ' 



With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
Changing its hues with bright variety, 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move, 
The cloud-compellmg harbinger of love. 

XV. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
Nor long the hours — they never passed o'er time, 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime. 
Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
What deem'd they of the future or the past? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
Their hourglaos was the sea-sand, and the tide, 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide ; 
Their clock the sun, in his unbounded towV; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 
The nightingale, their only vesper-bell. 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ;* 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep. 
But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft. 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave, 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
And then for light into each other's eyes. 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 



And let not this seem strange ; the devotee 

Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 

His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 

Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod, 

Alilce uplifted gloriously to God ; 

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 

The other better selfj whose joy or wo 

Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame 

Which, kindled by another, grows the same. 

Wrapt in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pile, 

Vv here gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 

How often we forget all time, when lone. 

Admiring Nature's universal throne. 

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 

Reply of hers to our intelligence I 

Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 

Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 

Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 

No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 

Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 

Strip off this fond and false identity 1 — 

Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky? 

And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 

In the young moments ere the heart is taught 

Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 

All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 



Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower. 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm. 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 



• The now well-known story of the loves of the nightingale and roM 
need not be more than alluded to, being suificiently familiar to the ^ 
tern as to the easlera reader. 



THE ISLAND. 



373 



The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell, 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,* 
As, far divided from his parent deep. 
The seaborn infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest. 
The tropic bird wheel'd rock-ward to his nest. 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 
Not such as would have been a lover's choice, 
In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 
No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, 
Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 
Those best and earliest lyres of harmony. 
With Echo for their chorus ; nor the alarm 
Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl. 
Exhaling all his solitary soul. 
The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite. 
Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night ; — 
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
And then a pause, and then a hoarse "Hillo! 
Torquil ! my boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, ho !" 
"Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 
The sound. »' Here 's one," was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 

But here the herald of the self-same mouth 

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south. 

Not like a *' bed of violets" on the gale. 

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale. 

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odours over either zone, 

And pufF'd where'er winds rise or waters roll. 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd. 

And reek'd, mid mountain-billows unabash'd, 

To iEolus a constant sacrifice. 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 

And what was he who bore it ? — I may err. 

But deem him sailor or philosopher.f 

Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 

Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest ; 

Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 

His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 

Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand. 

Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe. 

When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 

Like other charmers, wooing the caress 

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 

Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 

XX. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
A human figure broke the solitude. 
Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 



* If the reader will apply to hl» par the irn-thell on hii chimney-piece, 
lie will bo aware of whnl in alluded to. If the text ghoiilil apnenr ob- 
•cnre, he will (India "Ciebir"' the lanie Idea heller expresieit in two 
linei. — The poem I never read, but have heard (he liiwi quoted by a 
more recondite reader— who seems to be of a difl'ercnt opinion from the 
editor of the (Quarterly Review, who qualified it, in liii answer to lilt 
Critical Reviewer of his Juvenal, as trash of the worbt and most insane 
descriulion. It Is lo Mr. Lundor, the author of " tiebir," so quallfled, 
nnd or some Lullii poems, which vie with Martial or Catullus in ob- 
icenity, thai the immaculate Mr. Soulhey addresses his declamation 
aeainsl impurity t 

t Hohhes, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, was an invete- 
rate smoker,— even to pipes beyond computation. 



And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car ;* 
And pleased the god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
To snatch some ghmpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim. 
His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait. 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head. 
Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
And stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their thorn) 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat ; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face. 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, 
Which two world's bless for civilizing both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad, 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode. 
But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath. 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoffj 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off; 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 



" What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in full view 

Our new acquaintance) Torquil, " Aught of new ?" 

" Ey, ey !" quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow ; 

A strange sail in the offing." — " Sail ! and how ? 

What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be 

I've seen no rag of canvass on the sea." 

" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay, 

But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 

I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 

Was light and baffling." — " When the sun declined 

Where lay she? had she anchor'd?" — " No, but still 

She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 

" Her flag ?" — " I had no glass ; but fore and aft. 

Egad! she seemed a wicked-looking craft." 

" Arm'd ?" — " I expect so ; — sent on the look-out : 

'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 

" About ? — Whate'er may have us now in chase, 

We '11 make no running fight, for that were base 

We will die at our quarters, like true men." 

" Ey, ey ! for that 't is all the same to Bon." 

" Does Christian know this ?" — " Ay ; ho has piped all 

hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You arc wanted." — "That's but fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not tho soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha! ah! and must my fate pursuo 
Not mo alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
Unman mo not; tho hour will not allow 
A tear ; I arn thino whatever intervenes !" 
" Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for the marinos."t 



* This rough but Jovlnlceremoii 
ftcn and so welf described, ilml i( 
f '• Thai will do for the miuini-M, I m ihr sailors won't believe II "is 
an old saying ; and one of the lew ti ngini-nti of former Jealouites whicb 
Istill sui'vivo (in]rs( only) between ibtse galla ill service*. 



sed in crossing the line, ha* been so 
I not he more than alliidr<l to. 
believed, 



374 



THE ISLAND. 



CANTO III. 

The fight was o'er ; the flashing through the gloom, 

Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 

Had ceased; and sulphury vapours upward driven 

Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 

The rattling roar which rung in every volley 

Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 

No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom ; 

The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 

The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 

Or liv'd to deem the happiest were the slain. 

Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 

The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 

No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth, 

Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 

Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild. 

As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 

But vainly wolves and lions seek their den. 

And still more vainly men escape from men. 

II. 

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 

Far over ocean in his fiercest moods. 

When scaling his enormous crag the wave 

Is hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave, 

And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 

Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 

But now at rest, a little remnant drew 

Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 

But still their weapons in their hands, and still 

With something of the pride of former will. 

As men not all unused to meditate, 

And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 

Their present lot was what they had foreseen, 

And dared as what was likely to have been ; 

Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their lot 

Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot, 

Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 

Might still be miss'd amid the world of waves, 

Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they saw 

And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 

Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 

No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 

Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 

Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 

Proscribed even in their second country, they 

Were lost ; in vain the world before them lay ; 

All outlets seem'd secured. Their new aUies 

Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 

But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 

Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm. 

The magic of the thunder, vi-hich destroy'd 

The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd ? 

Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 

No less of human bravery than the brave !* 

Their own scant numbers acted all the few 

Against the many oft will dare and do; 

But though the choice seems native to die free. 

Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 

Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 

Back to a sword, and dies and lives again I 

III. 
Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd, 
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn, 
A little stream came tumbling from the heit^ht. 
And straggling into ocean as it might. 



* Archidamus, king of Sparla, and son of Agesilaua, when he saw a 
machine invented for the casting of sionce and darts, exclaimed that it 
was the "grave of valour." The same story has been told of some 
fcnighU on the first appUcalion of gunpowder ; but the original anec- 
dote i« Id Plutarch. 



Its bounding chrystal fi-oUck'd in the ray, 

And gush'd from cliflf to crag with saltless spray ; 

Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 

And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 

Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 

As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 

While far below the vast and sullen swell 

Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 

To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings first 

Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 

Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 

Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 

Cool'd their scorch 'd throats, and wash'd the gory stains 

From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 

Then, when their draught was quench'd, look'd sadly 

round, 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless : — but silent all, 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied. 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 



Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 

Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 

The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread 

Along his cheek was Uvid now as lead ; 

His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow. 

Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 

Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 

To stifle even the breath within his breast, 

Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute^ 

He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot, 

Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 

Beneath his heel, his form seem'd tum'd to flint. 

Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 

Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 

Not mortally — his worst wound was within : 

His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 

And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 

Show'd that his faintness came not from despair, 

But nature's ebb. Beside him was another. 

Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 

Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe. 

And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 

A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 

A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 

The fourth and last of this deserted group 

Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then stoop 

To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 

Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 

Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 

Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 

And then his former movements would redouble. 

With something between carelessness and trouble. 

This is a long description, but applies 

To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes ; 

But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 

Rend men's lives into immortalities. 



At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 

Who flutter'd over all things like a fan, 

More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 

And die at once than wrestle with despair, 

Exclaim'd "G — d damn!" — those syllables intense,- 

Nucleus of England's native eloquence. 

As the Turk's " Allah !" or the Roman's more 

Pagan " Proh Jupiter !" was wont of yore 

To give their first impressions such a vent, 

By way of echo to embarrassment. 

Jack was embarrass'd, — never hero more. 

And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 

Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 

Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound 



THE ISLAND. 



375 



He drew it from his mouth, emd look'd full wise, 
But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 
A peroration I need not repeat. 

vr. 
But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 
Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
Of passion reeking from his clouded face ; 
Till lifting up again his sombre eye, 
It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
" And is it thus ?" he cried, " unhappy boy ! 
And thee, too, thee — my madness must destroy !" 
He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood. 
Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood ; 
Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
Inquired into his state ; and when he heard 
The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 
A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow, 
As much as such a moment would allow. 
" Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the toil, 
But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may buy, — 
And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 
'T would be some comfort still, could you survive ; 
Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell, 
To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ! 
For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be, 
In life or death, the fearless and the free." 

VII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 

Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 

A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 

Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 

Onward it came — and, lo ! a second follow'd — 

Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was hoUow'd ; 

And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 

Presented well-known aspects to the view, 

Till on the surf their skimming paddles play. 

Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; — 

Now perching on the waves high curl, and now 

Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below. 

Which flings its broad and boiling sheet on sheet, 

And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet: 

But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 

The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 

Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 

The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land. 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd ; 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd. 
As if to be assured 't was him she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight: 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstacy. 

IX. 

The sterner s[)irits who beheld that meeting 

Were not unmoved; who are, when hearts are greeting? 

Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 

With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 

Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 

In hopeless visions of our better days, 



When all 's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
" And but for me I" he said, and turn'd away ; 
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again; 
And then relapsed into his sullen guise. 
As heedless of his further destinies. 

X. 

But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 

The billows round the promontory brought 

The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 

That sound a dread ? All round them seem'd array'd 

Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 

She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 

Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 

The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 

Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 

Embark'd their guests, and launch'd their light canoes; 

In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 

But she and Torquil must not part again. 

She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away I 

They clear the breakers, dart along the bay. 

And towards a group of islets, such as bear 

The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf'hoUow'd lair, 

They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 

They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 

They gain upon them — now they lose again, — 

Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 

And now the two canoes in chase divide. 

And follow different courses o'er the tide, 

To baffle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 

As life is on each paddle's flight to-day. 

And more than life or lives to Neuha : Love 

Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove— 

And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 

Yet, yet a moment ! — Fly, tliou fight ark, fly ! 



CANTO IV. 

I. 

White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon 's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts ; but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amid tlie rudest gale : 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 

II. 
Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind. 
Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 
And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun. 
Or gambols with huge frolic in tlie sun: 
There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
The startled echo of the ocean bird. 
Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 
The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 
Here the young turtle, crawhng from his shell, 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of tho day, 
But hatch 'd for ocean by tho fostering ray ; 
The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 
A spot lo make the saved regret Uio deck 
Which late went down, and envy tho lost wreck. 
Such was tho stern asylum Neuha chose 
To shield her lover from his following foes ; 
But all its sorcol was not told ; she luiow 
In this a treasure hidden from tho view. 

III. 
Rro tho ranoos divided, nrur the spot, 
The men thai mann'J what held hor Torquirs lot, 



376 



THE ISLAND. 



By her command removed, to strengthen more 

The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 

This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 

She pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 

And bade him " speed and prosper." She would lake 

The rest upon herself for Torquii's sake. 

They parted with this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star. 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 

Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 

They puU'd ; her arm, though dehcate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 

And yielded scarce to Torquii's manlier strength. 

The prow now almost lay within its length 

Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 

With naught but soundless waters for its base ; 

Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 

This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye. 

Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here to die ? 

Is this a place of safety, or a grave. 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ?" 

IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, 
Cried, « Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow!" 
Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 
Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear ; 
With vigour they puU'd on, and as they came, 
Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 
Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more ; 
The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 
There was no landing on that precipice. 
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
But not a trace rebubbled from the main: 
The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face. 
Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace ; 
The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 
That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home, 
White as a sepulchre above the pair 
Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
Was all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 

And but for this alone the whole might seem 

The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 

They paused and searched in vain, then puU'd away ; 

Even superstition now forbade their stay. 

Some said he had not plung'd into the wave, 

But vanish'd hke a corpse-light from a grave ; 

Others, that something supernatural 

Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 

While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 

There was a dead hue of eternity. 

Still as their oars receded from the crag, 

Round every weed a moment would they lag, 

Expectant of some token of their prey ; 

But no— he had melted from them like the spray. 

V. 

And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
Following the nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
For ever ? or, received in coral caves. 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell 7 
Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air? 
Or had they perished, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt? 

VI. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
Follow'd : her track beneath her native sea 



Was as a native's of the element, 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 

Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious steel. 

Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 

The depths where divers hold their pearl in chase^ 

Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas, 

Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 

Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 

The way— then upward soar'd— and as she spread 

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 

Laugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks. 

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 

But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave. 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave,* 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 

Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 

In some transparent ocean holiday. 

When all the finny people are at play,) 

Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquii's eyes, 

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 

Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut, 

And form a something like a Triton 's hut ; 

For all was darkness for a space, till day 

Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 

As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 

The dusty monuments from light recoil, 

Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 

The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 

VII. 

Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 

A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 

A plantain-leaf o'er all, the more to keep 

Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 

This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 

Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 

A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 

Of TorquiPs knife struck fire, and thus arrray'd 

The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 

And show'd a self-bom Gothic canopy ; 

The arch uprear'd by nature's architect. 

The architrave some earthquake might erect; 

The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd. 

When the Poles crash'd, and water was the world ; 

Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire 

While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre; 

The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,f 

Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 

There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 

Fantastic faces mop'd and mow'd on high, 

And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 

The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 

Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 

And built herself a chapel of the seas. 

VIII. 

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand. 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to sooth the loverfe lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo. 
And sandal oil to fence against the dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Born of the fruit; for board the plantam spread 



* Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be found in the 
ninth chapter of " Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." I have 
taken the poeticalliberty to transplant it to Toobonai, the last island 
where any distinct account is left of Christian and his comrades. 

t This may seem to minute for the general outline (in Mariner'i 
Account) from which it is taken. But few men have travelled without 
seemg something of the kind— on land, that is. Without adveHing to 
Ellora, in Mungo Park's last iournal (if my memory do not err, for there 
are eight years since I read the book) he mentions having met with a 
rock or mountam so exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, that onlv 
mmiite inspection could convince him thut it was a work of nature. 



1 



THE ISLAND. 



377 



With it3 broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er ; 
The gourd with water recent from the ril!, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
And now she spread her little store with smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 

Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast ; 

And suited to her soft caresses, told 

An olden tale of love, — for love is old, 

Old as eternity, but not outworn 

With each new being born or to be born :* 

How a young chief, a thousand moons ago, 

Diving for turtle in the depths below. 

Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 

Into the cave which round and o'er them lay ; 

How in some desperate feud of after time 

He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 

A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 

Saved by his tribe but for a captive's wo; 

How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led 

His island clan to where the waters spread 

Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door, 

Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 

His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 

Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 

Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock. 

Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 

When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 

A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 

And their companion, glorious by her side. 

Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 

And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 

With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore ; 

How they had gladly lived and calmly died, — 

And why not also Torquil and his bride? 

Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 

Which follow'd wildly in that wild recess 

This tale ; enough that all within that cave 

Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 

Where Abelard, through twenty years of death, 

When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 

Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch 'd, and press'd 

The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.f 

The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 

As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 

Within, their hearts made all their harmony. 

Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 

z. 
And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
Where were they ? O'er the sea for life they plied, 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but whore? 
The wave which bore them still their foes would bear, 
Who, disappointed of their former chase. 
In search of Christian now rcnew'd their race. 



Eager with anger, their strong arms made way 



• The reader will recollect the epigram of the Qrcelc enlhology, or Its 
IrBiiilullon into moiit of the mocleiii language! :— 
" Whoe'er lliouiirt, thy matter tee, 
He win, or in, or la to be." 
t The tradition in RtlnchiMl to the •lory of Eloiia, tlmt when lier body 
was lowered into the grave of Abelard, (wlio hiwl been buried twenty 
/earn,) ho opened hii armi to receive her. 

2X 



Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
They gain'd upon diem, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
No furihcr chance or choice remain'd ; and right 
For the first further rock which met their sight 
They steer'd, to take their latest view of land. 
And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
Would still have battled for that scanty crew ; 
But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 
Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 
For what were simple bow and savage spear 
Against the arms which must be wielded here? 

XI. 

They landed on a wild but narrow scene, 

Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 

Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 

Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity, 

When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 

To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 

They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 

Who dyed Thermopylae with holy blood. 

But, ah ! how different ! 't is the cause makes all 

Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 

O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, 

Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd hence : 

No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 

Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 

No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 

No heroes envy them their monument ; 

However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 

Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 

And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 

The leader of the band he had undone ; 

Who, born perchance for better things, had set 

His life upon a cast which Unger'd yet : 

But now the die was to be thrown, and all 

The chances were in favour of his fall : 

And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock, 

Obdurate as a portion of the rock 

Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 

Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 



The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the crew 

To act whatever duty bade them do ; 

Careless of danger, as the onward wind 

Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 

And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

Against a nation's than a native foe, 

And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 

Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 

They hail'd him to surrender — no reply ; 

Their arms were poised, and glittcr'd in the sky. 

They hail'd again — no answer ; yet once more 

They offer'd quarter louder than before. 

The echoes only, from the rocks rebound, 

Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 

Then flash'd the flint, and blazeil the volleying flame, 

And the smoke rose between ihem and their aim, 

While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell, 

Which peal'd in vain, and flattcn'd as they foil ; 

Then flew the only answer to bo given 

By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 

After the first fierce peal, as thoy pull'd nighcr, 

They heard the voice of Christian shout, "Now fire!" 

And ere the word upon the echo died, 

Two fell ; the rest assnil'd the rock's rough side, 

And, furious at the madness of their foes, 

Disdaind all further efforts, save to close. 

But steep the crag, and all without a path, 

Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath ; 

While, placed 'mid clefts the least accessible, 

Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 



378 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND, 



The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 

In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 

Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 

Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 

But still enough survived, and mounted still, 

Scattering their numbers here and there, until 

Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 

Enough for seizure, near enough to die. 

The desperate trio held aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bait ; 

Yet to the very last they battled well, 

And not a groan inform'd their foes who fell. 

Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once more 

Mercy was ofFer'd when they saw his gore; 

Too late for life, but not too late to die, 

Wilh, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 

A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 

The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 

The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 

Some passion which a weakly gesture spake: 

He beckon'd to the foremost, who drew nigh, 

But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 

His last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 

He tore the topmost button from his vest,* 

Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 

As his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coil'd 

His wounded, weary f )rm, to where the steep 

Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 

Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and shook 

His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 

Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 

His body crush'd into one gory mass. 

With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 

Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm; 

A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds, 

Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds; 

Some splinters of his weapons, (to the last. 

As long as hand could hold, he held them fast,) 

Yet glitter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 

To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 

The rest was nothing — save a life mispent, 

And soul — but who shall answer where it went ? 

'T is ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 

Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 

Unless these bullies of eternal pains 

Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 



The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, 
The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 
Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 
Thev stood with honour, were the wretched few 



_ * In Thibault's account of Frederic the Second of Prussia, there is a 
•ingular relation of a young Frenchman, who with his mistress appeared 
to be of some ranlf. He enlisted and deserted at Scweidnitz : and after 
a desperate resistance was retaken, having killed an officer, who at- 
tempted to seize him after he was wounded, by the discharge of his mus- 
ket loaded with a button of his uniform. Some circumstances on his 
covirt-martial raised a great interest among his judges, who wished to 
discover his real situation in life, which he oflered to disclose, but to the 
king only, to whom he requested permission to write. This was refused, 
nnd Frederic was filled wilh the greatest indignation, from baffled curi- 
osity or some other motive, when he understood that his request had been 
denied.— See Thibault's Work, vol. 2d.— [I quote from memory.] 



Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 
But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 
While o'er them flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing, 
Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge. 
And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 
But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
Far o'er its face the dolphins snorted on, 
And sprung the flying fish against the sun, 
Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIV. 

'T was mom ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 

Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 

And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 

Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air: 

It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale 

Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 

With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 

While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie: 

But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 

The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 

She gazed and flung the .sea-foam from her eyes, 

To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 

On the horizon verged the distant deck, 

Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck — 

Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 

Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy ; 

Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 

That happy love could augur or recall ; 

Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 

His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 

Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 

Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 

Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 

That eve the strangers chased them from the shore ; 

But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 

Regain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 

Nor ever did more love and joy embark. 

Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 

XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the view. 

No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 

No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home ! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 

With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 

The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 

And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 

The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 

By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 

And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and then 

One acclamation rent the sky again ; 

And from that hour a new tradition gave 

Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's Cave." 

A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 

Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 

The feast in honour of the guest, retum'd 

To peace and pleasure, perilously eam'd ; 

A night succeeded by such happy days 

As only the yet infant world displays. 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE BY CAPTAIN BLIGH. 

On the 27th of December it blew a severe storm of 
v/ind from the eastward, in the course of which we suf- 
fered greatly. One sea broke away the spare yards 
and spars out of the starboard mainchains ; another 
broke into the ship and stove all the boats. Several 
casks of beer that had been lashed on deck broke loose, 
and were washed overboard ; and it was not without 
great risk and difficulty that we were able to secure the 
boats from being washed away entirely. A great quan- 



tity of our bread was also damaged and rendered 
less, for the sea had stove in our stern, and filled tho 
cabin with water. 

On the 5th of January, 1788, we saw the island of ; 
Teneriffe about twelve leagues distant ; and next day, ! 
being Sunday, came to an anchor in the road of Santa 
Cruz. There we took in the necessary supplies, and, ; 
having finished our business, sailed on tlie lOth. 

I now divided the people into three watches, and 
gave the charge of the third watch to Mr. Fletcher 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



379 



Christian, one of the mates. I have always considered 
this a desirable regulation when circumstances will ad- 
mit of it; and I am persuaded that unbroken rest not 
only contributes much towards the health of the ship's 
company, but enables them more readily to exert them- 
selves in cases of sudden emergency. 

As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stopping, 
I reduced the allowance of bread to two-thirds, and 
caused the water for drinking to be filtered through 
drip-stones, bought at Teneriffe for that purpose. I 
now acquainted the ship's company of the object of the 
voyage, and gave assurances of certain promotion to 
every one whose endeavours should merit it. 

On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south 
latitude 29° 38', and 44° 44/ west longitude, we bent new 
sails, and made other necessary preparations for en- 
countering the weather that was to be expected in a 
high latitude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil 
was about one hundred leagues. 

On the forenoon of Sunday the 2d of March, after 
seeing that every person was clean, divine service was 

ferformed, according to my usual custom on this day. 
gave to Mr. Fletcher Christian, whom I had before 
directed to take charge of the third watch, a written 
order to act as lieutenant. 

The change of temperature soon began to be sensi- 
bly felt, and that the people might not suffer from their 
own negligence, I supplied them with thicker clothing, 
as better suited to the climate. A great number of 
whales of an immense size, with two spout-holes on 
the back of the head, were seen on the Ilth. 

On a complaint made to me by the master, I found 
it necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one of the 
seamen, with two dozen of lashes, for insolence and 
mutinous behaviour, which was the first time that there 
was any occasion for punishment on board. 

We were off Cape St. Diego, the eastern part of the 
Terra del Fuego, and, the wmd being unfavourable, I 
thought it more adviseable to go round to the eastward 
of Staten-land than to attempt passing through Straits 
le Mairc. We passed New Year's Harbour and Cape 
St. John, and on Monday the 31st were in latitude 60° 
1' south. But the wind became variable, and we had 
bad weather. 

Storms, attended with a great sea, prevailed until the 
12th of April. The ship oegan to leak, and required 
pumping every hour, which was no more than we had 
reason to expect from such a continuance of gales of 
wind and high seas. The decks also became so leaky, 
that it was necessary to allot the great cabin, of which 
I made little use except in fine weather, to those people 
who had not berths to hang their hammocks in, and by 
this means the space between decks was less crowded. 

With all this bad weather, we had the additional 
mortification to find, at the end of every day, that we 
were losing ground ; for, notwithstanding our utmost 
exertions, and keeping on the most advantageous tracks, 
we did little better than drift before the wind. On Tues- 
day the 22d of April, we had eight down on the sick 
list, and the rest of the people, though in good health, 
were greatly fatigued ; but I saw, witn much concern, 
that it was impossible to make a passage this way to 
the Society Islands, for we had now been thirty clays 
in a tempestuous ocean. Thus the season was too far 
advanced for us to expect better weather to enable us 
to double Cape Horn ; and, from these and other con- 
siderations, I ordered the helm to be put a-weather, 
and bore away for the Cape of Good Hope, to the great 
joy of every one on board. 

We came to an anchor on Friday the 23d of May in 
Simon's Bay, at the Cape, after a tolerable run. The 
ship required complete caulking, for she had become so 
leaky, that we were obliged to pump hourly in our pas- 
sage from Cape Horn. The sails and ri{:jging also re- 
quired repair ; and on examining the provisions, a con- 
siderably quantity was found damaged. 

Havmg remained thirty-eight days in this place, and 
my people having received all the advantage that could 
be clerived from rofreshmonts of every kind that could 
bo met with, wo sailed on the 1st of July. 

A gale of wind blew on the 20th, with a high sea: it 
mcreased afler noon with such violence, that the ship 
was driven almost forecastle under before wo could got 



the sails clewed up. The lower yards were lowered, 
and the topgallant-masts got down upon deck, which 
relieved her much. We lay to all night, and in the 
morning bore away under a reefed foresail. The sea 
still running high, in the afternoon it became very unsafe 
to stand on: we therefore lay to all night, without any 
accident, excepting that a man at the steerage wais 
thrown over the wheel and much bruised. Towards 
noon the violence of the storm abated, and we again 
bore away under the reefed foresail. 

In a few days we passed the island of St. Paul, where 
there is good fresh water, as I was informed by a Dutch 
captain, and also a hot spring, which boils fish as com- 
pletely as if done by a fire. Approaching to Van Die- 
man's land, we had much bad weather, with snow and 
hail ; but nothing was seen to indicate our vicinity on 
the 13th of August, except a seal, which appeared at 
the distance of twenty leagues from it. We anchored 
in Adventure Bay on Wednesday the 20th. 

In our passage hither from the Cape of Good Hope, 
the winds were chiefly from the westward, with very 
boisterous weather. The approach of strong southerly 
winds is announced by many birds of the albatross or 
peterel tribe ; and the abatement of the gale, or a shift 
of wind to the northward, by their keeping away. The 
thermometer also varies five or six degrees in its height 
when a change of these winds may be expected. 

In the land surrounding Adventure Bay are many 
forest trees one hundred and fifty feet high : we saw 
one which measured above thirty-three feet in girth. 
We observed several eagles, some beautiful blue-plu- 
maged herons, and paroquets in great variety. 

The natives not appearing, we went in search of 
them towards Cape Frederic Henry. Soon after, 
coming to a grapnel close to the shore, for it was im- 
possible to land, we heard their voices, like the cackling 
of geese, and twenty persons came out of the woods. 
We threw trinkets ashore tied up in parcels, which they 
would not open until I made an appearance of leaving 
them : they then did so, and, taking the articles out, put 
them on their heads. On first coming in sight they 
made a prodigious clattering in their speech, and held 
their arms over their heads. They spoke so quick, thai 
it was impossible to catch one single word they uttered. 
Their colour is of a dull black ; their skin scarified about 
the breast and shoulders. One was distinguished bv his 
body being coloured with red ochre, but all the others 
were painted black, with a kind of soot, so thickly laid 
over their faces and shoulders, that it was difficult to 
ascertain what they were like. 

On Thursday, the 4th of September, we sailed out 
of Adventure Bay, steering first towards east-south- 
east, and then to the northward of east, when, on the 
19th, wc came in sight of a cluster of small rocky islands, 
which I named Bounty Isles. Soon afterwards we fre- 
quently observed the sea, in the night-time, to be co- 
vered by luminous spots, caused by amazing quantities 
of small blubbers, or Medusrp, which emit a light like 
a blaze of a candle from the strings or filaments extend- 
ing from them, while the rest of the body continues per- 
fectly dark. 

We discovered the island of Otaheite on the 25th, 
and, before casting anchor next morning in Matavai 
Bay, such numbers of canoes had come off, that, after 
the natives ascertained wc were friends, they came on 
board, and crowded the deck so much, that in ten mi- 
nutes I could scarce find my own people. The whole 
distance which the ship had run, in direct and contrary 
courses, from the time of leaving England until reach- 
ing Otaheite, was twenty-seven thousand and eighty- 
six miles, which, on an average, was one hundred and 
eight miles each twenty-four hours. 

Hero we lost our surgeon on the 9th of December. 
Of late he had scarcely ever stirred out of the cabin, 
though not apprehended to bo in a dnni.'erous slate. 
Nevertheless, appearing worse than usual in the even- 
ing, ho was removed where he could obtain more air, 
but without any benefit, for ho died in an iiour after- 
wards. This unfortnnnle man drank very hard, and 
was so averse to rxerrise. that he would never be pro- 
vailed on to take half a dozen turns on deck at a 
time during all the course of the voyage. He was bu- 
ried on shore. 



380 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



On Monday the 5thof January, the small cutter was 
missed, of which I was immediately apprised. The 
ship's company being mustered, we found three men 
absent, who had carried it off. They had taken with 
them eight stand of arms and ammunition ; but with re- 
gard to their plan, every one on board seemed to be 
quite ignorant. I therefore went on shore, and en- 
gaged all the chiefs to assist in recovering both the 
boat and the deserters. Accordingly, the former was 
brought back in the course of the day by five of the 
natives ; but the men were not taken until nearly three 
weeks afterwards. Learning the place where they 
were, in a different quarter of fhe island of Otaheite, I 
went thither in the cutter, thinking there would be no 
great difficulty in securing them with the assistance of 
Uie natives. However, they heard of my arrival ; and 
when I was near a house in which they were, they 
came out without their fire-arms, and delivered them- 
selves up. Some of the chiefs had formerly seized and 
bound these deserters ; but had been prevailed on, by 
fair promises of returning peaceably to the ship, to 
release them. But finding an opportunity again to 
get possession of their arms, they set the natives at 
defiance. 

The object of the voyage being now completed, all 
the bread-fruit plants, tolthe number of one thousand 
and fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday the 31st of 
March. Besides these, we had collected many other 
plants, some of them bearing the finest fruits in the 
world ; and valuable, from affording brilliant dyes, and 
for various properties besides. At sunset of the 4th of 
April, we made sail from Otaheite, bidding farewell to 
an island where for twenty-three weeks we had been 
treated with the utmost affection and regard, and which 
seemed to increase in proportion to our stay. That we 
were not insensible to their kindness, the succeedmg 
circumstances sufficiently proved; for to the friendly 
and endearing behaviour of these people may be as- 
cribed the motives incitmg an event that effected the 
ruin of our expedition, which there was every reason to 
believe would have been attended -snth the most favour- 
able issue. 

Next morning we got sight of the island Huaheine ; 
and a double canoe soon coming alongside, containing 
ten natives, I saw among them a young man, who re- 
collected me, and called me by my name. I had been 
here in the year 1780, with Captain Cook, in the Reso- 
lution. A few days after sailing from this island, the 
weather became squally, and a thick body of black 
clouds collected in the east. A water-spout was in a 
short time seen at no great distance from us, which ap- 
peared to great advantage from the darkness of the 
clouds behind it. As nearly as I could judge, the up- 
per part was about two feet in diameter, and the lower 
about eight inches. Scarcely had I made these remarks, 
when I observed that it was rapidly advancing towards 
the ship. "We immediately altered "our course, and took 
in all the sails except the foresail ; soon after which it 
passed within ten yards of the stern, with a rustling 
noise, but without our feeling the least effect from it 
being so near. It seemed to be travelling at the rate 
of about ten miles an hour, in the direction of the wind, 
and it dispersed in a quarter of an hour after passing 
us. It is impossible to say what injury we should have 
received had it passed directly over us. Masts, I ima- 
gine, might hav/! been carried away, but I do not ap- 
prehend that it would have endangered the loss of the 
ship. 

Passing several islands on the way, we anchored at 
Annamooka on the 23d of April ; and an old lame man 
called Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, and im- 
mediately recollected, came on board, along with others, 
from different islands in the vicinity. They were de- 
sirous to sec the ship, and on being taken below, where 
the bread-fruit plants were arranged, they testified 
great surprise. A few of these being decayed, we went 
on shore to procure some in their place. 

The natives exhibited numerous marks of the pecu- 
liar mourning which they express on losing their rela- 
tives ; such as bloody temples, their lieads being de- 
prived of most of their hair ; and what was worse, al- 
most the whole of them had lost some of their fingers. 
Several fine boys, not above six years old. had lost both 



their little fingers ; and several of the men, besides 
these, had parted with the middle finger of the right 
hand. 

The chiefs went off with me to dinner, and we car- 
ried on a brisk trade for yams : we also got plantains 
and bread-fruit. But the yams were in great abun- 
dance, and very fine and large. One of them weighed 
above forty-five pounds. Sailing canoes came, some 
of which contained not less than ninety passengers. 
Such a number of them gradually arrived from diffe- 
rent islands, that it was impossible to get any thing 
done, the multitude became so great, and there was no 
chief of sufficient authority to command the whole. I 
therefore ordered a watering party, then employed, to 
come on board, and sailed on Sunday the 26th of April. 

We kept near the island of Kotoo all the afternoon 
of Monday, in hopes that some canoes would come off 
to the ship, but in this we were disappointed. The 
wind being northerly, we steered to the westward in 
the evening, to pass south of Tofoa ; and I gave direc- 
tions for this course to be continued during the night. 
The master had the first watch, the gunner the middle 
watch, and Mr. Christian the morning watch. This 
was the turn of duty for the night. 

Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of un- 
interrupted prosperity, and had been attended with cir- 
cumstances equally pleasing and satisfactory. But a 
very different scene was now to be disclosed : a con- 
spiracy had been formed, which was to render all our 
past labour productive only of misery and distress ; and 
it had been concerted with so much secrecy and cir- 
cumspection, that no one circumstance escaped to be- 
tray the impending calamity. 

On the night of Monday, the watch was set as I have 
described. Just before sunrise on Tuesday morning, 
while I was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, with the master 
at arms, gunner's mate, and Thomas Burkitt, seaman, 
came into my cabin, and seizing me, tied my hands 
with a cord behind my back, threatening me with in- 
stant death if I spoke or made the least noise. I never- 
theless called out as loud as I could, in hopes of assis- 
tance ; but the officers not of their party were already 
secured by sentinels at their doors. At my own cabin 
door were three men, besides the four within : all ex- 
cept Christian had muskets and bayonets ; he had only 
a cutlass. I was dragged out of bed, and forced on 
deck in my shirt, suffering great pain in the mean time 
from the tightness with which my hands were tied. On 
demanding the reason of such violence, the only an- 
swer was abuse for not holding my tongue. The mas- 
ter, the gunner, surgeon, master's mate, and Nelson the 
gardener, were kept confined below, and the fore hatch- 
way was guarded by sentinels. The boatswain and car- 
penter, and also the clerk, were allowed to come on deck, 
where they saw me standing abaft the mizzen-mast, 
with my hands tied behind my back, under a guard, with 
Christian at their head. The boatswain was then or- 
dered to hoist out the launch, accompanied by a threat, 
if he did not do it instantly, to take care of him- 
self. 

The boat being hoisted out, Mr. Hayward and Mr. 
Hallet, two of the midshipmen, and Mr. Samuel, the 
clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the intention 
of giving this order, and endeavoured to persuade the 
people near me not to persist in such acts of violence ; 
iDut it was to no effect ; for the constant answer was, 
" Hold your tongue, sir, or you are dead this moment." 

The master had by this time sent, requesting that he 
might come on deck, which was permitted ; but he was 
soon ordered back again to his cabin. My exertions 
to turn the tide_of affairs were continued; when Chris- 
tian, changing the cutlass he held for a bayonet, and 
holding me by the cord about my hands with a strong 
gripe, threatened me with immediate death if I would 
not be quiet ; and, the villains around me had their 
pieces cocked, and bayonets fixed. 

Certain individuals were called on to get into the 
boat, and were hurried over the ship's side ; whence I 
concluded that along with them I was to be set adrift. 
Another effort to bring about a change produced no- 
thing but menaces of having my brains blown out. 

The boatswain and those seamen who were to be 
put into the boat were allowed to collect twine, canvass, 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



381 



lines, sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty- gallon cask 
of water ; and Mr. Samuel got 150 pounds of bread, 
with a small quantity of rum and wine ; also a quadrant 
and compass, but he was prohibited, on pain of death, 
to touch any map or astronomical book, and any instru- 
ment, or any of my surveys and drawings. 

The mutineers having thus forced those of the sea- 
men whom they wished to get rid of into the boat, 
Christian directed a dram to be served to each of his 
crew. I then unhappily saw that nothing could be done 
to recover the ship. The officers were next called on 
deck, and forced over the ship's side into the boat, while 
I was kept apart from everyone abaft the mizzen-mast. 
Christian, armed with a bayonet, held the cord fastening 
my hands, and the guard around me stood with their 
pieces cocked ; but on my daring the ungrateful wretches 
to fire, they uncocked them. Isaac Martin, one of them, 
I saw had an inclination to assist me ; and as he fed 
me with shaddock, my lips being quite parched, we ex- 
plained each other's sentiments by looks. But this was 
observed, and he was removed. He then got into the 
boat, attempting to leave the ship ; however, he was 
compelled to return. Some others were also kept con- 
trary to their inclination. 

It appeared to me that Christian was some time in 
doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or his 
mates. At length he determined on the latter, and the 
carpenter was ordered into the boat. He was per- 
mitted, though not without opposition, to take his tool- 
chest. 

Mr. Samuel secured my journals and commission, 
with some important ship papers : this he did with great 
resolution, though strictly watched. He attempted to 
save the time-keeper, and a box with my surveys, 
drawings, and remarks for fifteen years past, which 
were very numerous, when he was hurried away with — 
" Damn your eyes, you are well off to get what you 
have." 

Much altercation took place among the mutinous 
crew during the transaction of this whole affair. Some 
swore, " I '11 be damned if he does not find his way home, 
if he gets any thing with him," meaning me ; and when 
the carpenter's chest was carrying away, " Damn my 
eyes, he will have a vessel built in a month ;" while 
others ridiculed the helpless situation of the boat, which 
was very deep in the water, and had so little room for 
those who were in her. As for Christian, he seemed 
as if meditating destruction on himself and every one 
else. 

I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at me, 
and said I was well acquainted with the people among 
whom I was going : four cutlasses, however, were 
thrown into the boat after we were veered astern. 

The officers and men being in the boat, they only 
waited for me, of which the master-at-arms informed 
Christian, who then said, " Come, Captain Bligh, your 
officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go 
with them ; if you attempt to make the least resistance, 
you will instantly be put to death j" and without further 
ceremony I was forced over the side by a tribe of armed 
ruffians, where they untied my hands. Being in the 
boat, we were veered astern by a rope. A few pieces 
of pork were thrown to us, also the four cutlasses. The 
armourer and carpenter then called out to mc to re- 
member that they had no hand in the transaction. 
After having been kept some lime to make sport for 
these unfeeling wretches, and having undergone much 
ridicule, we wore at length cast adrift in the open ocean. 

Eighteen persons were with me in the boat, — the 
master, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boalssvain, 
carpenter, master, and quartermaster's mate, two(|uar- 
termasters, the sail-maker, two cooks, my clerk, the 
butcher, and a boy. There remained on board Fletcher 
Christian, the master's mate ; Peter Haywood, Edward 
Young, George Stewart, midshipmen ; the master-al- 
arms, gunner's mate, boatswains mate, gardener, ar- 
mourer, carjientcr's mate, carpenter's rrcw, and fourteen 
seamen, being altogether the most able men of the 
ship's company. 

Having little or no wind, wo rowed pretty fast to- 
wards the island of Tofoa, which bore northeast about 
ten leagues distant. The ship while in sight steered 



west-northwest ; but this I considered only as a feintj 
for when we were sent away, " Huzza for Otaheite !" 
was frequently heard among the mutineers. 

Christian, the chief of them, was of a respectable 
family in the north of England. This was the third 
voyage he had made with me. Notwithstanding the 
roughness with which I was treated, the remembrance 
of past kindnesses produced some remorse in him. 
While they were forcing me out the ship, I asked him 
whether this was a proper return for the many instances 
he had experienced of my friendship? He appeared 
disturbed at the question, and answered with much 
emotion, " That — Captain Bligh — that is the thing — I 
am in hell — I am in hell !" His abilities to take charge 
of the third watch, as 1 had so divided the ship's com- 
pany, were fully equal to the task. 

Hayv>'ood was also of a respectable family in the 
north of England, and a young man of abilities, as well 
as Christian. These two had been objects of my par- 
ticular regard and attention, and I had taken great pains 
to instruct them, having entertained hopes that, as pro- 
fessional men, they would have become a credit to their 
country. Young was well recommended, and Stewart 
of creditable parents in the Orkneys, at which place, on 
the return of the Resolution from the South Seas in 
1780, we received so many civilities, that in conside- 
ration of these alone I should gladly have taken him 
with me. But he had always borne a good character. 

When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
prevented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few 
hours before, my situation had been peculiarly flat- 
tering ; I had a ship in the most perfect order, stored 
with every necessary, both for health and service ; the 
object of the voyage was attained, and two-thirds of it 
now completed. The remaining part had every pros- 
pect of success. 

It will naturally be asked, what could be the cause 
of such a revolt? In answer, I can only conjecture 
that the mutineers had flattered themselves with the 
hope of a happier life among the Otaheitans than they 
could possibly enjoy in England, which, joined to some 
female connexions, most probably occasioned the whole 
transaction. 

The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
cheerful in manners and conversation, possessed of 
great sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make 
them be admired and beloved. The chiere were so 
much attached to our people, that they rather encou- 
raged their stay among them than otherwise, and even 
made them promises of large possessions. Under 
these and many other concomitant circumstances, it 
ought hardly to be the subject of surprise that a set of 
sailors, most of them void of connexions, should be led 
away, where they had the power of fixing themselves 
in the midst of plenty, in one of the finest islands in 
the world, where there was no necessity to lahour, and 
where the allurements of dissipation are beyond any 
conception that can be formed of it. The utniosf, how- 
ever, that a commander could have expected was de- 
sertions, such as have already happened more or less 
in the South Seas, and not an act of open mutiny. 

But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses l)elief. 
Thirteen of the party who wire now wilii me had 
always lived forward among the seamen, yet neither 
they, nor the messmates of Ciiristian, Stewart, Hay- 
wood, and Young, had ever observed any circumstance 
to excite susp.cion of what was plotting ; and it is not 
wonderful if I fell a sacrifice to it, my mind being en- 
tirely free from suspicion. Perhans,had mariners been 
on board, a sentinel at my cabin door might have pre- 
vented it ; for 1 constantly slept uitii the dour open, 
that the officer of the watch might have access to me 
on all occasions. If lh» mutiny had been occasioned 
by any grievances, citiier real or imaginary, I must 
have dis<'overe(i svm'iioms of discontent, wiiicli would 
have put me on my c'ltird ; but it was far otherwise. 
With Christian, in paiticuhir, I was on the mo.st triendly 
terms; that very nav ho was engaged to have dined 
with me ; and the prtri'iHu!; iii:.'!it he excused himself 
from supping with me on pretence of indisposition, for 
which I felt concerned, having no suspicions of his 
honour or integrity. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



SERIES OF POEMS, 



ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 



• Virginibus puerisque Canto.' 



HORACE, lib. 3, Ode 1. 



Mbt' dp W£ u.d.\' aCvti unrt ri. vuku. 

HOMER, ILIAD, x. 
' He whistled as he went for want of thought." 
DR^DEN. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. ETC. 
THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 

BV HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 

THE AUTHOR. 



Lord Byron first appeared as an author in Novem- 
ber, 1806, when he printed a collection of poems for dis- 
tribution among his friends. The first copy of this volume, 
which is a thin quarto, was presented to Mr. Becher, 
who immediately perceived, on looking over its pages, 
that some of the contents were by no means of a descrip- 
tion to reflect credit on their author ; and at his friendly 
suggestion the whole impression, with the exception of 
iwo, or, at the most, three copies, was committed to the 
flames. After the destruction of this volume, Lord By- 
ron directed the collection to be reprinted, with the omis- 
sion of the objectionable poems. This edition, which 
was confined to a hundred copies, and, like its predeces- 
sor, designed for private circulation, was proceeded in 
so quickly, that at the end of about six weeks, January, 
1807, it was ready for delivery. The volume was enti- 
tled "Poems on Various Occasions," -and was printed 
at Newark by S. and J. Ridge ; the author's name was 
not given. The dedication was, " To those friends at 
whose request they were printed, for whose amusement 
or approbation they were solely intended, these trifles 
are respectfully dedicated by the author." Immediately 
following the dedication was this notice : — " The only 
apology necessary to be adduced in extenuation of any 
errors in the following collection is, that the author has 
not yet completed his nineteenth year. December 23, 
1806." The approbation which this volume received 
from the friends to whom it was submitted induced Lord 
Byron to come more immediately before the public ; and 
in the latter end of May, 1807, this collection, with con- 
siderable alterations, the omission of some poems, and 
the addition of others, was reprinted and published, un- 
der the title of " Hours of Idleness, a Series of Poems, 
original and translated, by George Gordon, Lord Byron, 
a Minor." This volume was also printed at Newark. 
In the four editions of this work, which rapidly succeed- 
ed each other, many variations are found : several cor- 
rections were made; several pieces were silently with- 
drawn, and replaced by others ; and after the first edition 
a dedication to Lord Carlisle was prefixed. In the pre- 
sent publication, all those poems from the "Private Vo- 
lume," and the early editions of " Hours of Idleness," 
which were suppressed by the author, are reprinted, and 
all the variations of the diflferent impressions are noticed. 



* This wilt the only motto given in the private volume ; it wa» retain- 
ed wiih the other two in tlic first edition ol Hours of Icllcncsi, and oroilted 
lotheiecond. 



PREFACE.* 

In submitting to the public eye the following collection, 
I have not only to combat the difficulties that writers of 
verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of 
presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, 
without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully em- 
ployed. These productions are the fruits of the lighter 
hours of a young man who has lately completed his 
nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of 
a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
Some few were written during the disadvantages of ill- 
ness and depression of spirits ; under the former influ- 
ence, " Childish Recollections," in particular, 
were composed. This consideration, though it cannot 
excite the voice of Praise, may at least arrest the arm of 
Censure. A considerable portion of these poems has 
been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal 
of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and fre- 
quently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the 
criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, 
"to do greatly," we must "dare greatly;" and I have 
hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this 
volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand 
or fall by the " cast of the die." In the latter event, I 
shall submit without a murmur ; for, though not without 
solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations 
are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may 
have dared much and done little ; for, in the words of 
Cowper, " it is one thing to write what may please our 
friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little 
biassed in our favour, and another to write what may 
please every body ; because they who have no connexion, 
or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault 
if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not 
wholly subscribe : on the contrary, I feel convinced that 
these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their 
merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; their 
numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that 
favour which has been denied to others of maturer years, 
decided character, and far greater ability. I have not 
aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied 
any particular model for imitation : some translations are 
given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original 
pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with au- 



* Printed in the Grit edition of Hours of Idleness ; omitted in th« 
second. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



383 



thors whose works I have been accustomed to read ; but 
I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To pro- 
duce any thing entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, 
would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already 
been treated to its utmost extent. — Poetry, however, is 
not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of 
indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged 
me " to this sin :" little can be expected from so unpro- 
mising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all 
I shall derive from these productions ; and I shall never 
attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single addi- 
tional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. 
Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a care- 
less mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have 
not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so 
elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the 
lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these 
advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a 
few not less profit, from their productions •, while I shall 
expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without 
the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share 
of the former, 1 leave to others " Virum volitare per ora." 
I look to the few who will hear with patience " dulce est 
desipere in loco." — To the former worthies I resign, 
without repining, the hope of immortality, and content 
myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking 
" among the mob of gentlemen who write ;" — my read- 
ers must determine whether I dare say " with ease," or 
the honour of a posthumous page in " The Catalogue 
of Royal and Noble Authors," a work to which the 
peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many 
names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are 
thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- 
shadows several voluminous productions of their illustri- 
ous bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first 
and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition 
may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally 
absurd. To a few of my own age the contents may 
afford amusement : I trust they will, at least, be found 
harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation 
and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself 
a second time on the public ; nor even in the very doubt- 
ful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to 
commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opi- 
nion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of 
mine,* " That when a man of rank appeared in the 
character of an author, his merit should be handsomely 
acknowledged," can have little weight with verbal, and 
still less with periodical censors ; but were it otherwise, 
I should be loath to avail myself of the privilege, and 
would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous cri- 
ticism than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

'• Why dost thou build the hall, son op thb winged 
DAYS ? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day : yet 

A PEW years, and thb BLAST OP THB DESERT COMES, 

IT howls in thy empty court.— Ossion.t 



Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle ; 

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hcmlock.and thistle 

Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in tlio way. 



• The Earl of Carlltle, whota works have Ion* reMired Oie in«ed of 
public applaute, (o which, by their Inlriniic worth, they were well eoti- 
tied. 

t The motto wae added in the first edition uf Hours of Idleneei. 



Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

3. 
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers. 
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath ; 
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers, 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 
4. 

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; 

For the safety of Edward and England they fell: 
My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell. 

5. 

On Marston,f with Rupert,J 'gainst traitors contending, 
Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field ; 

For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 

6. 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu 1 

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

7. 
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 

'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation. 

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

8. 
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE, 
AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL-H 

Oh 1 milil prcteritos referat si Jupiter arinos. 

Virgil, JEneid, Ub.8, 560. 



Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 

Where science first dawned on the powers of reflection, 
And friendships were form'd too romantic to last ; 

2. 
Wliere fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 

Of comrades in friendship and mischief allied ; 
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembranc©. 

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 

3. 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 

The streams where we swam, and the fields wh«r« w« 
fought ; 
The school where, loud wam'd by the bell, we resorted. 

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

4. 
Again I behold where for hours I have pondcr'd, 

As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 
Or round the stoop brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 



* Horiitnn Castle, In Oerbyslilrr, an snclrntseal uf the Byron familr. 

t The battle of Maratoii Mnor, where tlte adherents of Charlee I 
Wfii- (Irfrnlc-d. 

t Muii 1)1 lite Klrclor Prklmine, nnd rrUted to Charlsa I. H« afto^ 
wattle commnndrd the lle*t In the men <>f Charles II. 

II Thi* |>orm was printed in the |iriv.i(r Tulume, and In the flrat edilloo 
of Hours of Idleness, wber* lb* motto (rotn Virgil wm added. Il waa 
aflerwards omitted. 



384 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



I once more view the room with spectators surrounded; 

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 
While to swell my young pride such applauses re- 
sounded, 

I fancied that Mossop* himself was outshone : 

6. 
Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecation, 

By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived ; 
Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 

I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

7. 
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breasfj" ; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you 5 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

8. 
To IdaJ full oft may remembrance restore mo, 

AVhile fate shall the shades of the future unroll! 
Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 

More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

9. 
But if, through the course of the years vi'hich await me. 

Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 

" Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew." 

1806. 



TO D||. 



1. 

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever 
Till envy, with malignant grasp, 

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 

2. 
True she has forced thee from my breast, 

Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 
There, there thine image still must rest. 

Until that heart shall cease to beat. 



And, when the grave restores her dead, 

When life again to dust is given. 
On thy dear breast I '11 lay my head — 

Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 

February, 1803. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND**. 

" 'Ao-Tijp jrpli; /tin iXaiirtc^ ivl ^woX<rtv l^os." 

Laertius. 

Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dearjt, 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert hia dart's relentless force 



Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight. 
* if yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep. 
But living statutes there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer, 
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
But who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image what new friendship can efface ? 
Ah none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow. 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
To all, save one, is consolation known, 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 



1803. 



* Mossop, a colemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of 
Zanga, in Young's tragedy of the Revenge. 

t " Your memory beams through this agonized breast." 
. , , , , . Private volume 

*" I thought this poor brain, fcver'd eren to madness, 
Of tears, as of reason, for ever was drain'd ; 
But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness, 

Convince me tlie springs have some moisture retain'd. 
" Sweet scenes of my childhood ! your bleat recollection 
Has wnms; from these eyelids, to weeping long dead, 
In torrents the tears of my warmest affection, 
The last and the fondest I ever shall shed." 

% Private volume. 

II Printed in the private volume only. 

** These lines were printed In the private volume, the title being " Epi- 
taph on a beloved Friend." The motto was added in the first edition of 
Hours of Idleness. 

tt " Oh, Boy I for ever loved, for ever dear."— Private volume. 



A FRAGMENT. 



When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
Oh may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
INo lengthened scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone ; 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
That, only that, shall single out the spot ; 
J By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 



TO EDDLESTON||. 

1. 

Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined, 

2. 
And though unequal is thy fate. 

Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 
Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 

Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

3. 

Our souls at least congenial meet. 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet. 

Since worth of rank supplies the place. 

November, 1802. 



* " Though low thy lot, since in a cottage bom, 

No titles did thy humble name adorn ; 

To me far dearer was thy artless love 

Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove : 

For thee alone I lived, or wish'd to live ; 

Oh God ! if impious, this rash word forgive I 

Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom. 

Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb ; 

Where, this frail form composed in endless rest, 

I '11 make my last cold pillow on thy breast ; 

That breast where oft in life I've laid my head, 

Will yet receiV' me mouldering with the dead ; 

"irhis life resifii'd, without one parting sigh, 

Together in one bed of earth we'll lie ! 

Together share the fate to mortals given. 

Together mix our dust, and hope ior heaven.' 
Such was the conclusion in the private volume, 
■f " No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renovim." 

Private volume, and first edition of HoxiTt of Idleneii' 
J " By that remember'd, or for e'er forgot."— Privo/« volumt 
11 Only printed in the private volume. 



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•■«4i.' 



HOURS OF IDLENESS 



385 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. 
PIGOT, ESCl., ON THE CRUELTY 
OF HIS MISTRESS *. 
I. 

Why, Pigot, complain 

Of this damsel's disdain, 
Why thus in despair do you fret ? 

For months you may try, 

Yet, believe me, a sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 
2. 

Would you teach her to love ? 

For a time seem to rove ; 
At first she may frown in a pet ; 

But leave her awhile, 

She shortly will smile. 
And then you may kiss your coquette. 
3. 

For such are the airs 

Of these fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt ; 

Yet a partial neglect 

Soon takes an effect. 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 
4. 

Dissemble your pain, 

And lengthen your chain, 
And seem her hauteur to regret ; 

If again you shall sigh. 

She no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 
5. 

If still, from false pride, 

Your pangs she deride, 
This whimsical virgin forget ; 

Some other admire, 

Who will melt with your fire, 
And laugh at the little coquette. 
6. 

For me, I adore 

Some twenty or more. 
And love them most dearly ; but yet, 

Though my heart they enthral, 

I'd abandon them all, 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
7. 

No longer repine. 

Adopt this design, 
And break through her slight-woven net ; 

Away with despair,- 

No longer forbear. 
To fly from the captious coquette. 
8. 

Then quit her, my friend ! 

Your bosom defend. 
Ere quite with her snares you're beset : 

Lest your deep-wounded heart, 

When incensed by the smart, 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 21th, 1806. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHONf. 

Your pardon, my friend. 

If my rhymes did offend. 
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er 

From friendship I strove 

Your pangs to remove. 
But I swear I will do so no more. 



• Printed In the private Tolume only, 
t The»e ilwir-M were only printed In the prltste Tolnmt. 



Since your beautiful maid 

Your flame has repaid, 
No more I your folly regret ; 

She's now the most divine, 

And I bow at the shrine 
Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
3. 

Yet still, I must own, 

I should never have known 
From your verses, what else she deserved ; 

Your pain seem'd so great, 

I pitied your fate. 
As your fair was so develish reserved. 
4. 

Since the balm-breathing kiss 

Of this magical miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce ; 

Since the " world you forget. 

When your lips once have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse. 
5. 

You say, when " I rove, 

I know nothing of love ;" 
'Tis true, I am given to range : 

If I rightly remember, 

I've loved a good number. 
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
6. 

I will not advance. 

By the rules of romance, 
To humour a whimsical fair ; 

Though a smile may delight, 

Yet a frown won't affright. 
Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
7. 

While my blood is thus warm 

I ne'er shall reform. 
To mix in the Platonists' school ; 

Of this I am sure. 

Was my passion so pure. 
Thy mistress would think me a fool. 
8. 

And if I should shun 

Every woman for one. 
Whose image must fill my whole breast— 

Whom I must prefer. 

And sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 
9. 

Now, Strephon, good bye ; 

I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd ; 

Such love as you plead 

Is pure love indeed. 
For it only consists in the word. 



THE TEAR. 

" O lachrymarum fons, Icnoro iiacroi 
Ducentium ortiii ex nnimo ; qiiater 
Felix I in imo qui arntcntrm 
Peclore le, pia Nympha, lentit." — Oray'.^ 

I. 

When Friendship or Love 

Our Kympalhics move, 
When Truth in a glance should appear, 

The lips may beguile 

With a dimple or smile, 
But the test of oflection's a Tear. 
2. 

Too ofl is a smile 

But the hypocrite's wile, 



lnMH«d In the Ant •dlUon at Boun of MIimh. 



386 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



To mask detestation or fear ; 
Give me the son sigli, 
"Whilst the soul-telling eye 

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear 
3. 
Mild Charity's glow, 
To us mortals below, 

Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt 
Where this virtue is felt, 

And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 



The man doom'd to sail 
With the blast, of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
As he bends o'er the wave 
Which may soon be his grave_ 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 
5. 
The soldier braves death 
For a fanciful wreath 
In Glory's romantic career ; 
But he raises the foe 
When in battle laid low, 
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 
6. 
If with high-bounding pride 
He return to his bride. 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 
All his toils are repaid 
When, embracing the maid, 
From her eyelid he kisses thy Tear. 
7. 
Sweet scene of my youth ! 
Seat of Friendship and Truth, 
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year. 
Loth to leave thee, I mourned, 
For a last look I turn'd. 
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
8. 
Though my vows I can pour 
To my Mary no more, 
My Mary to Love once so dear, 
In the shade of her bower 
I remember the hour 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 
9. 
By another possest. 
May she live ever blest ! 
Her name still my heart must revere : 
With a sigh I resign 
What I once thought was mine, 
And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 
10. 
Ye friends of my heart. 
Ere from you I depart. 
This hope to my breast is most near : 
If again we shall meet 
In this rural retreat, 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
4 11. 

When my soul wings her flight 
To the regions of night, 
♦ And my corse shall recline on its bier, 
As ye pass by the tomb 
Where my ashes consume. 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
12. 
May no marble bestow 
The splendour of woe 



Which the children of vanity rear ; 

No fiction of fame 

Shall blazon my name. 
All I ask— all I wish— is a Tear. 

October 26, 



1806. 



TO MISS PIGOT * 
1. 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 

Who to woman deny the soul's future existence ; 
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, 
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. 
2. 
Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense. 

He ne'er would have women from paradise driven • 
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
3. 
Yet still to increase your calamities more. 

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit. 

He allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! 

With souls you'd dispense ; but this las", who could 
bear it ? 

4. 

His religion to please neither party is made ; 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives the most uncivil ; 
Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 

" Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil." 



LINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN 
ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GEN- 
TLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU. FOUN- 
DED ON FACTS t." 

" Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
And you will smile at their believing,' 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO 

Miss , 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts. 

From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, 

Exist but in imagination, — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation • 

For he v/ho views that witching grace. 

That perfect form, that lovely face. 

With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me. 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance. 

Thou' It there descry that elegance 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises : 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 

Believe me, only does his duty : 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 

July, 1804. 

THE CORNELIAN J. 

No specious splendour of this stone 

Endears it to my memory ever; 
With lustre only once it shone, 

And blushes modest as the giver. 
2.' 
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 

Have for my weakness oft reproved me ; 



' And my body shall deep on its bier."— Prioor* volume. 



* Found only in the private volume, 
t Only printed in the private volume 
. To young Eddleston. This poem is only found in the 



priTate Yolume. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



387 



Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 

For I am sure the giver loved me. 
3. 
He ofTer'd it with downcast look, 

As fearful that I might refuse it ; 
I told him when the gift I took, 

My only fear should be to lose it. 
4. 
This pledge attentively I view'd, 

And sparkling as I held it near, 
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 

And ever since I 've loved a tear. 
5. 
Still, to adorn his humble youth, 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield. 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 

Must quit the garden for the field. 
6. 
'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth. 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 
The flowers which yield the most of both 

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 
7. 
Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 

For once forgetting to be blind, 
His would have been an ample share, 

If well-proportion'd to his mind. 
8. 
But had the goddess clearly seen, 

His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 
Her countless hoards would his have been, 

And none remain'd to give the rest. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* 
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY 
DEAR TO HIMt- 

I. 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 
Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove. 

Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

2. 
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 

That clay where once such animation beam'd ; 
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey. 

Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 

3. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 
Not hero the muse her virtues would relate. 

4. 
But wherefore weep ? her matchless spirit soars 

Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 

Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 

6. 

And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, 
And, madly, godlike providence accuse? 

Ah! no, far fly from mo attempts so vain, 
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 



• Mi«» Parker. 

i To ihesc (itan7,n», which lire from the privnlp volume, the followioR 
nof! w:ii altached ; " The author flniniR tlie itidiilRHice of the rrmler 
mote f.n- iliis piece than, perha|m, nnv other in the cnllprtioii ; l)ut in il 
wns wiitliii at an earlier pi^rioil th.-vn the re»t (licinarompo^erl at the ace 
of f.^iii Icf.iV mirt his nm cMny, he prefcrrod sul.inillliK; it In the imhil- 
peiirc ol liii r.iomi* in iu prcient state, to iiwkinj either acldi lion or 
nlteration." 



Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face : 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



TO EMMA*. 

1. 

Since now the hour is come at last, 

When you must quit your anxious lover ; 

Since now our dream of bliss is past. 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

2. 
Alas ! that pang will be severe, 

Which bids us part to meet no more, 
Which tears me far from one so dear, 

Departing for a distant shore. 

3. 

Well : we have pass'd some happy hours, 
And joy will mingle with our tears ; 

When thinking on these ancient towers. 
The shelter of our infant years; 

4. 
Where from the gothic casement's height. 

We view'd the lake, the park, the dale. 
And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 

We lingering look a last farewell. 

5. 

O'er fields through which we used to run, 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

6. 
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 

Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies. 
Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes : 

7. 
See still the little painted bark, 

In Avhich I row'd you o'er the lake ; 
See there, high waving o'er the park. 

The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 



These times are past — our joys are gone. 
You leave me, leave this happy vale; 

These scenes I must retrace alone ; 
Without thee what will they avail ? 



Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

10. 

This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this those tears our cheeks bedew 

This is of love the final close, 
Oh, God, the fomlcst, last adieu ! 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. 

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE rERFORMANCE Of 
" THE WHFEL OF FORTUNE" AT A THIVATK 
THEATRE. 

Since the rofuionu'iit of this polish'd asjo 
Has swept immoral raillrrv from tlu< stnp<*; 
Since taste has now i-\]iiiii;;fil ii'-cnlious wit, 
Which stanv.iM disurncc on all an author writ ; 



Thii i>"em l« iiiMilol fioni tlie i" itaI» volunM. 



388 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 

Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 

Oh ! let the Modest muse some pity claim, 

And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 

Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 

Others appear more conscious of defect : 

To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, 

In all the arts of scenic action old ; 

No CooKE, no Kemble, can salute you here, 

No SiDDONs draw the sympathetic tear ; 

To-night you throng to witness the debut 

Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 

Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 

Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 

Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 

Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise 

But all our dramatis personae wait 

In fond suspense this crisis of our* fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward ; 

For these, each Hero all his power displays. 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely the last will some protection find ; 

None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 

Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 

The sternest Censorj to the fair must yield. 

Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail. 

Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, 

Still let some mercy in your bosoms live. 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEAR- 
ED IN A MORNING PAPER |. 

•'Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death. 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT 
THE FOLLOWING REPLY || . 

Oh, factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 

Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth. 

What though our " nation's foes" lament the fate, 

With generous feeling, of the good and great, 

Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 

Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 

When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 

Though ill success obscured his dying hour. 

Pity her dewy wings before him spread. 

For noble spirits " war not with the dead :" 

His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 

As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 

He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 

When lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd. 

Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 

He, too, is fairn, who Britain's loss supplied, 

With him our fast-reviving hopes have died • 

Not one great people only raise his urn. 

All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 

"These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 

To give the palm where Justice points its due ;" 

Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 

Pox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep 

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep ; 



J 



• Our. In the private volume, their. 
t Censor. In the private volume, critic. 
" In the Morning Post."— Pricote volume. 

" For insertion in the Morning Chronicle," wai here added in the 
▼ate Tolume. 



For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine. 
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; 
Which Envy, wearing Candor's sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



TO M. S. G.* 
1. 

Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 

Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 
Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas I it were unhallow'd bliss. 
2. 
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows ? 
Yet is the daring wish represt. 

For that, — would banish its repose. 
3. 
A glance from thy soul-searching eye 

Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; 
Yet I conceal my love, and why ? 
I would not force a painful tear. 
4. 
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 

Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 
And shall I plead my passion now. 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 
5. 
No ! for thou never canst be mine, 

United by the priest's decree ; 
By any ties but those divine. 
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 
6. 
Then let the secret fire consume. 

Let it consume, thou shalt not know ; 
With joy I court a certain doom. 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 
7. 
I will not ease my tortured heart. 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine ; 
Rather than such a sting impart. 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 
8. 
Yfcs ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 

More than I here shall dare to tell ; 
Thy innocence and mine to save,— 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 
9. 
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace, 
Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 
10. 
At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 

No matron shall thy shame reprove ; 
Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE!. 

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 

And heard unnvoved thy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more than words can say ' 
2. 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 



• Only printed in the private volume. 
f Printed only in the private volume. 



I 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 




389 



r 



Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 
3. 
But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 

When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 

Were lost in those which fell from thine. 
4. 
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, 

Thy gushing tears had quenched its flame, 
And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 

In sighs alone it breathed my name. 

5. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 

But that will make us weep the more. 

6. 
Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regrec, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE*. 
1. 
When I hear you express an affection so warm, 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 

2. 
Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring. 

That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear, 
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring. 

Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear ; 

3. 
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 

Their auburn,those locks must wave thin to the breeze. 
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining. 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 
4. 
'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my 
features, 
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, 
In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 
5. 
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 

No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 
He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 
6. 
But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us. 
And our breasts which alive with such sympathy glow, 
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us. 
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low : 
7. 
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow ; 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure. 
And quafi' the contents as our nectar below. 

1805. 



TO CAROLINE j. 
1. 

Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow ? 

Oh, when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 



* Inierted from the priTnle Tolume. 
t Thli poem alio it rfprlnted from lh« prival* Tolumo- 



From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurled me from bliss ; 

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

3. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could 
assuage, 
On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its 

lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 

4. 
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 

Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 

5. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer ; 

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 

6. 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
Since in life, love and friendship for ever are fled ? 

If again in the mansion of death 1 embrace thee. 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

1805. 



STANZAS TO A LADY, 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS. 
1. 

This votive pledge of fond esteem. 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize , 
It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 

A theme we never can despise. 
2. 
Who blames it but the envious fool. 

The old and disappointed maid ? 
Or pupil of the prudish school. 

In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 
3. 
Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 
To thee in vain I shall not plead 

In pity for the poet's woes. 
4. 
He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
Like his, may love be thy reward, 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE*. 

" *A Bop/?iTOS it xop^aXs 
'Epcura novvov ^;t''" 

Anacreon. 



Away with your fictions of flimsy romance! 

I Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! 
Give mo the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 
2. 
Ye rhymers, whoso bosoms with phantasy glow, 

Whose pastoral passions a.ro made for the grove, 
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 

Could you ever have tast«xl the first kiss of love ! 



• Thcue i(«niai wer* printeil In the pi iv«l« ynlnme, and in th« Anl (dl- 
lioD of Hourt of Idlen«n, htit oinlltf<l in l))c Mcrnitl. 

t " Thoie tiuura of fancy Moriaht hi»» woY«.— PriMf# 1 
I •' Moriah, the UodOwt of Folly." 



390 



HOURS OF IDLENESS 



If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse. 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 
4. 
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art : 

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the heart 
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 
5. 
Your shepherds, your flocks*, those fantastical themes, 

Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : 
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? 
6. 
Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth f, 

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove ; 
Some portion of paradise still is on earth. 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 
7. 
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past- 

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove 

The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



TO MARY. 

1. 

Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 

With bright but mild affection shine. 
Though they might kindle less desire, 

Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 
2. 
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 
We must admire, but still despair ; 

That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
3. 
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth. 

So much perfection in thee shone. 
She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 

The skies might claim thee for their own : 
4. 
Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 

Lest angels might dispute the prize. 
She bade a secret lightning lurk 

Within those jsnce celestial eyes, 
5. 
These might the boldest sylph appal, 

When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 
Thy beauty must enrapture all. 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze 7 
6. 
'Tis said that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vault of heaven; 
But they would ne'er permit thee there. 

Thou wonldst so far outshine the seven. 
7. 
For did those eyes as planets roll. 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : 
E'en suns, which systems now control, 

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere, 

1806. 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman ! experience might have told me 
That all must love thee who behold thee 



Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are nought ; 

But placed in all thy charms before me, 

All I forget but to adore thee. 

Oh, Memory ! thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing, 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled and passion's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 

How throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye. 

When, lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand*." 



* " ^o""" shepherds, your pipes, &c."— Pnvir.'e volume. 

T Oh I ccn»c to affirm thai man, from his birth," &c.—PrivaH 



TO M. S. G. 
I. 

When I dream that you love me, you '11 surely forgive 

Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your affection can live, — 

I rise, and it leaves me too weep. 
2. 
Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 

What rapture celestial is mine ! 
3. 
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given : 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven 
4. 
Ah ! frown not sweet lady, unbend your sofl brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now. 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 
5. 
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, 

Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL dUAKERt 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again, 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, " I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 
In vain to drive thee from my breast. 
My thoughts are more and more represt ; 
In vain I check the rising sighs. 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke. 
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 
The longue in flattering falsehood deals, 
And tells a tale it never feels : 
Deceit the guilty lips impart, 
And hush the mandates of the heart : 



•The last line is almost a literal tran<;lMtion from a Spanish prorerb. 
t These lines were published in the privnie volume, and the first edition 
of Hours of Idleness, but subseqiieutly omiixed by the author. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



391 



But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 

No spirit, from within, reproved us, 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter'd 1 repress, 

Yet I conceive thou' It partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I '11 say. 

Thy form appears through night, through day: 

Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams ; 

The vision charms the hours away. 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or woe my steps await. 

Tempted by love, by storms beset, 

Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas ! again no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Thea let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
" May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, 
That anguish never can overtake her ; 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ! 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related. 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover ! 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 'tis to feel the restless woe 
Which stings the soul, with vain regret, 
Of him who never can forget !" 



SONG* 

1.: 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, 

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snowj ! 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath. 

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below|, 
Unlutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you? 
2. 
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on tlie crag-cover'd wild : 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were blcss'd ; 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 
3. 
I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 

From mountain to mountain I boimdod along ; 
Ibreastcd|| the billows of Dec's** rushing tide, 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 



• To Mary Duff. FiiHl puhlinlicd in lliu gtioml ctlilion of Hour* of 
Idleness. 

t Morven, b lofly mounliiin in Aberdeenshire : " Oormal of snow, Is 
an expression frequently to be foiuul in Ossinn. 

X This will not appcnr extrnordiniiry to those who hnve been nrcustomcd 
to the mountains ; it is by no meims uncommon on iiltnininK Ibc lop of 
Ben-c-vis, Bcn-y-bourd, &c. to perceive Ix-twecn the Kiimmit nnd llir vnl- 
ley, clouds |X)uring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, 
while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, jierfectly secure 
from its eflects. 

|[ ISreaslini; the lofty svn-ee. — Shakespeare. 

•* The Deo is a beautiful river, which rises near Mm- Lodge, and falls 
Into the sea at New Abci-decn. 



At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 

No dreams save of Mary were spread to my view ; 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose. 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you, 
4. 
I left my bleak home, and my visiono are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more ; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 

And delight but in days I have witness'd before : 
Ah ! splendour has raised, but embitter'd, my lot; 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew : 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not 
forgot ; 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you, 
5. 
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen* ; 
When I sec the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; 
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold. 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long-flowing ringlets of gold, 

The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. 

6. 
Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
But while these soar above me unchanged as before, 

Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah, no ! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred'. 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you ? 



TO 



-t. 



Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true : 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 

2; 
But friendship can vary her gentle dominion. 

The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 
Like love, too, she moves on a swifl-waving pinion, 

But glows not, like love, with unquenchable fires, 
3. 
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 

And blest were the scenes of our youth I allow : 
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather , 

But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 
4. 
No more with aficction shall memory blending 

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending. 

And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 
5. 
However, dear S , for I still must esteem you — 

The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 
The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. . . 
6. 
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 

With me no corroding resentment shall live : 
My bosom is ralin'd bv the simple reflection, 

That both may be wrong, and iliat both should forgive. 
7. 
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence. 

If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 

Devoted to love and frieniiship alone. 



• Colbleen is ■ mounlAln new the vorge ol the Iligldende, nol far from 
the ndne of Di-e CeetJr. 

I This poi-m was flnl publiahcU in tlio Hours uf IdlcncM. 



392 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



You knew but away with the vain retrospection ! 

The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection. 

And sigh for the friend who was fornierly yours. 

9. 

For the present, we part— I will hope not for ever, 
For time and regret will restore you at last ; 

To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, 
I ask no atonement but days like the past. 



4. 



TO MARY, 

OK RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 

This faint resemblance of thy charms, 
Though strong as mortal art could give, 

My constant heart of fear disarms, 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 

2. 
Here 1 can trace the locks of gold 

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, 

The lips which made me Beauty's slave. 
3. 
Here I can trace — ah, no ! that eye 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
Must all the painter's art defy. 

And bid him from the task retire. 
4. 
Here I behold its beauteous hue, 

But Where's the beam so sweetly straying* 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 

5. 
Sweet copy ! far more dear to me. 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be. 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

6. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
Unconscious that her image there 

Held every sense in fast control. 
7. 
Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
In life's last conflict 'twill appear, 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 

TO LESBlAt. 
1. 

Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged. 

Our souls with fond affection glow not 
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 

I 'd tell why,— but yet I know not. 
2. 
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost ; 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older, 
Since trembling first my heart I lost. 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 
3. 
Sixteen was then our utmost age. 

Two years have lingering past away, love ! 
And now new thoughts our minds engage. 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

* But Where's the beam of soft desire ? 
Which gaTe a luslre to its blue, 

Love, only love could e'er inspire. 
_ , , . Private volume. 

Otuj pnnled in the private volume. 



'Tis I that am alone to blame, 
I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason 

5. 

I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; 

Warm was the passion of my youth. 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

6. 

No, no, my flame was not pretended. 
For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 

And — though our dream at last is ended — 
My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

7. 
No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

8. 
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 

New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 
Your eye for conquest beams prepared. 

The forge of love's resistless lightning. 
9. 
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed. 

Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 
More constant they may prove, indeed ; 

Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY*. 

As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies passing 
near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them, 
to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the neit morning. 

1. 

Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, 

Wafting destruction o'er thy charms. 
And hurtling t o'er thy lovely head. 

Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 
2. 
Surely some envious demon's force, 

Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course. 

Diverted from its first career. 

3. 

Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; 

But Heaven, with interposing power. 
In pity turn'd the death aside. 



Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 

Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear 
Extracted from its glistening cell : 

5. 

Say, what dire penance can atone 
For such an outrage done to thee ? 

Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne , 
What punishment wilt thou decree ? 

6. 
Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence I should scarce deplore ; 
It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to the before. 



* These stanias are only found in the private volume, 
t Tbia word ii used by Gray, in his poem to the Fatal Siiten :— 
" Iron sleet of arrowy shower 
Hurtles through the darfceo'd air." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



393 



7. 
The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 

8. 
But thou, perhaps, maystnow reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect ; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

9. 
Chose then, relentless ! and I swear 

Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ; 
Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 

Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU*. 

"A«iJ',a£t fit <j)cvyci." 

Anacreon. 

1. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife. 

Or prunes them for ever in love's last adieu ! 

2. 
In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 
3. 
Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
breast. 
Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt. 
Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 
4. 
Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 
Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they 
grew ; 
They flourish awhile in the season of truth. 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 
5. 
Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 

Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 
Yet why do I ask ?— to distraction a prey. 

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 

6. 
Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, ravmg, ho howls his complaint to the wind ; 

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 

7. 
Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments know ; 
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 

Ho ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 

8. 
How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few. 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 
9. 
Yonth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

No more with love's former devotion wo sue : 
He spreads his young wing, ho retires with the blast ; 

The shroud of aflfection is love's last adieu ! 



Thit poem WM omllltd In iU wcond .diUon of Houri of Idlenwi. 

2Z 



10. 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea*declares that some penance is due ; 

From him who has v.'orshipp'd at love's gentle shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ; 

11. 

Who kneels to the god on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



DAMtETAS. 

In law an infant |, and in years a boy. 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Versed in hypocrisy while yet a child ; 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school ; 

Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin, 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 

And bid him drain dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 

What disgust to life hast ihou ? 

Change that discontented air : 

Frowns become not one so fair. 

'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 

Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 

He in dimpling smiles appears. 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 

Or bends the languid eyelid down, 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire, 

Some will love, and all admire ; 

While that icy aspect chills us, 

Nought but cool indiflTerence thrills us. 

Wouldstthou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile at least, or seem to smile. 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say. 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short, she 

Dreads least the subject should transport me; 

And flying off in search of reason, 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 

All I shall therefore say (what o'er 

I think, is neither here nor there ^ 

Is, that such lips, of looks cndcarmg, 

Were form'd for better things than sneering ; 

Of soothing compliments divested. 

Advice at least's disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to tlicc, 

From all the flow of flattery free ; 

Counsel like mine is as a brother's, 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, unskill'd to co/.cn, 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu! oh ! pr'ytheo slight not 

This warning, though it may delight not; 



(wtnt7-oofl. 



394 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
At once I'll tell thee our opinion 
Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 
These cannot fix our souls to love : 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture ; 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
Which binds us in your humble train. 
To hail you queens of all creation, 
Kjiow, in a word, 'tis Animation. 



OSCAR OF ALVA*. 

A TALE. 
1. 

How sweetly shines, through azure skies, 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the din of arms no more. 

2. 
But often has yon rolling moon 

On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 
And view'd at midnight's silent noon, 

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd ; 
3. 
And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 

Which scroll o'er ocean's sullen flow, 
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 

She saw the grasping warrior low ; 

4. 
While* many an eye which ne'er again 

Could markf the rising orb of day, 
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain. 

Beheld in death her fading ray. 

5. 
Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 

They blest her dear propitious light 
But now she glimmer'd from above, 

A sad, funereal torch of night. 

6. 

Faded is Alva's noble race. 

And gray her towers are seen afar 

No more her heroes urge the chase. 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

7. 
But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 

8. 
And when that gale is fierce and high, 

A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 
It rises hoarsely through the sky, 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

9. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs. 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

But there no more his banners rise. 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 



* Thia poem was fniblished for the first time in Hours of Idleness. 

• The catastrophe of tiiis tale was suggested by the story of " Jeronymo 
and Lorenzo," in the first volume of the " Armenian, or Ghost-Seer." It 
also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of " Macbeth. 

* While. First edition, when. 
T Mark, First edition, view. 



10. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth. 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

n. 

They feast upon the mountain deer. 

The pibroch raised its piercing note 
To gladden more their highland cheer. 

The strains in martial numbers float : 
12. 
And they who heard the war-notes wild 

Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 
Should play before the hero's child 

While he should lead the tartan train. 
13. 
Another year is quickly past, 

And Angus hails another son ; 
His natal day is like the last. 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 
14. 
Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind. 
The boys in childhood chased the roe, 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 
15. 
But ere their years of youth are o'er, 

They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 

And send the whistling arrow far. 
16. 
Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 

Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 
But Allan's locks were bright and fair. 

And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale, 

17. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,. 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; 
Allan had early learn'd control, 

And smooth his words had been from youth. 
18 
Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 

Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 

But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 

19. 

While Allan's soul belied his form. 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 

Keen as the lightning of the storm. 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 

20. 
From high Southannon's distant tower 

Arrived a young and noble dame ; 
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 

Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 

21. 
And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 

And Angus on his Oscar smiled : 
It soothed the father's feudal pride 

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

22. 
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song t 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

23. 
See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on their chieft^ain's call. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



395 



24. 
It is not war their aid demands, 

The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 

Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 
25. 
But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late : 

Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? 
While thronging guests and ladies wait, 

Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 
26. 
At length young Allan join'd the bride : 

"Why comes not Oscar ?" Angus said; 
<* Is he not here?" the youth replied; 

"With me he roved not o'er the glade. 

27. 
" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 

'Tis his to chase the bounding roe; 
Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 

Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

28. 
"Oh, no !'^ the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 

" Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay ; 
Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 

Would aught to her impede his way ? 
29. 
"Oh ! search,, ye chiefs ! oh ! search around ! 

Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 
Till Oscar, till my son is found, 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 
30. 
All is confusion — through the vale 

The name of Oscar hoarsely rings 
It rises on the murm'ring gale. 

Till night expands her dusky wings ; 
31. 
It breaks the stillness of the night, 

But echoes through her shades in vain : 
It sounds through morning's misty light, 

But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

32. 
Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 

For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 
Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief, 

His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 

33. 
"Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'n 

Restore the prop of sinking age I 
Or if that hope no more is given, 

Yield his assassin to my rage. 

34. 
"Yes, on some desert rocky shore 

My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 
Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 
35. 
"Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 

Be calm, my soul I he yet may live ; 
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! 

God ! my impious prayer forgive ! 

36. 
"What, if he live for mo no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust. 
The hope of Alva's ago is o'er : 

Alas ! can pangs like those be just?" 
37. 
Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 

Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 
Had bade serenity return, 

And made the tear-drop cease lo ll»w. 



38. 
For still some latent hope survived 

That Oscar might once more appear ; 
His hope now droop'd and now revived, 

Till Time had told a tedious year. 
39. 
Days roU'd along, the orb of light 

Again had run his destined race ; 
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 

And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

40. 
For youthful Allan still remain'd, 

And now his father's only joy : 
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 

For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 

41. 

She thought that Oscar low was laid, 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 

If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 

42. 
And Angus said, if one year more 

In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 
His fondest scruples should be o'er. 

And he would name their nuptial day. 
43. 
Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last 

Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 
The year of anxious trembling past. 

What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn ! 
44. 
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

45. 
Again the clan, in festive crowd. 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud. 

And all their former joy recall. 

46. 
But who is he, whose darken'd brow 

Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 
Before his eyes far fiercer glow 

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

47. 
Dark is the robe which wraps his form. 

And tall his plume of gory red ; 
His voice is like the rising storm, 

But light and trackless is his tread. 
48. 
'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 

The bridegroom's health is deeply quafT'd ; 
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 

And all combine to hail the draught. 

49. 
Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 

And. all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 

And Mora's lender bosom blush'd. 

50. 
" Old man !'' he cried, " thi<» pledge is done ; 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me ; 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 
51. 
" While all around i< mirth and joy, 

To bles!< thy Allan's li.ippy lot, 
r'ay, had'st thou nr'cr nnoiher boy ? 

Suv, wliv should Osiar Iw furjfi^t ?* 



396 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



52. 
" Alas !" the hapless sire replied, 

The big tear starting as he spoke, 
" When Oscar left my hall, or died, 

This aged heart was almost broke. 

63. 
" Thrice has the earth revolved her course 

Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 
And Allan is my last resource. 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

54. 
" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 

And fiercely tlash'd his rolling eye ; 
*' Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 

Perhaps the hero did not die. 

55. 

" Perchance, if those whom he most loved, 
Would call, thy Oscar might return 

Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
For him thy Beltane* yet may burn. 

56. 
" Fill high the bowl the table round. 

We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 
With wine let every cup be crown'd ; 

Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

57. 

*' With all my soul," old Angus said, 
And fiU'd his goblet to the brim ; 

" Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

58. 
" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why does Allan trembling stand ? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead. 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

59. 
The crimson glow of Allan's face 

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
The drops of death each other chase 

Adown in agonizing dew. 



Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

61. 

" And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus affection's strength prevails. 
What might we not expect from fear ?" 

62. 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
" Would Oscar now could share our mirth !' 

Internal fear appall' d his soul ; 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

63. 
" 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice !" 

Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; 
*' A murderer's voice !" the roof replies, 

And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

64. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 
The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 

A form was seen in tartan green. 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 



65. 



* Bellane Tree, a Highland festival on tb« first of Mar, 
Gchted for tht gccMiou. 



His waist w-as bound with a broad belt round, 

His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there. 

And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
66. 
And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

On Angus bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
67. 
The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 

The thunders through the welkin ring, 
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the stornij 

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
68. 
Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast*, 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

69. 
'* Away, away ! let the leech essay 

To pour the light on Allan's eyes :" 
His sand is done, — his race is run 5 

Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 
70. 
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are lifted by the gale ; 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
7L 
And whence the dreadful stranger came. 

Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 
But no one doubts the form of flame, 

For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
72. 
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 

Exulting demons wing'd his dart ; 
While Envy waved her burning brand. 

And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
73. 
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow : 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ' 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
74. 
And Mora's eye could Allan move, 

She bade his wounded pride rebel : 
Alas ! that eyes which beamed with love 

Should urge the soul to deeds of hell ! 
75. 
Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 

Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 

Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
76. 
Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 
And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 
77. 
What minstrel gray, what hoary bard. 

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 
The song is glory's chief reward, 

But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 
78. 
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 

No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 

His harp in shuddering chords wov.!d break. 



' Old Angus presi'd the earth with his breast.— Firrt Edition. 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



397 



79. 
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
Shall sound his glories high in air : 
•^^ A dying father's bitter curse, 
^H A brother's death groan echoes there. 

W TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 

In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this 
lecond edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally forgot- 
ten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my depar- 
ture from Hazron. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high 
rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through the 
neighbouring country : however, he never saw the lines, and most proba- 
bly never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than some 
other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the first time, 
after a slight revision. 

Dorset ! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade. 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend ; 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command* ; 
Thee on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gifts of riches and the pride of power ; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control ; 
Though passive tutorsf, fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules," 
Believe them not, — they point the path to shame 
And seek to blast the honours of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng. 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear ; 
For well I know that virtue lingers there. 

Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
But now new scenes invite me far away ; 
Yes I have mark'd within that generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
Ah ! though myself by nature haughty, wild, 
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child ; 
Though every error stamps me for her own. 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
I love the virtues which 1 cannot claim. 

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, 
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; 
Then share with titled crowds the common lot — 
In life ju.st gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 
Except the dull, cold stono that hides thy head, 



♦At every pnlilic srlinnl the Junior boys arc completely sulnervicnt to llie 
upper forinn till lliey attain a seat in (lie highnr rln»tc« From this stale 
of probation , very prnpnrly, no rank in exempt ; but •flcra certain period 
Ihev command in turn Ihoso who lucoH'tl. 

t' Allow mc to disclaim any per»onal Rlliislont, even the mostdlttRnl ; I 
merely mention generally what is too often the weakneis of preceptor*. 



The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 

That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, 

Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find 

One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 

There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 

+ That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 

A race with old armorial lists o'erspread, 

In records destined never to be read. 

Fain would I viev<' thee, with prophetic eyes, 

Exalted more among the good and wise, 

A glorious and a long career pursue. 

As first in rank, the first in talent too : 

Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 

Turn to the annals of a former day, 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth. 
And call'd, proud boast ! the British drama forthf . 
Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine ; 
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; 
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng. 
The pride of princes, and the boast ofsongj. 
Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their name ; 
Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 
To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all wero 

mine: 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell ; 
Alas ! they love not long who love so well. 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep. 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere. 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate 
May one day claim our suffrage for the state. 
We hence may meet, and pass each other by 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe. 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race ; 
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, 
Or hear, tmlcss in crowds, thy well-known voice. 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought. 
If these — but let mc cease the longlhonVl strain — 
Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great. 



• See the lamr line in I.arn, stanza H. 

f "Thomas Snrkville, I.ord Hurkhiiret, emipd Earl of Poraet by 
James the first, was one nf the earliest and briitlilvit ornaments (o (ha 
poetry of his country, and the fli-«t who produced a rogtilar drnma." — 
Anriertnn't Brilith Poett. 

J " Charles Sackville, Karl of Dorset, esteemed the most arcomnlisbnt 
man of his day, was nlike Himinxuished in the voluptuous court oft liailes 
II. and the (loomy one of William III. Ho behaved with grrnt itallantry 
In the sea Mil with the Dutch in 1865, on (he day previous (o which hie 
composed hli celebrated King. His character has l>«en drawn in tha 
hiKlwsl colour* by Orydcn, Pope, I'lior, and C'onfi-ev«. — AmUrien'i Bri 



TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 
DYING. 

Animula ! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, cotnesque, corporis, 
dure nunc abibis in loca ? 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos. 

TRANSLATION. 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 
To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
No more with wonted humour gay, 
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LESBIAM. 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from jealousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms. 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known. 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbial though 't is death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres, 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
My limbs deny their slight support. 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 
With deadly languor droops my head, 
My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
And life itself is on the wing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd. 

And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 
By Death's* unequal hand alike controU'd, 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.f 

" Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — Lib. Quart. 

Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 

Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? 

Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain. 

That I might live for love and you again : 

But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate : 

By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



* The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was 
eonsiderablv older lliaii Tihiillus at his decease, 
t From '.he private volume. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

" LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS." 
1. 

Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread, 
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
For he was gentle, and so true. 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew. 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 

2. 
And softly fluttering here and there. 
He never sought to clear the air, 
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return. 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

3. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no earthly power can save, 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
Thou art the cause of all her wo 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire : 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss : 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Naught should my kiss from thine dissever ; 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavour : 
Could I desist? — ah! never — never. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.* 

ODE 3, LIB. 3. 
1. 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control ; 
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent : 
Gales the warring waves which plough. 

By Auster on the billows spent. 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 

2. 
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above. 



Only printed in the private volume. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 39g 


With all his terrors then unfurl'd, 


With care I tend my weary guest, 


He would unmoved, unavved behold: 


His little fingers chill my breast ; 


The flames of an expiring world, 


His glossy curls, his azure wing, 


Again in crashing chaos roU'd, 


Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; 


In vast promiscuous ruin hurled. 


His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 


Might light his glorious funeral pile: 


And now reviving from the storm. 


Still dauntless midst the wreck of earth he 'd smile. 


Scarce had he felt his wonted glow. 




Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 




" I fain would know, my gentle host," 


TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.* 


He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 




I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 


TO HIS LYEE. 


The strings their former aid refuse." 


I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 


With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 


To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 


Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 


To echo, from its rising swell. 


Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :— 


How heroes fought and nations fell, 


" My bow can still impel the shaft : 


When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 


'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; 


Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 


Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?" 


But still, to martial strains unknown, 




My lyre recurs to love alone. 




Fired with the hope of future fame, 


FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 


I seek some nobler hero's name ; 




The dying chords are strung anew, 


FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OP iESGHTLUS. 


To war, to war, my harp is due : 


Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 


With glowing strings, the epic strain 


Both gods and mortals homage pay, 


To Jove's great son I raise again ; 


Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 


Alcides and his glorious deeds. 


Thy dread behests ne'er disobey 


Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds ; 


Oft shall the sacred victim fall 


All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 


In seagirt Ocean's mossy hall ; 


Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 


My voice shall raise no impious strain 


Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 


Gainst him who rules the sky and auzure main. 


Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 


+ + + + + ♦ 


To other deeds my soul is strung, 


How different now thy joyless fate, 


And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 


Since first Hesione thy bride, 


My harp shall all its powers reveal, 


When placed aloft in godlike state. 


To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 


The blushing beauty by thy side, 


Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 


Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 


In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 


And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, 




The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 




Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. 


ODE Ill.f 


Harrow, Dec. 1,1804. 


'T WAS now the hour when Night had driven 




Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 


THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURIALUS. 


Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole ; 




A PARAPHRASE FROM THE iENEID, LIB. IX. 


While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 


Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 


Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 


Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 


At this lone hour, the Paphian boy. 


Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, 


Descending from the realms of joy, 


Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 


Quick to my gate directs his course, 


* From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 


And knocks with all his little force. 


And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 


My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,— 


To watch the movements of the Daunian host. 


" What stranger breaks my blest repose?" 


With him Euryalus sustains the post; 


" Alas !" replies the wily child 


No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 


In faltering accents sweetly mild. 


And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 


" A hapless infant here I roam. 


Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 


Far from my dear maternal home. 


As yet a novice in the martial strife. 


Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast! 


'Twas his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share — 


The nightly storm is pouring fast. 


A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 


No prowling robber lingers hero. 


These burn with one pure flame of generous love ; 


A wandering baby who can fear ? 


In peace, in war, united still they move; 


I heard his seeming artless tale. 


Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 


I heard his sighs upon the gale : 


And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 


My breast was never pity's foe. 




But felt for all the baby's wo. 
I drew the bar, and by the light 


• Ilim Ida sent, a IninliT now no more, 
To conilinl ft.f» ii|)on a foiriRii »harc. 


Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 


Near him, ilie lovrlicK of (he Tiojnn band, 
Dill I'liii Kiii'Vitliit, liiaiMmriule. •liiiul : 


His bow across his shoulders flung. 


Frw .1.0 th.- ;.-ui..ii«orhin yo.Uhf.il life, 


And thence his fatal quiver hung, 


Till' K"'!-- ■ iii|':\rt, 


(Ah! little did I think the dart 


A r,'ii...l 'i"«it. 


Would rankle soon within my heart.) 


'I'lii'Hi' In.' 1 MMirroiii Iota ; 

1''!'"" ''''--1.^ 


• First publi.hcd li< Hour, of l.llciiMi. 


yoluaw, \*l.wv '■.-^■-- wttiprinltd. 


t Flrit priotcd in Ilaiirt of Idtciicii. 



400 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



" What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
The love of fame with this can ill accord. 
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? 
Where confidence smd ease the watch disdain, 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine, 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,) 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found; 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls. 
And lead jEneas from Evander's halls." 
With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy. 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — 
♦* These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone ? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar, 
As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
I track'd ^neas through the walks of fate : 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal bums. 
And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn' d by fleeting breath : 
The price of honour is the sleep of death." 
Then Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms : 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance, — 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve. 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be. 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force. 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To markthy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 
*' In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; «' it scorns control ! 
Hence, let us haste !"— their brother guards arose, 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exuUing wing, 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran. 
And luU'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed. 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 



When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxions tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear: 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command. 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

" With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam. 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune, will allow, 
We '11 bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night : 
Then shall iEneas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way; 
Where yonder torrent's devious water stray, 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed. 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, 
*' Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive. 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd. 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise? 
Our deities the first best boon have given — 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
-lEneas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates * who my country love 1 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight. 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, 
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey; 
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave. 
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : 
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
When great ^neas wears Hesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
Which Tumus guides with more than mortal speed, 
Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames 
To sooth thy softer hours with amorous flames. 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 
The labours of to-night shall well repay. 



i 



Household foda. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



401 



But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun. 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus : — '' No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, 
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine. 
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
* Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave. 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 
In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt. 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt: 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 
Such love was his, and such had been his wo. 
*' All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied ; 
" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's f style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run. 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath — 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd. 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel ; 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain 'mid the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnesthcus to guard the elder youth bestows. 
And old Alelhes' casque defends his brows. 
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train, 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amid the chiefs his place : 
His prayers he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by the night, 
Through sloc|)ing foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When shall tlie sleep of many a foe bo o'er? 
Alas! some slumber who siiall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are scon; 
And flowing flasks, and scattor'd troops between: 
Bacchus and Mars to rule tiio camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the first, " for detids of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labour share : 



* " Alone sht came." In the flrit edllioii, " Ilithtr the can*} 
T Tha mother of lului, lost on tliu night wlicn Troy wni Inkan. 

3 A 



Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise. 

Watch thou, while many a dreaming cheftain dies : 

I '11 carve our passage through the heedless foe, 

And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 

His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 

And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast; 

Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed : 

Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed: 

To Tumus dear, a prophet and a prince, 

His omens more than augur's skill evince; 

But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 

Could not avert his own untimely fall. 

Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless fell. 

And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell 

The charioteer along his courser's sides 

Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides ; 

And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead : 

Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 

From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents pour 

Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 

Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 

And gay Serranus, fiU'd with youthful fire: 

Half the long night in childish games was pass'd ; 

Lull'dby the potent grape, he slept at last: 

Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 

And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls: 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name : 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel. 
Yet wakeful Rhsesus sees the threatening steel ' 
His coward breast behind ajar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as tliey flow 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend tlieir way, 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: — 
** Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; 
Full foes enough to-night have breath'd their last: 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn/* 

What silver arms, with various art emboss'd, 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardless! yet ono glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
Tiio gems which stud tho monarch's golden bolt ; 
This from the pallid corse was ()ui(-kly lorn, 
Once by a lino of former cheftaius worn. 
Til' exulting boy tiui studded girdlo wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in lriun)ph boars ; 
Then from the tont.s their cautious steps they bond 
To seek the valo wher*! safor paths extend. 

Just at this hour a band of Latian horso 
To Tumus' camp pursue their destined course : 
While tho slow foot their tartiy march delay, 
Tiio knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
Throe hundred mail-clad men, i\v Volscons led, 
To Turnus with Uieir master's promise sped; 



402 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 

When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 

The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 

Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 

" Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms ? 

From whence, to whom ?" — He meets with no reply: 

Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; 

The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread, 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene ; 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
*' O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
In what impending perils art thou left !" 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees. 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
The hapless boy a ruflian train surround. 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? 
Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifl;ed lance on high, 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 
"Goddess serene, transcending every star! 
Ciueen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove. 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars wtih the produce of the chase, 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud.'* 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay: 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop hi wild amaze. 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his low^ering eyes ; 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. 
*' Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all'." 
Q,uick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew, 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
♦* Me, me — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your ovra. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ! 
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend ; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove ; 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 



Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower. 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks amid the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, fl.ashiag, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim. 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire. 
No future day shall see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions haU their empress, Rome ! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES.* 

1. 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow. 
What mind can stem the stormy surge 

Which rolls the tide of human wo ? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame. 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

2, 
But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can sooth the aching breast : 
If thus thou comest in disguise, f 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven. 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

3. 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow. 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 

With others wage internal war ; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far ! 

4. 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all the hours be winged with joy, 

Which hover faithful hearts above ! 



* First printed ic Ilours of Idleness, 

t Comest in disguUt. In the first edition, com'$t in gtntU gid»t. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



403 



Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 
May I with some fond lover sigh, 

Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 
With me to live, with me to die ! 

5. 

My native soil! beloved before, 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour, 

May I resign this fleeting breath! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 



Have I not heard the exile's sigh, 
And seen the exile's silent tear, 

Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 
A pensive weary wanderer here ? 



Ah! hapless dame!* no sire bewails. 
No friend thy v/retched fate deplores, 

No kindred voice with rapture hails 
Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 

7. 
Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 

To fair affection's truth unknown. 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver keyf 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
May such a friend be far from me, 
And ocean's storms between us roll ! 



* Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him for 
the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus from which this 
is taken here addresses Medea ; though a considerable liberty is taken 
with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other parts of 
the translation . 

t The original is "Ka-^agcLv ivol\avrt KXjjia (f>giVMv;" literaJly 
" disclosing the bright key of the mind." 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.* 

HiCH in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit rapt in speechless gloom. 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What though he knows not how his fathers bled 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead. 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance. 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deatliless fame. 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await ; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But, lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's glowing stylo, or Tuily's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 



• No reflection la here intendoil against Ihc per«on mcntinnpd ui 
ihe nnmo of Magnus. He ii merely represented ns pfrforniirin an i 
▼oidablu function of hi* office. IndemI, Ruch an H(tetn|)( rotild only rrroil 
upon mynclf; an that gentleman is now n» much di«tingui«hcil by hli 
eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he (illii IiIb ■ituulion, ai 
he was in hii younger days for wil and convivliillty. 

Tha above note wat added in the firit edition of the Houre of Idle 
net*. 



Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen ; 
The slightest motion would displease the Dean \ 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best ; 
Who utters most widiin the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid. 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedcry banks supine they lie 
Unknown — unhonour'd live, unwept-for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
They tliink all learning fix'd within their walls : 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts affecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Bentley's,* Brunck's,* or PoRsoN'sf note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
|Vain as their honours, heavy as their alo. 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as ihoir tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not imtaught to feel 
When Self and Cliurch domaiul a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 't is Pitt or Petty rules tlie hour ;§ 
To him with suppliant smiles tliey bend the head, 
II While distant mitres to their eyes arc ."pread. 



• f.>l.'bml.'<I.Hllc». 

I The iMfucnl (irrrk profi-Mor a( Trinity Collene, C»ml)rl<l(«' ; a man 
wliiiHo puwi-rs 111 niiiiil and wi ilinii" nmy |ieihn|iK Juttlfv tlirir nrelei-rnco. 

Till- c.incluilina rliiuio of the fui-egning note wtii RU(\rd In the flnl *tll- 
liuii ,<( llour>»f Idlrnru. 

) Viiiii o« l/ittr honour*, f r.- Tlie four entuing llnc» were liieertrd In 
llir m'fund iMliiion of Hoiirii of Idl^np«. 

§ Since thU wns written, Lord H. IVlty hai lott hli place, and »iib. 
neiiuriilly (I hail nlmoti laid roht*qui>nl!if) the honour of reprrtenling 
thr UnlvVriltv A Inc t »o glaring require* no comment. 

II Whil* <{■:■ ■■ -niirft. ftr. In thp Yirlvale volume, WkiU mltrt$, 
prtb*nd$, to -, r' rr-.' 



404 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



But should a storm o'erwhelrn him with disgrace, 
They 'd jfly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard; 
Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay, 



1806. 



TO THE EARL OF 



" Tu semper amoris 
Sis memorj et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." 

Valeriu$ Flaccns, 



L 
Fkiend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
Like striplings nlutually beloved 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 



The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I 've known 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again adieu ! 

3. 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever : 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 



As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams v^'hich from one fountain rise. 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 

Till mingled in the main ! 

5. 

Our vital streams of weal or wo. 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear, ■< 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit the shore. 



Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside. 

Now flow in diff*erent channels : 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'T is yours to mix in polish'd courts. 

And shine in fashion's annals • 



'T is mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme 
Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet, 
Nor left a thought to seize on. 



• These stanzas were first publisbed in the second edition of Hours of 
fdlenesa. 



Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 

That he who sang before all, 
He who the lore of love expanded, 
By dire reviewers should be branded 

As void of wit and moral.* 



And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot : 
Thy soothing rays may still be read. 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 
And critics are forgot. 

10. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit. 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit. 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
And though myself may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

I really will not fight them.f 

11. 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner. 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

12. 

Now, , I must return to you ; 

And sure apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 

In truth, dear , in fancy's flight 

I soar along from left to right ; 

My muse admires disgression. 

13. 

I think I said 't would be your fate 
To add one star to royal state, — 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you, 

14. 

Yet since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round. 

From snares may saints preserve you ! 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care 
But those who best deserve you! 

15. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure unerrring way ! 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move! 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love1 

Your tears be tears of joy ! 

16. 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless. 

And virtues crown your brow. 
Be still as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you 've been known to me,— 

Be still as you are now. 



I 



* These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severs 
critique, in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Ana- 
creon. 

t A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. 
If ihis example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped 
in the river Styx ; for what else can secure them from the numerous host 
of their enraged asssailant? 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



406 



17. 

And though some trifling share of praise, 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear ; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I 'd wave at once a poet's fame. 

To prove a prophet here. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES 
SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, 
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DE- 
SCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARM- 
LY DRAWN. + 



*' But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse, 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ?" 

Anstey's New Bath Guide, p. 169, 

Candour compels me, Becher ! to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
Your strong, yet just, reproof extrorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent f cause. 
For this wild J error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart ; 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control. 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind. 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind: 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love : 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song. 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose laboured lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — 
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to " taint:" 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile. 
Whose downcast eye disdaias the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er be " tainted" by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment the bosom witli unholy fires, 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few. 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true. 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light efl'usions of a hocdlcss boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er bo proud ; 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize. 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

N(rvemher2G,\806. 



GRANTA. 



" 'Apyupf'atj XSyxaKTi jxd^ov koI navra KpaDyo-aif."* 

1. 

Oh ! could Le Sage's f demon's gift 

Be realized at my desire. 
This night my trembling form he d lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 

2. 
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

3. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective day. 

4. 
Lo ! candidates and voters lie \ 

All luU'd in sleep, a goodly number ! 
A race renown'd for piety. 

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber. 



LordH , indeed, may not demur; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men: 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom, now and then. 

6. 

They know the chancellor has got 
Some pretty livings in disposal : 

Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

7. 
Now from the soporific scene § 

I '11 turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view unheeded and unseen 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 



There, in apartments small and damp. 
The candidate for college prizes 
^ Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

9. 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 
With all the honours of his college, 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

10. 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 
To scan precisely metres attic ; 

Or agitates his anxious breast 
In solving problems mathcmatic : 



♦ These linet were printed in the privnla vohiino, anil Inthofirtt edi- 
tion of Honrt of IdlcncM, but aflorwnrdii omllioJ. 
t Imjpritdent. In llie private volume, umoortny, 
XWild. PrivRte volume tole. 



• Tlie motto Wftn not given in UiejiriVRte voUimc. 
t The Uinblo Uoiitiix of \.t Snge, where Aimodouf, the demon, 
pluceii Hon CleofiiB on an ili'vutcd siiiiBtion, auil uiirooft the liouMi for 

"'t'/^'W' cnnditlntit anA voter* lit, Ac. The fourth and fifth •(■»••, 
wliirli urp )(ivrn lien* a* they wero printed in the iluurs of ItlleutM, rao 

iia follows in the private volume :— 

•• Onr i<n \u» power nnd pUce dcpendt, 
Till' otiii'i on the l.oid known what ; 
Kiiih u< »i.nir iloqurnco prrtiMuU, 

'I'IioiikIi neither will convince by that. 
" Thi- first, Indeed, may not demur." 



%From thf 
tion't *hav\r!i 



ihe *ctn*. In Uie piHT«l« Tolunw, From eomp- 



406 


HOURS OF 


IDLENESS. 


11. 

Who reads false quantities in Sele,* 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 

Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
In barbarous Latin f doom'd to wrangle : 


23. 

Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 
Inspired by stratagem or fear, 

They might have set their hearts at ease, 
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 


12. 

Renouncing every pleasing page 
From authors of historic use; 

Preferring to the letter'd sage 
The square of the hypothenuse. J 




24. 
But if I scribble longer* now. 

The deuce a soul will stay to read : 
My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 

'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 


13. 




25. 



Still, harmless are these occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared with other recreations. 
Which bring together the imprudent ; 

14. 

Whose daring revels shock the sight, 

When vice and infamy combine. 
When drunkenness and dice invite. 

As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

15. 

Not so the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay ; 
In humble attitude they sue. 

And for the sins of others pray :, 

16. 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit. 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

17. 

— 'T is mom : from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye ? 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white, § 

Across the green in numbers fly. 

18. 
Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'T is hush'd : — what sounds are these I hear ? 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 

19. 

To this is join'd the sacred song, 

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

20. 
Our choir would scarcely be excused, 

Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
All mercy now must be refused 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 

21. 
If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these bbckheads sing before him, 
To us his Psalms had ne'er descended, — 

In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 



The luckless Israelites, when taken 
By some inhuman tyrant's order. 

Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken. 
On Babylonian river's border. 



• Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and 
Ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not re- 
markable for accuracy. 

In the private volume, " Sele's publication on Greek metres is not re- 
markable for its accuracy." 

t The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intel- 
ligible. 

In the private volume, " Every Cambridge man will assent to this. — 
The Latin of the schools is almost unintelligilile." 

J The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is 
equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled' triangle. 

§ On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel. 



Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires ! 

No more like Cleofas I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires : 

The reader 'b tired, and so am I. 



1806. 



LACHIN Y. GAIR.t 

Lachin y. Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr, towers 
proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One 
of our modern tourists mentions it as tlie highest mountain, perhaps, 
in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most 
sublime and picturesque among our " Caledonian Alps.'' Its appear, 
ance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. 
Near Lachin y. Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the 
recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas. 

1. 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes. 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war ; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh for the vaUey of dark Loch na Garr. 



Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ;J 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd. 

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade : 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story. 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

3. 

" Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

4. 
Ill starr'd,§ though brave, did no visions foreboding 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?" 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,|| 
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 



* If I scribble lonsier. In the private volume, T/JtcriiemacAtowg-er. 

t First published in Hours of Idleness. 

% This word is erroneously pronounced plad : the proper pronun- 
ciation (according to the Scotch) is known by the orthography. 

§ I allude here to my maternal ancestors, " the Grjrdons," many 
of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the 
name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well 
as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, 
married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of 
Scotland. By her he left four sons: the third. Sir William Gordon, I 
have the hono'ur to claim as one of my progenitors. 

II Whether any perished in the battle of CuUoden, I am not certain ; 
but, as many fell in the insurreclion, I have used the name of the pii'in- 
cipal action, " pars pro toto." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



407 



Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;* 

The pibrochf resounds, to the piper's loud number, 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 



Years have roU'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you. 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar. 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr I 



TO ROMANCE.! 

1. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
vVho lead'st along, in airy dance, 

Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth ; 
No more I tread thy mystic round. 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 



And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain, 

And even woman's smiles are true. 



And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Pylades§ in every friend ? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves ? 
Confess that woman 's false as fair, 

And friends have feeling for — themselves? 

4. 
With shame I ovra I 've felt thy sway; 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh. 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear . 

6. 

Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
Far from thy motley court I fly. 

Where Affectation holds her scat. 
And sickly Sensibility ; 

Whose silly tears can never flow 
For any pangs excepting thine ; 

Who turns aside from real wo. 
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 



• A tract of the Highlands so cnllcd. There is iil«o a Cusllc of Drae- 
mar. 

t The bagpipe. 

i First published in the Hours of Idleness. 

§Iti8 hardly necessary to add, iliii I'ylndcs was the companion of 
Orestes, and n partner in one of those friendships wliiith, with those of 
Acliilles and Pulroclus, Nisua and Kuryulus, Damon and Pythias, have 
been handed down to posterity as remai IculiJe inslanresof altachmcnis, 
which in all prolialiility never existed heyond the imagination of the 
poKt, the page of an historian or modern novelint. 



Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh. 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds 
And call thy sylvan female choir, 

To mourn a swain for ever gone. 
Who once could glow with equal fire. 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

7. 
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears 

With fancied flames and phrensy glow ; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

8. 
Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen. 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 

" It is the voice of years that are gone I they roll before me wil 
their deeds. f—OMJon. 

1. 

Newstead ! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome ! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henrv's J pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 

2. 
Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall 

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

3. 

No mail-clad serfs, § obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson cross || demand ; 

Or gay assemble round the festive board 
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : 



Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eyo 

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time ; 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 

5. 

But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

Ilis feudal realm in other regions lay: 
In thee tlie wounded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

6. 

Yes, in tliy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; 

Or bluod-stain'd guilt repenting solace fuimd, 
Or innocence from stern t)ppression flow. 



* As one |>.>i'iii ..n ttilx siil.jrct is printed In the beiiinnin||, the •ulhor 
hH>l..n; r InserlinR the follouinK : it >s now adtlod 

lit 111' I u friends. iSi-e ii. 383 of (his etiilioa. 

I 'I'l II (he prlvnltf vol.uni-. 

t llii 1 1 \ :. ad ioon after the miii<der of Tboroa* A 

Uc,l<.t. ■ 

§ This word is osml hv Wallrr Scott In hii poem, " The Wild Ilunl*. 
mon i" synoMvin iii« with vassal. 

II The v.. I .. v». s the Irndge of (l>» f minders. 



408 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl ; 

And superstiition's crimes, of various dyes. 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

8. 
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 

The humid pall of Ufe-extinguish'd clay, 
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew. 

Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

9. 

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend 
Soon as the gloaming * spreads her waning shade,f 

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Or matin orisons to Mary | paid. 

10. 
Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

11. 

One holy Henry § reared the Gothic walls, 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 

Another Henry the kind gift recalls, 

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

12. 
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 

13. 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 
High crested banners, wave thy walls within, 

14. 

Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms 

The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

15. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress || now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers. 
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatning brow, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 

16. 
Ah vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 

Though oft repulsed by guile, o'ercomes the brave ; 
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege. 

Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 

17. 
Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain : 
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

18. 
Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 

Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; 
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 



* At " gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, 
anfl has heen recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly 
by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account 
of its harmony. 

t Gloaming spreads her waning shade. In the private volume, Twi- 
light winds a waning shade. 

t The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

§ At thfc dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed New. 
»tcad Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

II Newstead sustained a considerable siege imthe war between Charles 
I. and his parliament. 



19. 
Trembling, she snatch'd him* from th' unequal strife, 

In other fields the torrent to repel ^ 
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life. 

To lead the band where godlike FALKLANof fell. 

20. 
From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 

While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

21. 
There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 

Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

22. 
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould: 
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead. 

Raked frqra repose in search for buried gold. 

23. 
Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike Ipe, 

The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire. 

Or sings the glories of the martial;}: wreath. 

24. 
At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey^ 

Retire ; the clamour of the fight is o'er; 
Silence again resumes her awful sway, 

And sable HorrorH guards the massy door. ~ 

25. 
Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 

What satellites declare her dismal reign . 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort. 

To flit their vigils in the Iroary fane.. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispet 
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies : 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell. 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

27. 
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 

WTiirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath ; 
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, 

Loathing § the offering of so dark a death., 

28. 
The legal ruler H now resumes the helm, 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ;• 
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, 

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 

29. 
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells, 

Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptur'd zest. 



I 



Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high command in the 
royal army: the former was general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the 
Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy 
James II. ; the latter had a principal share in many actions. — Vide 
Clarendon, Hume, &c. 

t Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man 
of his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of 
Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. 

J Martial. The private volume reads laurelVd. 

II Sable Horror. In the private volume, Horror stalking. 

§ This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately 
subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned 
many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers : both interpreted 
the circumstance into divine interposition ; but whether as approbation 
condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have 
made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem.. 

H Charles H. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



409 



so. 

Vzissals, within thy hospitable pale, 
Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 

3L 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 

And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note. 

The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 

32. 
Beneath their coursers hoofs the valleys shake ; 

What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase! 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; 

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 

33. 
Ah happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 

34. 
From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

35. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

36. 
Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers ; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but to weep. 

37. 
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret: 

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 
Pride, hope, and love, forbid him to forget. 

But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 

38. 
Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 

Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; 
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 

Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 

39. 

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine. 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
♦Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 

PUBLIC SCHOOL.! 

Where are those honours, Ida! once your own, 
When ProbusJ fill'd your magisterial throne ? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place, 



♦ Houri splendid, &c. In the private volume and the flrat edition 
of Hours of Idlpnes!, the Btanzti ended with the following linei : 
" Fortune may smile upon a future line, 
And Heaven restore an ever-c,loudle«« day." 

t These lines were only printed in the private volume. I-ord Byix>n 
most sincerely regretted having written this and the suhseouent attack 
on Dr. Butler contained In the poem riilU'd Childish nfcolli'clions. A 
reconciliittion took place hetweeu Ihem heforo Lord Kyron's first depar- 
ture for G reoce ; and Mr. Moore informs us ihiit. "not content with this 
private atonement to Dr. liutler, it was Lord Ilyron's inlenllon, hud ha 
puhlished another edition of the Hours of Idleness, to suhstilulc for the 
offensive verses ugalnst that gentleman, a frnult avowal ol the wrong he 
had been guilty of, in giving vent to them."— Li/« of Byron, vol. i, 
t>. 188. 

} Probui, Dr.Urury. 

3 B 



So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus* where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws. 
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause. 
With him the same tiire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida ! soon must atamp your doom : 
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you but the name. 

My, 1805. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.! 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most deer to me." 

I When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing. 
And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of wo, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow. 
With Resignation wage relentless strife. 
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 
Yet less the pang when through the tedious hour 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given. 
When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven; 
Or, dear to youth, porirays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm 
The orb of day imveils his distant form. 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams. 
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unboimdcd sway. 
The past confoimding with tlie present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 



* Pomposus, Dr. Butler. 

t This poem was published in the private volume; and with many 
additions and corrections in the first edition of Hours of Idleness \ but 
was afterwards sujjpressed. 
X In the |)rivate volume the poem opened wilh the following liuet : 
" Hence 1 thou unvHrying song of varied loves, 

Which youth commends, muturer uge reproves ; 

Which every rhyming bard repeats by role, 

By thousands echo'd to the self-same note ! 

Tired of the dull, unceasing, copious strain, 

My soul is punting to be free again. 

Farewell I ye nymphs propitious to my vei^e. 

Some other Damon will your charms rehearse ; 

Some other paint his pangs, in ho)* of bliss, 

Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss. 

Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight, 

No more entrance mv scn!.is in dcllghl ; 

Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow, 

Alike are taslcli'ss, are unl'eehng nuw. 

Those to some Imppier lover I resign — 

The memory of those toys aluue is mine. 

Censure no more shall brand my humble Dame, 

The child of passion and the fool of fame. 

Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen, 

I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen. 

World 1 I renounce thee I all my hope 's o'erCASt : 

One sigh I give thee, but Oial sigh 's the Inst. 

Frienils, fues, and females, now alike adieu I 

Would 1 t'ould add, remrmbrance of you too I 

Yft llioueh the future dark and chcri less gleams, 

The cms,. ,.r.u.'i,i,., v,bovM,,..i,. iiiv .1, eum., 

Depiiu V. • . „,, 

Kr.-v.i 1 tears; 

Ktilln-! 

The pi.-! i^v. 

" Alas ! ,n » Hill I lI.ii k llu- Ml:..ia, llM.a thought I 

It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought : 

My soul iL- Fuury's," &c.&c.&c. asat Unetwantj-niM. 



410 



HOURS OF IDLENESS 



My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields ; 
Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye except in dreams ; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place ! 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.* 

Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her reign. 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train ! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same ; 
Through winding paths, along the glade, I trace 
The social smile of ev'ry welcome face ; 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and wo. 
Each early boyish friend or youthful foe, 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past : — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast, 
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest ; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 
And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
When now the boy is ripen'd into man. 
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 
Still to assent, and never to deny — 
A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 
Would lose his opening prospects for a word? 
Although against that word his heart rebel, 
And truth, indignant, all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this ! not mine the task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 
The cause unknowm, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save. 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; 
■f Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pomposus' virtues are but known to few : 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 



* The next fifty-six lines, to 

" Here first remember'd be the joyous band," 
were added in the first edition uf Hours of Idleness. 
t Or if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 

Pomposus' virtues, ■< c. 
Mr. Moore informs us, that instead of this passage, Lord Byron meant 
to insert, 

" If once my muse a harsher portrait drew. 
Warm with her wrongs and deem'd the likeness true, 
By cooler judgment taueht, her fault she owns, — 
"WTith noble minds a fault, confess'd, atones." 

Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 188. 



If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall. 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'T is past, and thus she will not sin again. 
Soon must her early song for ever cease, 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
* Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown. 
Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school — 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
Succeeded him whom all unite to praise. 
The dear preceptor of ray early days ; 
Probus,! the pride of science, and the boast, 
To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost. 
With him for years we search'd the classic page, 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage : 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 
J Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 
Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear : 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot; 
His name and precepts be aJike forgot ;§ 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, 
To him my tribute is already paid. || 

ITHigh, through those elms with hoary branches crown'd, 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue ; 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
In rival bands between the wickets run. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. -^ 
But these with slower steps direct their way 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; 



• Instead of the present couplet, the private volume has the following 
four lines :— 

" Careless to sooth the pedant's furious frown, 
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown ; 
By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace, 
Adding new terror to his sneering face." 
t This most able and excellent man retired from his situation jn 
March, 1805, after having resided thirty-five years at Harrow ; the lasl 
twenty as head-master ; an office he held with equal honour to himself 
and advantage to the very extensive school over which he presided. 
Panegyric would here be superfluous : it would be usele-ss to enumerata 
qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable contest took 
place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair : of this I can 
only say. 

Si mea, cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi I 
Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis Hxres. 
X Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 

Pomposus governs, &c. 
Had Lord Byron published another edition of Hour* of IdleneM, U 
was his intention to give the following turn to this passage : 
" Another fills his magisterial chair ; 
Reluctant Ida owns'a stranger's care ; 
Oh ! may like honours crown his future name,— 
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame." 

Moore's Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 189. 
§ His name, &c. Instead of this line, the private volume reads, 

" Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot." 
II This alludes to a character printed in a former private edition for tin 
perusal of some friends, which, with many other pieces, is withheld from 
the present volume. (*) To draw the attention of the public to insignifi- 
cance would be deservedly reprobated ; and another reason, though not of 
equal consequence, may be given in the following couplet : 
" Satire or sense, alas ! can Sposus feel f 
Who breaks a butterfly upon the wheel ?" 

POPE.— Prologue to the Satires. 
U The ensuing hundred and twenty-two lines, to 

" Alonzo, best and dearest of my friends," 
are not foimd in the private volume, but were introduced iti the first edi- 
tion of Hours of Idleness. 



(*) Those pieces are reprinted in the present edition. The cbamcter 
alluded to is contained in the preceding poem. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



411 



While yonder few search out some green retreat, 

And arbours shade them from the summer heat : 

Others again, a pert and lively crew, 

Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 

With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 

And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 

Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 

Tradition treasures for a future day : 

" 'T was here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought. 

And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 

Here have we fled before superior might. 

And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 

While thus our souls with early passions swell, 

In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 

Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 

And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 

No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 

But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 

There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name 

Secures its owner's academic fame ; 

Here mingling view the names of sire and son — 

The one long graved, the other just begun : 

These shall survive alike when son and sire 

Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 

Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 

Denied in death a monumental stone. 

Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 

The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 

And here my name, and many an early friend's, 

Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 

Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 

Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, 

Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 

Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law , 

And now in turn possess the reins of power. 

To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 

Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 

They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 

" And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 

And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 

Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 

Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 

Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell. 

And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 

And here one night abroad they dared to roam. 

While bold Pomposus bravely stayed at home ;" — 

While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive. 

When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 

Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 

The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race, though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd face 
Some old companion of my early race. 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy. 
My eyes, my heart proclaim'd me still a boy, 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around. 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; 
The smiles of beauty— (for, alas ! I 'vc known 
What 't is to bend before Love's mighty throne)— 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear. 
Could hardly charm me when (hat friend was near : 
My thoughts bcwilder'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over lov«. 



Yet why should I alone with such delight 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here. 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam. 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care : 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone. 
Made by a parent's early loss my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek ? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest: 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
I hear again, — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
What then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone ? 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand. 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

* Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends. 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise, 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipate the words of truth. 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name. 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.f 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest. 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball \ 
Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil. 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliantf limbs tlie buoyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy ; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's palli, though not untaught to feci. 
Still I remember in the factious strife 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: 



* Alonxo. In the prirala Tolume, /oAanN**. . .. ^ 

1 The rollowiiiR four Hue* of tli* piivulo voUirat w«r« omlUtd 1a tb« 
Ilouri of lillfiiMi ; 

" Coolil Bught in»j>ir« we wiili iioellc irt. 
For llie?«lorif I M.liikc llic haUow'il lyr« ; 
lUii 1.) lomr atilcr liniid (hr Imk I wavD, 
WlioM •tialoi iminurUil in*y oullt** tb«(i«*a." 
} PlUmt IVi»»le voluiiJ*, Ivttf. 



412 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow ; 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, 
The grovelling savage roU'd upon the sand : 
* An act like this can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To thee alone, unrivalPd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.f 
Well canst thou boast to lead in senates fit — 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Wliere learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
Wlien time at length matures thy growing years, 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
With honour's soul, united beam in thee. . 

Shall fair Eurvalus pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung: 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: 
We once were friends, — I '11 think we are so still. 
A form unroatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
A heart unta^inted, we in thee behold: 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply in polish'd courts might be thy seat, 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit; 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile. 
Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; 
^Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 



* An act like this, &c. In the private volume the last four lines of this 
character were as follows : 

"Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize— 
A life unworthy such a sacrifice : 
Oh I when my breast forgets the generous deed, 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed." 
tin the private volume, we find the following lines concluding the 
character of Lycos ; and the remainder of the passage relating lo him 
was originally given as descriptive of a frieud entitled Clams, of whom 
BO mention is made in the last published copy of the poem ; 
" For ever to possess a friend in thee, 
Was bliss unhoped, though not unsought by me. 
Thy softer soul was forni'd for love alone. 
To ruder passions and to hate unknown ; 
Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form, 
Was gentle, but unfit to stem the slorm ; 
That face, an index of celestial worth, 
Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth. 
Oft, when depress'd with sad foreboding gloom, 
I sat reclined upon our favourite tomb, 
I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow 
With kind compassion for thy comrade's wo ; 
Or when less mournful subjects form'd our themes. 
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes. 
Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone, 
Whatever wish was mine must be thine own. 

' ' The next can boast to lead in senates fit — 
A Spartan firmness with Athenia.n wit : 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Clarus ! thy father'* fame will soon be thine. 
When learning," &c. .Sc. 
J '•Where ii the restiesi fool would wish for more ?" 

Private volume . 



Now last, but nearest of the social band, 
See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
On the same day our studious race begun, 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife : 
As speakers * each supports an equal name, 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
To sooth a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide. 
Yet candour's self compels me now to own 
Justice awards it to my friend alone.f 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear. 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear ! 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
jYet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And sooth the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
As infant laurels round my head were twined 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song. 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng 
Or when my first harangue received applause, ^ 
His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
What gratitude to him my soul possest, 
While hope of dawning honours fiU'd my breast! 
§For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 
Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays. 
These young effusions of my early days. 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
The song might perish, but the theme must live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay? 
His honour'd name requires no vain display: 
By every son of grateful Ida blest. 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud. 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme. 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past. 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
To me a silent and a sweet employ. 



* This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where th« 
author was educated. 

t The six concluding lines of this passage were given a» followi in the 
private volume : 

" As speakers each supports a rival name, 
Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame. 
Pomposus sits, unequal to decide : 
With youthful candour we the palm divide ; 
Yet candour's self compels me now to own 
Justice awards it to my friend alone." 
J " Yet in the retrospectioii finds relief. 

And revels in the luxury of grief." — Private volume. 
§ From this place to the end, the copy of the poem, as printed in the 
Hours of Idleness, differs entirely from that in the private volume, which 
contains and concludes thus : 

" When, yet a novice in the mimic art, 

I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart ; 
When as the Royal .Slave I trod the stage. 
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage ; 
The praise of Probus made me feel more proud 
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd. 

" Ah I vain endeavour in this childish strain 
To sooth the woes of which I thus complain 
What can avail the fruitless loss of time. 
To measure sorrow in a gingiing rhyme ! 
No social solace from a friend is near, 
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear. 
I seek not joy In woman's sparkling eye : 
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh. 
Adieu ! thou world ! thy pleasure 's still a dream, 
Thy I'irtue but a visionary iherne ; 
The years of vice on years of folly roll, 
Till grinning death assigns the destined go»l. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



413 



While, future hope and fear alike unlmown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 
And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ;— 
That tear perhaps the fondest which will flow 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few who glide along. 
The feeble veterans of some former throng. 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl' d 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth , 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? 
Say can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to sooth your hours of wo ? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys,) 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view 
As those where Youth her garland twined for you. 
Ah, no ! amid the gloomy calm of age 
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; 
Peruse the record of your days on earth. 
Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf, 
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw. 
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn 
Traced by the rosy finger of the mom ; 
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 
And Love,* without his pinion, smiled on youth. 



t ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRIT- 
TEN BY^ MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF 
« THE WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND," 
&c. &c. ENTITLED " THE COMMON LOT." 

1. 

MoNTGOMERV ! true, the common lot 
I Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
Yet some shall never be forgot — 
Some shall exist beyond the grave. 



Where all are hastening lo the dread abode, 
To meet the judgment of a righteous God ; 
Mix'd in the concourBe of the thoughtless throng, 
A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along ; 
A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, 
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting ; 
But not that mental sting which slabs within, 
The dark avenger of un[)uai8li'd sin ; 
The silent shaft which goads the guihy wretch 
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch : 
Conscience that sting, that shaft to himsupplies— 
His .Hind the rack from which he ne'er can rise. 
For me, whate'er my folly or my fenr. 
One cheerful comfort still is clierisli'd here : 
No dread internal haunts my hours of rest 
No dreams of injured Innocence infest : 
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft. 
Conscience, my last but welcome guest is left. 
Slander's impoison'd breath may blast my name ; 
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame ; 
Deceit may chill the current of my blood. 
And freeze affection's warm impnssion'd flood ; 
Presaging horror darken every sense ;— 
Here will conscience be my best defence. 
My bosom feeds no ' worm which ne'er can die : 
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. 
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile, 
My heart is biiicr, though my cheek may smile : 
No more wiih former bliss my heart isgla-; ; 
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul Is sad ; 
From fond regret no future Joy can save ; 
Rtmembrance slumbers only In the grave." 

♦ " LUmllit est I'Amour sans ailes" Is a French prorerb. 

1 Only printed in Ihs private volume. 



2. 
" Unknown the region of his birth," 

The hero * rolls the tide of war ; 
Yet not unknown his martial worth, 

Which glares a meteor from afar. 

3 

His joy or grief, his weal or wo. 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 



The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all : 

Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
That will arise though empires fall. 

5. 
The lustre of a beauty's eye, 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
The fair, the brave, the good must die, 

And sinlc the yawning grave beneath. 

6. 

Once more the speaking eye revives, 
Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives: 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

7. 
The rolling seasons pass away. 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing; 
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay. 

But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 

8. 
All, all must sleep in grim repose. 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 

9. 

The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey. 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 

10. 

What though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to guard ? 

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 

By those whose virtues claim reward. 

IL 

Then do not say the common lot 

Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 
Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 

1806. 



TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER.t 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind : 

I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind : 

I will not descend to a world 1 despise. 
2. 
Did the senate or camp my exertions require, 

Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth 
When infancy's years of probation expire, 

Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 



• No pnrtlmlnr hero 
N*n>oiirs r ' V- ' ■' '■' 
of Md.l 
ftr. sir 
birth SH I 

lOnly loiin., ,., 'u i', 



The evploils of Rayertt, 

-■'■ — - I •ii wmtt the fame 

I Irs of Sweden, 

I place of their 



414 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess : 

At length in a volume terrific reveal'd 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 

4. 

Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 

Bids me live but to hope for prosperity's praise. 
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, 

With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 
5. 
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 

What censure, what danger, what wo would I brave ! 
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath, 

Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
6. 
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd 1 

Why search for delight in the friendship of fools ? 

7. 
I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe ; 
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 
8. 
To me what is wealth ? it may pass in an hour, 

If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 
To me what is title ? — the phantom of power ; 

To me what is fashion 7 — I seek but renown. 

9. 
Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul, 

T still am unpractised to varnish the truth ; 
Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 

Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.* 

AN IMITATION OF MACPHEIISON'S OSSIAN.f 

Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their 
remembrance through the mist of time. In the twi- 
light, he recalls the sunny hours of morn. Ke lifts his 
spear with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did I 
raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race 
of heroes ! but their fame rises on ihe harp ; their souls 
ride on the wings of the wind! they hear the sound 
through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall 
of clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks down from eddying tenipests ; 
he rolls his form in the whrilwind, and hovers on the blast 
of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. 
His steps in the field were marked in blood ! Lochlin's 
sons had fled before his angry spear ; but mild was the 
eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: 
they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid 
was the sigh of his soul : his thouohts were given to 
friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! 
Equal were their swords in battle ; but fierce was the 
pride of Orla : gentle alone to Calmar. Together they 
dewlt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Their 
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. 
But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 



* First published in Hours of Idleneis. 

t It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably 
varied in the catastrophe, is taken from " Nisus and Euryalus," of which 
«pUode a iranalation is already given in the ]>resent volume. 



sons of Lochlin slept ; their dreams were of blood. 
They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so 
the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. 
Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their 
hands. Fingal called his chiefs ; they stood around. 
The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but 
strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his 
powers. " Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-mor- 
row we meet the foe: but where is Cuthullin, the shield 
of Erin ? He rests in the halls of Tura ; he knows not 
of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the 
hero, and call the chief to arms ? The path is by the 
swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They are 
thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will 
arise ?" 

" Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark- 
haired Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to me? 
I love the sleep of the mighty, bnt little is the danger. 
The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne 
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me 
by the stream of Lubar." — " And shalt thou fall alone '?" 
said fair-haired Calmar. " Wilt thou leave thy friend 
af9.r? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. 
Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear ? No, Orla! 
ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of 
rhells ; ours be the path of danger : ours has been the 
CE ve of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the 
banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, 
" why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust 
of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his 
hall of air : he vt^ill rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed 
Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She 
listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinlcs 
it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar 
has fallen by the steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy 
Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears 
dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice 
curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar. 
Live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in 
the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my 
grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla from the 
voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes 
of praise." " Orla," said the son of Mora, " could I 
raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his 
fame to the winds ? No, my heart would speak in sighs. 
Faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla ! our 
souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be 
our son high. The bards will mingle the names of 
Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to 
the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twin-* 
kles through the night. The northern star points the 
path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. 
Here the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep. Their 
shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at 
distance in heaps. The fires are faint ; their embers fail 
in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale sighs on the 
rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the 
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Ma- 
thon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It 
rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His 
spear is raised on high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, 
chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar. " We are 
in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" " It is 
a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. 
" Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his spear ? Its 
point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of 
Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him sleeping, 
son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his wound : my fame 
shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise ! Mathon ! 
rise! the son of Connal calls; thy life is his; rise to 
combat." Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise 
alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. 
'' Fly ! Calmar ! fly !" said dark-haired Orla. " Mathon 
is mine. I shall die in joy. But Lochlin crowds 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



415 



iround. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. 
The helm of Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls from his 
jrm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of 
■^Jhe blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises ; 
lis weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear 
hierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, 
i'md foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves 
>f the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour 
e men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the 
lurge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so 
^ise the chiefs of Morven on the scatter'd crests of 
Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. 
^e strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; the peo- 
ple pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian 
italks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle 
;wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang 



the 



bf death ! many are the widows of Lochlin. Morven 
Drevails in its strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills ; no living foe is seen ; but 
the sleepers are many ; grim they lie on Erin. The 
oreeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not awake. 
^^he hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
■Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the 
dark hair of his friend. " 'T is Calmar : he lies on the 
bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce 
is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but 
his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His 
hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives! he 
Uves, though low. " Rise," said the king, "rise, son of 
Mora: 't is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar 
may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of 
Morven with Orla," said the hero. " What were the 
chase to me alone ? Who would share the spoils of bat- 
tle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, 
Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on 
others in lightning ; to me a silver beam of night. Bear 
my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty 
hall. It is not pure from blood : but it could not save 
Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song wheal 
am dark !" 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The 
bards raised the song. 

«' What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose 
dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? His 
voice rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla, the brown chief 
of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy 
soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar ! 
Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora ; but not harm- 
less was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts 
of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, 
Calmar ! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy 
name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy 
fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of 
the rainbow ; and smile through the tears of the storm."* 



TO E. N. L. ESa.t 

" Nil ego contulerim Jucundo annus amico." — Hor. E, 
Dear L , in this sequesler'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 



♦ I foar Laing's late ctlition hai completely overthrown every hope 
that Macpherion'8 Oseiaii might prove the traniil«tlon of a ncnei ol 
poemi complete In Ihcmielvet ; but, while the imponturo !■ dincovered , 
the merit of the worl« remnino iiiulidpiiled, ihounh not wlthmit fimllii— 
particularly, in some parti, turgid and boml)n«lic diction.— 1 he pretent 
humble imitation will be pardoned by the admireri of the original ai an 
attempt, however inferior, which evince* an atlachroenl to Ihcir Uvourile 
author. 

t Firit publiihcdio Ilouri ofldleneii. 



Thus if amid the gathering storm, 

While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 

Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 

I hail the sky's celestial bow. 

Which spreads the sign of future peace, 

And bids the war of tempest cease. 

Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 

I think those days may come again ; 

Or if, in melancholy mood, 

Some lurking envious fear intrude, 

To check my bosom's fondest thought. 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme 
Although we ne'er again can trace, 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions jis before. 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And manhood" claims his stern dominion ; 
Age will not every hope destroy, 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring : 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell. 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning age, with cold control. 
Confines the current of the soul. 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh. 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh ! may my bosom never learn 

To sooth its wonted heedless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's wo. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which remembrance yet delays, 
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild. 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 
To you my soul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past. 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast. 
When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 
Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now, without a theme to choose. 
The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
Mv youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 

E is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary's given to another; 
And Cora's eye, which roU'd on me, 
Can now no more my love recall : 

In truth, dear L , 't was time to flee ; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And thougli the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams alike to all displays. 
And every lady's eye 's a sun, 
Those last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian do n't become her. 
Whoso sun displays a gcm-ral mtnnux . 
Thus faint is cv 'ry former flume. 
And passion's self it bow a name. 



416 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



As, when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 

Now quenches all their sparks in night; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires, 

As many a boy and girl remembers, 
While all the force of love expires, 

Extinguish'd with tlie dying embers. 

But now, dear L , 't is midnight's noon, 

And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse ; 
For why should I the path go o'er. 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
Has thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend ' 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
And then with those our childhood knew, 
We '11 mingle with the festive crew; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing tlie laughing hours away ; 
And all the flow of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



^ * TO 

L 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appear'd a token, 

These follies had not then been mine. 
For then my peace had not been broken. 

2. 
To thee these early faults I owe. 

To thee, the wise and old reproving ; 
They luiow my sins, but do not Icnow 

'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 

3. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
And all its rising fires could smotJier ; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by thee upon another. 

4. 
Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 

And spoil the blisses that await him ; 
Yet let my rival smile in joy. 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

5. 
Ah ! since thy angel form is gone. 

My heart no more can rest with any ; 
But what it sought in thee alone, 

Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

6. 
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 

'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; 
Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid, 

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 

7. 
Yet all this giddy waste of years. 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears. 

These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures : 



• Miss Chaworth. First published 
Idleom. 



editioa of Hours of 



8. 
If thou wert mine, had all been hushM.*— 

This cheek, now pale from early riot, 
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

9. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit. 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

10. ^ 

But now I seek for other joys ; 

To think would drive my soul to madnesa ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

11. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal. 
In spite of every vain endeavour ; 

And fiends might pity what I feel. 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



STANZAS.* 

I WOULD I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild. 

Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxonf pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul. 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

2. 
Fortune! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around 
Place me along the roclis I love, 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; 
I ask but this — again to rove — 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 

3. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me ; 
Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

4. 
I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled ; 
How cheerless feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes are dead ? 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul 

The heart — the heart is lonely still. 

5. 

How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few. 

In years and feelings still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 



• First published in the second edition of Hours of Idleness, 
jj ^^""a«e, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying eitbsr LowUmd i 



CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



417 



And woman! lovely woman, thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all I 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pjill 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid wo, 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

7. 
Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the sullen glen. 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest.* 



LINESf 

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF 
HARROW ON THE HILL, SEPTEMBER 2, 1807. 

Spot of my youth I whose hoary branches sigh, 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 



• Psalmlv. ver. 6.— " And I said, Oh I that I had wings like a dove; 
for then would I fly away, and be at rest." This verse also constitutes 
a pan of tlie most beautiful anthem in our language. 

t First published in the second edition of the Hours of Idleness. 



Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
Like rnc, the happy scenes they knew before; 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my iieart adores thee still, 
Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline. 
But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine : 
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
And seem to whisper as they gently swell, 
" Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell !" 
When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast. 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought 't would sooth my dying hour, 
If aught may sooth when life resigns her power, 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die — 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie ; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd ; 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mi.\'d with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
Deplored by those, in early days allied, 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 



CRITIQUE. 

EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY, 180S. 



Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and 
translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 
8vo. pp. 200.— Newark, 1807. 

The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class 
which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, 
we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with 
BO few deviations in either direction from that e.xact 
standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and 
can no more get above or below the level, than if they 
were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of 
this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in 
pleading minority. We have it in the tillepage, and 
on the very back of the voUune ; it follows his name 
like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid 
upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected 
with this general statement of his case, by particular 
dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. 
Now, the law upon the point of minority wo hold to be 
perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the di-fou- 
dant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground 
of action. Thus, if any suit could bo brought against 
Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to |iut 
into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment 
were given against him, it is highly probable that an 
exception would be taktm were lie to deliver for poetry 
the contents of this volimic. To this he might plead 
minority ; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the 
article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the 
price in good current praist^, should the goods be un- 
marketable. This is our view of the law on the point, 
and, wo dare to say, so will it be ruled. Porlia|)s, how- 
ev(M-, in reality, all that he tells us about his ymtli is 
raiher with a view to increase our wonder than to 
soften our censures. HtMiossibly means to say, " Set- 
how a minor can write ! This poem was actually com- 
3 C 



posed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of 
only sixteen !" — But, alas ! we all remember the poetry 
of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve ; and so far from 
hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor 
verses were written by a youth from his leaving scnool 
to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this 
to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- 
pens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated 
in England ; and that the tenth man writes better verse 
than Lord Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author raiher brings 
forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, 
does allude frequently to his family and ancestors— 
sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; and while 
giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care 
to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a 
nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be 
handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consi- 
deration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's 
poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun- 
.•<il him, that he do forthwith abandon noi-try, and turn 
his taliMils, which arc considerable, and his opportuni- 
ties, which are great, to bettor account. 

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure 
hin), that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even 
when accompanied by lh«' presence of a certain num- 
ber of feel, nay, although (which does not always 
liapi»rn) those fret shotiKI scan regularly, ami have 
been all counted accuratciv upon tlu* fingers,— is not 
tln> who!<! art of poetry. We would enlreal him to 
b« lieve, that a certain portion of liveliness, soniewhal 
of fancy, is ucicssary to constitute a poem, and thai a 
poeuj in the present day, to be read, must ountain at 
least one thouylii, either m a little degree ilitferent from 
tho ideas of lomier writers, or dillVrently expressed. 
Wo put it to his <a]idout, ^> bother there is any thing 



418 



CRITiaUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



BO deserving the name of poetry in verses like the fo!- 
^ lowing, written in 1806 ; and whether, if a youth of 
eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his an- 
cestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it : 

" Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courzige, he '11 think upon glory and you. 

" Thongh a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, that exciies his regret : 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 
Tlie fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

" That fame, and that memory, siill will he cherish ; 
He vows ihal he ne'er will disgrace yonr renown ; 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay 'd, may he mingle his dust with your own." 

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing 
better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the 
noble minor's volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have done before him, for corn- 
parisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his 
writing-master's) are odious.— Gray's Ode on Eton 
College should really have kept out the ten hobbling 
Btanzas " On a distant View of the Village and School 
of Harrow." 

" Where fanrv yet jovs to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and miscliief allied ; 
How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, tbougli hope is denied." 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, 
" On a Tear,'''' might have warned the noble author off 
those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such 
stanzas as the following: 

" Mild Charity's glow, 

To us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 

Compassion will melt 

Where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

" The man doom'd to sail 

With the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 

As he bends o'er the wave, 

Which may soon be his grave. 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear." 

And so of instances in which former poets had fail- 
ed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for 
translating, during his nonage, " Adrian's Address to 
his Soul," when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the 
attempt. If our readers, however, are of another 
opinion, they may look at it. 

" Ah t gentle, fleeting, waverine sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne ; 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight .■' 
No more with w^onted humour gay. 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations 
and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. 
We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. 
Only, why print them after they have had their day 
and served their turn? And \\*hy call the thing in p. 
79* a Iranslation, where two words (5-eXw \tyeiv) of the 
original are expanded into four lines, and the other 
thing in p. 81,1 where ixtaovvK-iaii tto-J' wpai? is render- 
ed by means of six hobbling verses ? As to his Ossianic 
poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so 
moderately skilled in that species of composition, that 
we should, m all probability, be criticising some bit of 
the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our 
opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the fol- 
lowing begmning of a " Song of Bards" is by his lord- 
ship, we ventui<e to object to it, as far as we can com- 
prehend it. " What form rises on the roar of clouds, 



See page 899. 



t Page 399. 



whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tem- 
pests ? His voice rolls on the thunder ; 't is Orla, the 
brown chief of Oithona. He was," &c. After detain- 
ing this "brown chief" some time, the bards conclude 
by giving him their advice to " raise his fair locks ;" 
then to " spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;" 
and " to smile through the tears of the storm." Of 
this kind of thing there are no less than jj.ine pages ; 
and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, 
that they look very like Macpherson ; and we are posi- 
tive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but 
they should " use it as not abusing it ;" and particularly 
one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age 
of nineteen) of being " an infant bard," — (" The artless 
Helicon I boast is youth") — should either not know, or 
should seem not to know, so much about his own ances- 
try. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat 
of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the 
self-same subject, mtroduced with an apology, "he 
certainly had no intention of inserting it," but really 
" the particular recjuest of some friends," &c. &c. It 
concludes with five stanzas on himself, " the last and 
youngest of a noble line." There is a good deal also 
about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin 
y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, 
and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, 
any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his 
volume to immortalize his employments at school and 
at college, we caimot possibly dismiss it without pre- 
senting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious 
effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called 
Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas : 

" There, in apartments small and damp. 
The candidate lor college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp. 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. » 

" Who reads false quantities in Sele, 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal. 
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wraugle '. 

" Renouncing every jjleasingpagc. 
From authors of historic use. 
Preferring to tlie leiter'd sago 
The square of the hypothenuse. 

" Still harmless are these occupations, 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations. 
Which bring together the imprudent.'' 

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- 
lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic 
stanzas : 

" Our choir would scarcely be excused 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

" If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 
To VIS his psalms had ne'er descended : 
In furious mood be would have tore 'em I" 

But wliatever judgment maybe passed on the poems 
of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we 
find them, and be content ; for they are the last we shall 
ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an in- 
truder into the groves of Parnassus ; he never lived in 
a garret, like thorough- bred poets ; and " though he 
once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of 
Scotland," he has not of late enjoved this advantage. 
Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; 
and, whether it succeeds or not, " it is highly improba- 
ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that 
he should again condescend to become an author. 
Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. 
What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We are 
well off to have got so much from a man of this lord's 
station, who does not hve in a garret, but " has the 
sway" of Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be 
thankful ; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the 
giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth. 



ENGLISH BARDS 



SCOTCH REVIEWERS 

A SATIRE. 



' I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew I 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongei-s." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

' Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 't is true, 
There are aa mad, abandon'd critics too." 



A FIFTH edition of the " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," in which Lord Byron introduced several 
alterations and corrections, was prepared in 1812, but 
was, at his desire, destroyed on the eve of publication. 
One copy of this edition alone escaped, from which the 
satire has been printed in the present volume. The 
Author re-perused the poem in the latter part of the 
summer in 1816, after his final departure from England. 
He at that time also corrected the text in several places, 
and added a few notes and obser\-ations in the margin, 
which the reader will find inserted. On the blank leaf 
preceding the title-page of the copy from which he read. 
Lord Byron has written — " The binding of this vohime 
is considerably too valuable for the contents; and nothing 
but the consideration of its being the property of another 
prevents me from consigning this miserable record of 
misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the 
flames." — 



PREFACEf. 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me 
not to publish this satire with my name. If I were to 
be " turned from the career of my humour by quibbles 
quick, and paper bulleis of the brain," I should have 
complied with their counf=cl. But I am not to be terri- 
fied by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without 
arms. I can safely say that 1 have attacked none per- 
sonally who did not commence on the offensive. An 
author's works are public properly: lie who purchases 
may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases ; and 
the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may 
do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they will 
succeed better in condemning my scribblings than in 
mending their own. But my object is not to prove that 
I can write well, but, if possible to make others write 
better. 

As the poem has met with far more success tban I 
expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 
some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy 
of public peru.sal. 

In the first edition of this satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written by, and inserted at the request of, an in- 
genious friend of mine, who has now in the press a 
volume of poetry. In llie present edition they are 
erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; 

• In the oririnal Manuicripl the title wat " THE BRlTIsri BAROS, 
A SATIRF,.'^ 

t Thin prifnce wiw written for the iiecond edition, and iiHntcd with it. 
The nolilr n.iO.or had Ml this roiintry prcvloin to Ihr |Mil)lirntiini of ihul 
rditioii, and i« not yet returned Note in I hf fourth eililion, Ibll. 

Hii Ik iind pnnc again. 1816.— A/V. nolt hy Lord Bijron. 



my only reason for this being that which I conceive 
would operate with any other person in the same man- 
ner, a determination not to publish with my name any 
production which was not entirely and exclusively my 
own composition. 

With* regard to the real talents of many of the 
poetical persons whose performances are mentioned 
or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by 
the author that there can be little difference of opinion 
in the public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each 
has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his 
abilities are overrated, his fauUs overlooked, and hi3 
metrical canons received without scruple and without 
consideration. But the unquestionable possession of 
considerable genius by several of the writers here cen- 
sured renders their mental prostitution more to be 
recrretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
laughed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand 
the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 
than the author that some known and able writer had 
undertaken their exposure, but Mr. Gifford has de- 
voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
of absolute necessity, be allowed to proscribe his nos- 
trum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an 
epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- 
ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it 
is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- 
cover the numerous patients afllicted with the present 
prevalent and distressing rafciVsfor rhyming. — As to the 
Edinburgh Reviewers — it would indeed require an 
Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author suc- 
ceeds in merely '' bruising one of the heads of the 
serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the 
encounter, he will be amply satisfied 



SriM.t must I hear ?— shall hoarse FitzgeraldJ bawl§ 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub nii> scribbler, and denounce my muse ' 
Prepare for rhyme— I 'II piblish, right or wrong: 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 



* The prcfarc to the fimt edition hfctan her*. • .,,„ ,t. 

t The flmt ninpty.«ix line* were i-rtfixtd to Uit iecond •dilioo . lli« 
original o|)enpd with 

Tiine was, ere yet In thean deRfocrata dayi 
Ignohlo thcniei.'&c— Line 91. 
X Honr»» F/rr<rorn/rf.— RiKitt enouRh ; but why notice .uch a nvHJnU- 
bank f—MS. Hut4 by Lotd Bv">n. 

% UnTATION. 
" .''pinper efo auditor tantiim f nunquamne rfponam 
Vexatua lolica mud Thowidc Codri ?" 

yurtio/, Sallrrl. 
, . P , .. ,,1 t'v Col.NMt ihr " Small Retr lV*t, 

i„,V , the " l.ilprary KuimI :" not eonUnt 

^ , ,, ilic rompanr hate imbil-fd a ri»- 

.,^,„. ; .iiethfmloaii»lAiuUi«o|i«*lloo. 



420 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Tom from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose. 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 
Our task complete, like Hamet's* shall be free ; 
Though s^urn'd by others, yet beloved by me : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dreamj 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime. 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknov^n to other fears. 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
And shrinks from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 

To me the arrows of satiric son<r ; 

The royal vices of our age demand 

A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 

Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 

And yield at least amusement in the race : 

Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 

The cry is up, and scribblers are my game 

Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 

Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 

I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 

I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 

A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame 

I printed — older children do the same. 

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 

A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 't. 

Not that a title's sounding charm can save 

Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave 

This Lambe must own|, since his patrician name 

Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame§. 

No matter, George continues still to writejl. 

Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 

Moved by the great example, I pursue 

The self- same road, but make my own review : 

Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 

Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to ev'ry trade 
Save censure— critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote. 
With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 

• Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen in the last chapter of 
Don Q,iiixotte. Oh ! that our voluminous gentry would follow the e'xam- 
ple of Cid Hamet Benengeli. 

f No eastern viaiun, no distemper'd dream. — This must have been 
written in the S|>irit of prophecy. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 

J. This Larahe must own.— He 's a very good fellow, and except his 
mother and sister, the best of the set, to my m\ad.— MS. note of Lord 
Byron. 

§ This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, with hit produc- 
tion, in anot!:p'- place. 

fl In fbc Edinburgh Review. 



Fear not to lie, 't will seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment ? no — as soon 
Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
Believe a woman or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that 's false before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore ; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart or Lambe's Boeotian head*. 
To these young tyrantsf, by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe. 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law ; 
While these are censors, 't v.-ould be sin to spare 
While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
But yet, so near aU modern worthies run, 
'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

I Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before ; 
If not yet sicken'd you can still proceed: 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
But hold§ ! exclaims a friend, — here 's some neglect : 
This — that — and t' other line seem incorrect. 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
And careless Dryden— ay— but Pye has not,— 
Indeed ! — 't is granted, faith ! — but v/hat care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 



J 



Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side. 
From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song. 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's melt — 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow. 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now ; 
The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
II Thus saith the preacherlT : " Nought beneath the sun 
Is now," yet still from change to chancre we run : 



XT • "P^ •'^-'^'■^V « ^eart or Lc.mbc's Boeotian Acad.— This was not jusi. 
Neither the heart nor the head of these gentlemen are at aU what they are 
here represented. At the time this was written (1808) I was personally 
unacquainted with either. IS16.—MS. note by Lord Byron. 

Messre. Jeffrey and Lambe are the alpha and the omes^, the first and 
last of the Edinburgh Review ; the others are mentioned hereafter, 
t " Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique 

occurras periturs parcere chartae." 

Juvenal, Satire I. 
t IMITATION. 
" Cur tamen hoc libeat potius decurrere campo 
Perquem raagnus cquos Aurunrre (lexit alumnus 
Si vacat, et placidi ratfonem admittilis, edam." 
, _ , , Juvenal, Satire I. 

§ But hold ! fxrlatms a friend, &c.— The following six lines wero in- 
serted in the fifth edition. 

11 T/ius sai/k the prearfier, ftc— Th« following fourteen linei were in- 
serted in the second edition. 
H Kcf Iwinstes, chap. 1, 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



421 



What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — 'and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of poetry arise, 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
Some leaden calf— but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott*. 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
For notice eager, pass in long review : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road 
Immeasurable measures move along 
For simpering folly loves a varied song. 
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrelsf — may they be the last . — 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites. 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight. 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance. 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Muiray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade. 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 



* Stolt, better known in the '■ Morning Post" by tlie name of Hafiz. 
This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the bathos. I 
remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special ode of Master 
Slolt's, beginning thus : 

(Slott loquitur quoad Ilibernia.) 
" Princely offspring of Brac;ania, 

Erin greets thee with a stanza," &c. &c. 
Also a sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering 
ode, commencing as follows : 

" Oh ! for a I-ay I loud as the surge 
That laslics Lapland's soimding shoro." 
Lord have mercy on us 1 the " Lay of tlie Last Miiinlrcl" was nothing to 
this. 

t Sec the " Lay of the I.ast Minstrel," pasiim. Never was any plan 
•o incongruous and ulmurd as the gioimdwork of this production. The 
entrance of Thunder and Lf»litning prolusniising to B.\yi'»' tragedy imfor- 
tnnalely takes away llie merit of oripinalily from thn dialogue lietweon 
Mesaicurs the Spirit's of Flixxl anrl Fellin the first canlo. Then wc have 
the amiable William of Delorainc, " a stark nmss-trooper," vidi-liret, a 
happy compound of pnaclu-r, sluep-steuler, and hiehwayman. The nro- 
priely of bis magicid iiidy's injunrtion not to n-ad can only be equalled by 
nis can lid acknowledgment of bis independence of the Irammclii of Hpellinir, 
BUhou«!li, to use bis osvn elegant phrase, " 'twas liia neck-vcrao at hair- 
bee," i.e. the gallows. 

The l)iogri<pliy of (iilnln Hnnier, an<l tho marvrUou* pcdr«lrlan page, 
who travelled twice as f.isl as bis mmili'i's horse, wiilinut the aiiJ of sevrn- 
leagucd bonis, arc the r'u fd'trvi'ten in the iniprnviMncnl of taste. For In- 
cident we have the invisible, but by no means *tMtriiig box on the rar, 
bestowed on the pn;;c, and the entrance of n kniglit and charger into thc> 
easlle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, tho 
hero of the latter n>niance, is exactly what William of neloraine would 
have been. ba<l be beiii able to read' aud write. The poem was niaiiu- 
fBcttire/l for Messrs. Conslalile, Murray, and Miller, woi-shipful JKiok- 
sellers, in ron»iderHlion of the rerrlpl of a sum of money, and indy, con- 
•ideiiug the if\<|)irntion. It Is a very crrdilablo pro<luciii)n. If Mr. Scott 
will wrfle for hire, let him do his best for bis poyniaxteni, but not disgrnrn 
his genius, which is undo\ilitrdly gvrnl, by n repetition of black letter ballad 
imitations. 



Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
Still for stem mammon may they toil in vain ! 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son. 
And bid a long " good night to Marmion*." 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now , 
These are the bards to v.hom the muse must bow ; 
While Mihon, Dryden, Pope alike forgot. 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Waher Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was young, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim. 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name : 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand yearsf . 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labour spent 
With eagle pinions soaring to the skies. 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance. 
The scourge of England and the boast of France '. 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on J, 
Arabia's monstrous, wild and wond'rous son ; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'crthrcw 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'errome. 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fiod before thy face. 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might trittrnphant genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
Now, last and greatest Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico and prince in Wales ; 
Tells us straiiije tales, as other travellers do. 
More old than Mandevillc's and not so true. 
Oh ! Southey ! Soutliey§ ! ceaso thy varictl song ! 
A bard may chant too often and too long ; 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourlli, alas I were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world ran say, 
Thoti still wilt ver.'seward pl<xl thy weary way ; 
If still in Berkley ballads most imcivil. 
Thou wilt devote old women to the dcvil||. 



• " Hoixl night to Marmion"— the palbefir and also prophetic exclama- 
tion of Henry lUount, Ksquirp, on the ilentli of honest Alarmion. 

t As tho Odyssey is so closely connected with the story of the Iliad, the? 
may almost lie classed at one grand historical iMwni. In alluding to Mil- 
ton and Tasso, we consider the " Paraditr Lost," anil " «;irrus«lemn»« 
I. il-erila," as their standard efforts, f.nr n.itbir the " Jerusalem Con- 
quered" of the Ilalinn, nor the " I*ar«di-e K.uained" of the Kiiglishbarrt, 
obtained a pro|KirtioMate crlebrily to llii-ir loimrr pocmi. Uutry : Which 
of Mr. Southev's will survive ? 

J Thulaba.Nlr. .*«ouiliev s second poem, is written in cv|>on drftance o( 
preiedenl and poetry. ^^. .S. wished to pHnlure somrthing novel, and 
■n-ilril l.> i> inn.i. If, .K.,in .<l' \ir w a* ni.irvrl' .u^ ,i, .u«n. but Vhal»t>« 
,,ii, i\, " will l>e read 



of ep:. 

Certainly tli. 
Hole, and giii: 
•t Mr. Soul I . 

has he sutistiliii. « .. 

rival Sir RirliiutI llia..l.m.Mr ui lliv >,< 

II Sec " The n|.J Woman of D.'>klrv," » l>»lUd, by Mr. 
wherrhi an sifd |»otWwoninn Iscan d sv^jt by Ut«l>*hub,on 
liotlinf hor*c '' 



11 .1* llut k^ual 
a l«lUd, by Mr 



Ll.ng lllU 



Souther, 
« "hiilj 



422 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 

" God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too*. 

fNext comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble, 
And quit his books for fear of growing doublej ;" 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of" an idiot boy ;" 
A moon-struck, siUy lad, who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day§ 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the " idiot in his glory" 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a muse||, 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind, 
He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kindU. 

Oh ! wonder-working Lewis ! monk, or bard. 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 
Lo ! w^reaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou takest thy stand 
By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band ; 
Or tracest chaste description on thy page, 
To please the females of our modest age ; 
All hail, M. P.**! from whose infernal brain 
Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
At whose command " grim women" throng in crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
With " small grey men," " wild yagers," and what-not. 
To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott ; 
Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 



• The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from the 
Anti-jacobia to Mr. Southey, on his dactylics : 

" God help thee, silly one !" 

Poetnj of the Anti-jacobin, p. '£>. 
t Against this passage on Wordsworth and Coleridge, Lord Byron has 
written "unjust." 
X Lyrical Ballads, p. 4.—" The Tables Turned." Stanza 1. 
" Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble .' 
tJp, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
Or surely you 'II grow double." 
§ Mr. W. in his preface labours hard to prove that prose and verse are 
much the same ; and certainly his precepts and practice are strictly con- 
formable. 

" And thus to Betty's questions he 

Made answer, liki a traveller bold, 
The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo. 
And the sun did shine so cold," &c. &c. 

Lyrical Ballads, p. 129. 
n Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, .Songs of the Pixies, i. e. Devonshire fairies ; 
p. 42, we have " Lines to a Young Lady ;" and p. 52, " Lines to a young 
Ass." 

IT He brayt, the laureat of the long-ear''d kind. — Altered by Lord 
Byron in his last revision of the satire. In all former editions the line 
•tood. 

•.— " A fellow-feeling makes us woni'rous k-ind." 

** " For every one Itnows little Malt 's an M. P." — See a poem to Mr. 
Lewis, in The Statesman, supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll. 



Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
With sparkling eyes and cheek by passion flush'd, 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd ? 
'T is Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must stiU be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
She bids thee " mend thy line*, and sin no more." 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue,f 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires. 
And o'er harmonious fustian| half expires, 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place. 
By dressing Camoens§ in a suit of lace ! 
Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ;^ 
Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but chaste ; 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

Behold ! — ye tarts ! one moment spare the text — 
Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next ; 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, 
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise ||, 
His style in youth or age is still the same, 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine 
At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 
Of" Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear 
That luckless music never triumph'd therelT. 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — lo ! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke** 
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalmsff , 

Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 
A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
And shows, still whimpering through threescore of years|f , 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles ! 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls? 



• In the original manuscript, " Mend thy life." 

t The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to 
" Strangford's Camoens," page 127, note to page 56, or to the last page 
of the Edinburgh Review of Strangford's Camoens. 
J Fustian ; in the first edition, nonsense. 

§ It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the public as poems 
of Camoens are no more to be found in the original Portuguese, than in 
the Songs of Solomon. 
II '■ Behold I — ye tarts I one moment spai-e his text — 

Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next ; 
Whether he spins poor couplets into plays, 
Or damns the dead with purgatorial praise." 
So emended by Lord Byron in the fifth edition of this satire. The linei 
were originally printed : 

" In many marble-cover'd volumes view 
Hayley, in vain attempting -something new ; 
Whether he spins his comedies in rhyme. 
Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time." 
IT Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are " Triumphs of 
Temi)er," and " Triumphs of Music." He has also written much come- 
dy in rhyme, epistles, &c., &c. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes 
and biography, let us recommend Pope's advice to Wycherley to Mr. H.'s 
consideration, viz. "to convert his poetry into prose," which may be 
easily done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet. 

• * " Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke." 
In the first edition, 

" Breaks into mawkish lines each holy bojk." 
ft Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, under the name 
of " Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." 

U StiU whimpering through threescore o/yenrs.— Thus altered in the 
fifth edition. The original reading was, 

" Dissolved in thino own melting terrs." 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



423 



♦Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 

The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 

Whether tliy muse most lamentably tells 

What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bellsf , 

Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 

In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 

Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 

If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 

Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 

All love thy strain, but children like it best. 

'T is thine, with gentle Little's moral song. 

To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 

With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 

Ere miss as yet completes her infant years ; 

But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 

She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 

Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 

The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 

" Awake a louder and a loftier strainj," 

Such as none heard before, or will again ! 

Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, 

Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 

By more or less, are sung in every book, 

From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 

Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 

The bard sighs forth a gentle episode§ ; 

And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss ! — 

When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 

Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 

Stick to thy sonnets, man! — at least they sell||. 

But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe. 

Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe ; 

If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd. 

Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 

If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first 

Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 

Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan ; 

The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 

Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 

Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CurlllF ; 

Let all the scandals of a former age 

Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 

Affect a candour which thou canst not feel. 

Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal 5 



* Whether thou sing'st, Ifc. — This couplet, in all the editioaa before 
the fifth, was prinletl. 

" Whether in sighing winds thou seek'st relief, 
Or consolation in a yellow leaf." 
t See Bowles's Sonnets, &c. — "Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stanzas on 
hearing the Bells of Ostend." 

% "Awake a louder," &c., &c.,is the first line in Bowles's " Spirit of 
DiscoTery ;" a very spirited and pretty dwarf epic. Among other exqui- 
■ tit* lines we have the following :— 

" A kiss 
Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 
Here heard ; tliey trembled even as if the power," &c., &c. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much astonished, 
as well they might be, at such a phenomenon*. 

§ The episode above alluded to is the story of " Robert a Machin" and 
" Anne d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed thu kiss above 
mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. 

" S'.ick to thy sonnets, m.vn I — at least they sell. 
Or take the only path that open lies 
For modern worthies who would hope to rise : 
Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit. 
Pare off the merits of his worth and wit ; 
On each alike employ the critic's knife. 
And when a comment fails, prefix a life ; 
Hint certain fuiling<, faults before unknown, 
Review forgotten lies, and add your own ; 
Let no disease, l(;t no mlHfortunc 'scnpe. 
And print, if luckily deform'd, his sliune : 
Thns shall the worlil, quite undeceived at last. 
Cleave to their pri'sent wits, and quit their past ; 
Bards ouce revered no more with favour view, 
But give the modern sonneteers llieir duo ; 
Thus with the dead may living merit coiic. 
Thus Bowles may lriuin[>h o'er the shade of Ripe." 
In the first edition, the oliser'valions on Howies eniled with these lines, 
which were written by a friend ol' Lord Byron f, and omitted when the 
Milire was published with the author's name. The following fifly-rtvo 
ferses, containing the conclusion of the passage on Bowles, and the no- 
liccs of (-ottle and Maurice, were then printed for the first time. 

11 Curll Is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a booksuller. Lord 
Fanny is the poetical name of Loril Hervey, author of " l^ines to tho 
Imitator of llorace." 



• Misquoted and misunderstood by me ; but not intentimmlly. It was 
not the " woods." but tho iwople in them who lrcmble<l— why. Heaven 
only knows —iniless they were ovorhcsnl making the prodigious •mack. — 
US. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

t Hobbouse. 



Write, as if St. John'.s soul could still inspire, 
And do from hate what *Mallet did for hire. 
Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time. 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhymej ; 
Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; 
A meet reward had crovvn'd thy glorious gains, 
I And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains§. 

II Another epic! Who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive I 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
Fresh fish from Helicon !1I who '11 buy ! who '11 buy ? 
The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
**Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdani fat ; 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name 
To fill the speaking trump of future fame I — 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
Had IJCotde still adorn'd the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils. 
Been taught to make the paper which be soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar witli lusty limb, 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him|J. 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
So up the hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull Maurice§§ all his granite weight of leaves: 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain. 
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo ! sad Alcai'us wanders down the vale ; 
Though fair tliey rose, and might have bloom'd at last, 
His hopes have pcrish'd by the nortiiorn blast : 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
His blossoms wilher as the blast prevails! 



* Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to tr.iduce Pope after his defease, b*. 
cause the poet had rclaine<i some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke, 
(the Patriot King,) which that splenaid, but malignant genius, had order- 
ed lo be destroyed. , 

t Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 

" .Silence, ye wolves I while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
Making night hideous : answer him, ye owls I" 

nunciad. 

J And linlc'tl Ihre to the nunrinri for thy pains.— Too savage all thie 
on Bowles.— Mi^. note hi/ l^rii liyron. 1^16. 

§ Sec Bowles's late cililion ol" Pope's works, for which he recei\ed three 
hundred imunds : thus Mr. B. has experienreil how much easier it Is to 
profit hv the rcptitation of another than lo elevate his own. 

II Another epic /—Opposite this passoge on Joseph and Amoe Cottle, 
Lord Byron has written, " All right." 

II Preoh fluh fiom Helicon!—" Helicon" la a mountain, and not a 
fish-irond. It should h.ive been " Uii>pucrene."—Mii. note by Lord 
Jiyrun. 1816. 

•• your turtle feeder's verse, ^-c— This couplet was altered In the 
fifth edition. It originally stood : 

" Too much in turtle Bristol's sons drllght. 

Too nuich o'er bowls of sack prolong the night." 

tt Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or both, 
once sellers of books they did not write, an.l now wrilem ol l«jks that do 
not sell, have published a pair of epics. " Allred," l|H»>r Alfred I Pye ItU 
been at him to.> 1) " Allml," and the " Fall of Cambria." 



n',i/r.v, (Mr r nf fijr 



some lette 



t; thh.id 

this fellow (Jo I ' ' ' " ■"■ ■""• 

wliirli the P'l ' j' 

roughly and Imi 

un]ust, which ii ' ~ ' 

jau'on. 1HI6. , . 

U Mr. Maurice haih m«oufaclur«1 the c..miH.i,«.nl naiU of a (wdertHW 
quarto, uiwn the l««..l.cs -I •Hichm.o.l Hill." and the ''ke ^-H »1~ 
takee In ■ charming view ..I Turnham i.tcn. HammorsmiUi, DnaUoni, 
OldaudNew and ihej^rt. u.ljjcoiil. 



424 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ! 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep* ! 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His claim to favour from the sacred nine 7 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
fBy hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
Aged or young, jhe living or the dead, 
No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field? 
Why tamely thus b^jfore their fangs retreat, 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seatj ? 

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just. 
Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 
And given the spirit to the world again, 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool, 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat§ ? 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
'* Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
Can none remember that eventful day||, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray. 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye. 
And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing bylT ? 
Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm-set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
Dark roU'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 
The other half pursued its calm career** ; 
Arthur's stee^ summit nodded to its base. 
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man — 



* Poor Montgomery! though praised by every English Review, has 
been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all, the bard of Sheffield is 
a man of considerable genius : his " Wanderer of Switzerland," is worth 
a thousand " Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty " degraded epics." 

■f See Lord Byron's letter to Mr. Murray, June 13, 1813, volume 2, 
page 

J Arthur's Seal ; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 

§ And raise ihig Daniel to thejudjsmenl-seat. — Too ferocious — this is 
mere insanity. — MS. note hy Lord Byron. 1816. 

II Ca7i none remember, ^c— All this is bad, because personal. — MS. 
note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

H In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Farm. The duel 
was prevented by the interference of the magistracy ; and, on examina- 
tion, the balls of the pistols were found to have evaporated. This incident 
gave occasion to much wageery in the daily prints. 

I am informed that Mr. Moore published at the time a disavowal of the 
statements in the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and in justice 
to him I mention this circumstance. As 1 never heard of it before, I can- 
not state the particulars, and was only made acquainted with the fact very 
lately.— November 4, 1811. 

** The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it would have been 
highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have shown the 
smallest symptom of apprehensioo. 



The Tolbooth feU defrauded of his charms, 

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms*: 

Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 

The sixteenth story, where himself was bom, 

His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 

And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 

Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, 

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 

This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, 

That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue ; 

And all with justice deem'd the two combined 

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 

But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore ; 

From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead. 

And straight restored it to her favourite's head ; 

That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r, 

Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r, 

And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, 

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 

" My son," she cried, *' ne'er thirst for gore again, 

Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 

O'er politics and poesy preside, 

Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 

For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 

Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 

So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 

Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan. 

And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 

First in the oat-fed phalanxj shall be seen 

The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen J. 

Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer§, and sometimes, 

In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 

Smug Sydney 1 1 too thy bitter page shall seek. 

And classic Hallam,1F much renown'd for Greek ; ■ 

Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 

And paltry Pillans** shall traduce his friend; 

W^hile gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambeff, 

Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn|J. 

Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 

Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 

while grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 

To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 

Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 

Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 



* This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the principal 
prison in Edinbiirgh), which truly seems to have been most affected on 
this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be apprehended, that 
the many unhappy criminals executed in tne front might have rendered 
the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her 
delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like most femi- 
nine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 

t — Oat-fed phalanx.— So altered in the fifth edition. The original 
reading was,"" ranks illustrious." 

X His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athenian So- 
ciety, and reviewer of " Gell's Topography of Troy." 

§ Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the 
principal pieces is a " Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer:" the 
translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endelh thus : — 
" Instead of money and rings, I wot, 
The hammer's bruises were her lot. 
Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 

II The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of Peter Plymley's Let- 
ters, and sundry criticisms. 

11 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's " Taste," and was exceedingly 
severe on some Greek verses therein : it was not discovered that the lines 
were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, 
which still stands an everl.Tsling monument of Hallam's ingenuity". 

The said Hallam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that 
he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sory— not for 
having said so, but on his account, as I understand his lordship's feasts 
are preferable to his compositions. — If he did not review Lord Holland's 
performance, I am glad, because it must have been painful to read, and 
irksome to praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who did i-eview it, the 
real name shall find a place in the text ; provided, nevertheless, the said 
name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into the verse : 
till then, Hallam must stand for want of a better. 

** Pillans is a tutor at Eaton. 

tf The Hon. G. Lambe reviewed " Beresford's Miseries," and is more- 
over author of a farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Sian- 
morc : and damned with great expedition at the late theatre, Covent 
Garden. It was entitled, " Whistle for It." 

Jl Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn.— The line stood, in all 
editions before the fifth, 

" As he himself was damn'd shall try to damn." 



Hallam't ingenuity.— T hi note ended here in the first edition. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



425 



Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mistf. 

X Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pcrtest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain! 
Whatever blessing waits a genius Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
For the Edina culls her evening sweets, 
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear§. 
Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamour'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone ; 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men, 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 

II Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 
Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
IT And, grateful for the dainties on his plate. 
Declare his lordship can at least translate** ! 
Dunedin! view thy children with delight, 
They write for food — and feed because they write ; 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul. 
Reforms each error, and refines the wholef f. 

Now to the drama turn — oh I motley sight! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invito ! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pcnt;l;J, 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven ! the Rosciomania's o'er, 
And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 



* Mr. Brougliam, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, lliroiighout 
the article concerning Don Pecho dc Cevallos, lias displayed more politics 
than policy ; many of' the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed 
at the infamous principles it evinces, as lo have withdrawn their subscrip- 
tions*. 

It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but a Borderer, 
and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay : — So be it. 

t I ought to apologize to the worthy deities for introducing a new god- 
dess with short petticoats to their notice ; but alas I what was to be done .-' 
I could not say Caledonia's genius, it being well known there is no such 
genius lo be found from (;iackmannan to Caithness ; yet without superna- 
tural agency, how was Jefl'rey to be saved .' The national " kelpies" are 
too unpoelical, and the " brownies," and " gude neighbours" (spirits of a 
goofl disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, has been 
called for the nurpose ; and |;rc:it ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, see- 
ing; it is the only communication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any 
thing heavenly. 

X Then prosper, Jeffrey! ^c— This paragiuph was Introduced in the 
fifth edition 

§ See the colour of the back l)indine of the Edinburgh Review. 

II IllustriouH Hollanil ! hard would he hie lot, 

HU hirelins;a mention'd, and hiinsnlf forgot I 

Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds loo.— A/,5. note by Lord Byron. 
1816. 

H And. grateful for the dainliea, !fc.—1n all editions before ihe fifth 
this coui)lel was printed, 

" And grntoful to the founder of the feast, 
Declare his landlord can translate at least." 

• " Lord HoUanii has IrHuBlalcd some specimens of Lope de Vega, In- 
serted in hia life of the author? both are bepruised by IiIb dieintercated 
guests. 

t1 Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of Imving displayed her match- 
less wit in the Edinburgh Review. Ilowever thai may be, we know, from 
§ood authority, Ihat the manuscripts are submiltcd to her perusal— no 
oubt, Ibr correction. 

J I In tlie melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is cinpl into a barrel 
on tlic stage ; a new asylum for distresBcd heroes. 



• Their suhscriptiong.—Uen followed, In the first edition, "The 
name of this personage Is pronounced Broom in the south, but the truly 
northern and musical pronunciation is lirough-am, in two ivllalilcs. 

The concluilon of the note was substituted for the aljove in the second 
edition. 

3 D 



Yet what avail their vain attempts to please. 

While British critics suffer scenes like these ; 

While Reynolds vents his " damrnees I" " poohs !" and 

*' zounds* !" 
And common-place and common sense confounds 1 
While Kenny's "World" — ah! where is Kenny's wit'— 
Tires tlic sad gallery, lulls the lisdess pitf 5 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words;}: ? 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is ail sense of shame and talent gone? 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake! 
Ring th' alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again j 
Abjure the mummery of German schools; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread§ ? 
On those shall Farce display buffoorr'ry's mask, 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, SkefRngton, and Mother Goose 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Skeflington and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure great SkefRngton must claim our praise, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs|| ; 
Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five factious acts comes thundering onH, 
While poor John Bull, be>vilder'd with the scene, 
Stares**, wondering what the devil it can mean 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now — ah ! wherefore should wo turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degcn'ratc Britons ! are ye dead to shame 
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalina's pantaloonsjf . 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humour tlian grimace. 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
To sofien manners, but corrupt the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 



• All these are favourite expresaione of Mr. Reynolds, and prominent 
in his comedies, living and del'unct. 

t " While Keimv's " World,"— nhl where Is Kenny's wit ?— 
Tires the sad gallery, hills the lislleas pit." 

Thus corrected in the filth edition. The lines were orl^jlnally printed, . 
" While Kenny's " World," JusI suffer'd to proceed, 
Proclaims Ihe audience very kind Indeed." 

J Mr. T. .Sheridan, the new manager of Drurv-lane Ihenlru, stripped 
the tragedy of Bonduca of the iliul.igiie, and exiubiteil llie ■cvnes ns tl)« 
siiectarle of Carartacus.— Was this worthy of his sin-, or of himself^ 

§ Siddons lives to lread.~\u all editions previous lo the ftflh, " Kem- 
ble lives lo trend." „ 

II Mr. i;nenw..oil is, we lielleve, scene-pauiier to Drury-lane thestre— 
ak suth, Mr. SketniiKtxn is nnuh indebted lo him. 

II Mr. Skellin4!i..ii i^ lb. illM,trious milhor of the " Slcepina Besuty ;" 
and some COM. I i v " .Maids and Dathelars :" U»cul»uri 

baruin niaf|u <i' 

*• " .S'/are.s " krrps." 

ft NnlUiaiuli nil, noiire— forthe visRseof theona, and 

the salary of il ' "g to rrfollecl thcsK amusing 

va«abon<)s. I' :«! blue from the squeata on tha 

first night of il, "<•'■»• 



426 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes. 

And bless the promise which his form displays ; 

While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 

Of hoary marquises and strippling dukes : 

Let high-bom lechers eye the lively Presle 

Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; 

Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 

Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ; 

CoUini trill her love-inspiring song, 

Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng ! 

Whet* not your scythe, suppressers of our vice! 

Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 

By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 

No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 

And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display 

Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

f Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argylej ! 
Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
Behold the new Petronius§ of the day, 
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
The song from Italy, the step from France, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance. 
The smile of beauty and the flush of wine. 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine ; 
Each to his humour — Comus all allows ; 
Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
Of piteous ruin, which yourselves have made ; 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er. 
The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep. 
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap; 
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim. 
The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which nature could not spare ; 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
Where, all forgotten but the power to please. 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought. 
Each swain may teach new systems, or be (aught ; 
There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; 
The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick, 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire. 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 



* Whet not your scythe. — From Lord Byron's correction in 1816. In 
the former editions, " Raise not your scythe.'" Against the six conclud- 
ing lines of this paragraph the author has written — "Good." 

1 Or hail at once the patron and the pile.— The following seventy 
lines to " as for the smaller fry," &c., were first inserted in the second 
edition. 

J To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, I beg 
leave to state, that it is the institution, and not the duke of that name, 
which is here alluded to. A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquaint. 
ed, lost in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon*. 
It is but justice to the managers in this instance to say, that some degree 
of disapprobation was manifested : but why are the implements of gaming 
allowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes .■' A pleasant thing 
for the wives or daughters of those who are blest or cursed with such con- 
nections, to hear the billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in 
anothei-! That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late wc.rthy 
member of an institution which materially affects the morals of the higher 
orders, w^hile the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor and 
fiddle without a chance of indictment for riotous behaviour. 

§ Petronius " Arbiter elegantiarum" to Nero, " and a very pretty fellow 
in his day," as Mr. Congreve's " Old Bachelor" saith of Hannibal. 



* True. It was Billy W — y who lost the money. 1 knew him, and 
wai a lubscriber to tha Argyle at the time of the event.— A/6\ note by 
Lord Byron. 1816. 



Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 

And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife* ; 

Fit consummation of an earthly race 

Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 

While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 

W^ash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 

Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 

The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 

To live like Clodiusf, and like Falkland| fall. 

Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
Even I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, 
To fight my course through passion's countless host§, 
Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal ; 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
" What art thou better, meddling fool||, than they''" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
From silly HafizlT up to simple Bowles, 
W^hy should we call them from their dark abode, 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ? 
If things often their harmless lays indite, 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight 
What harm? In spite of every critic elf. 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die ; 
Lords too are bards, such things at times befal, 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all, 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes* ♦ ? 
Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noble head ; 



* Two Pagets for your u>//e.— Thus altered in the fifth edition. Tht 
original reading was, " a Paget for your wife." 
t Mutatonomenede te 

Pabula narratur 
+ I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld him 
presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality ; on Wed- 
nesday morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that re- 
mained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and 
successful officer : his faults were the faults of a sailor — as such, Britoni 
will forgive him. He died like a brave man in a better cause ; for had he 
fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just ap- 
pointed, his last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as 
an example to succeeding heroes. 

§ Tojightmy course through passion^s countless host. — Yes : and a 
precious chase they led me. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

II What art thou better, meddling fool ? — Fool enough, certainly, 
then, and no wiser since. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

IT What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, could 
he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with 
Ferdousi and Sadi, the oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his 
name assumed by one Stott of Dromore, the most unpudent and execra- 
ble of literary poachers for the daily prints. 
*' Here followed in the original manuscript, 

On one alone Apollo deigns to smile, 
And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle. 
The provocation alluded to in Lord Byron's note, page 262, took plats 
while the satire was in press. These lines were erased in consequence, 
and all those down to, " With you, ye Druids," &c., substituted in their 
place. The following additional lines were written, but suppressed be- 
fore publication : 

In these our limes, with daily wonders big, 
A lettered peer is like a lettered pig ; 
Both know their alphabet, but who, from thence, 
Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense ? 
Still less that such should w^oo the graceful nins? 
PamasBUE was not made for lords and swias. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



427 



♦No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 

The paralytic puling of Carlisle. 

The puny schoolboy and his early lay 

Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 

But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 

Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse ? 

What hetereogeneous honours deck the peer ! 

Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteerf ! 

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age. 

His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 

But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough !" . 

Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 

Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh. 

And case his volumes in congenial calf; 

Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shines, 

And hang a calf-skin J on those recreant lines. 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
And Melville's Mantle§ prove a blanket too ! 
One common lethe waits each hapless bard, 
And, peace be with you ! 't is your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 
But now at once your fleeting labours close, 
Widi names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masciuerade. 
Whose strains, tlve failhful echoes of her mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind ||. 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill. 
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still ; 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell'sH, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q,.** 

ft When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall. 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, 
Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud ! 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
'T is sheer ill-nature — don't the world know best? 



• No muse wUl cheer, loith renovating smile, 

The parali/lic puling of Carlisle. 
This couplet stood in tlie first odition, 

" Nor e'en a hackiiey'd muse will deien to smile 
On minor Uvron, or mature Carlisle." 
Opposite these lines on Lord Carlisle, I-ord Byron hns written, in the 
copy which he peruswl in 1816, " Wrong also— the provocation was not 

sufficient to justify the acerbity." 

t The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an ei^htpcn-penny pam- 
phlet on the state of the stage, iind offers hie plan of building a new thea- 
tre. It is to be hoped his lordship will be permitted to brmg lonvard any 
thing for the stage— except his own tragedies. 
J " DoH" that lion's hide, 

And hang q calf-slfin on those recreant limbs." 

SItak. King John. 
Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendcntly bound, form a conspicuous 
ornament to his bookshelves : 

" The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
% « Mplvllln's Mantle," a parody on " Klijah's M.mtlc," a poem. 

11 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter ot the noted Jew K , seems 

to be a follower of the Delia Crusca school, and has publishcil two vohunes 
of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; bcHides sundry 
novels In the style of the fii-«» edition of the Monk. 

To the above, I-onl llvron ad.le<l, in lfll6 : "She smfo marrlml the 
Morning Post— an exceeding good match— and is slnco dead— which Is 
Letter." , , 

V Prom tills line the passatjn In the first edition stood Uius : 
Thoui^h Hell bus lont bix iiiclitlnKalei niul owls, 
Matilda snivels still, and ll..fr/. howls. 
And Crusca's sjilrit, risinn from the dead, 
Revives in I.aiira, (iui-/., and X. Y. '/. 
*• These are the signatures of various worthies who flgure In the poeti- 
cal departments of the newspapers. 

tt When Bomi britic youth, &c.— The following pnrngi-aph was Inserted 
Id the second olition. .in 

This was meunt for poor Hlackelt, who was then patronl«o<l by A. J. M.. 
but that I did not know, or Ibis would not have been wriUin, at least I 
think not.— A/5, nott hiy Lord Byron. 1H16. 



Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyrne, 
And Capel Lofft* declares 't is quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains ! quit the plough, resign 'die useless spado I 
Lo ! Burns and Bioomtield, nay, a greater far, 
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
Stemm'd the rude storm and triumph'd over fate t 
Then why no more? if Phcebus smile on you, 
Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too ?t 
Him too the mania, not the muse has seized ; 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 
And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
No common be enclosed, without an ode. 
Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
On Briiain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let poesy go forth pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul ! 
Yet tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 
Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
So shall the fair your handy-work peruse 
Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 
May MoorlandJ weavers boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailors' lays be longer tlian their bill! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 
Come forth, oh Campbell§ ! give thy talents scope 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope 
And thou, melodious Rogers|| ! rise at last, 
Recal the pleasing memory of the past; 
Arise I let blest remembrance still inspire. 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre 
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne. 
Assert thy coimtry's honour and thine own. 
What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, 
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns 
No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood, 
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food. 
Yet still some genuine sons 't is hers to boast, 
Who least affecting, still affect the most: 
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel- 
Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, MacneilH. 

" Why slumbers Gifford ?" once was ask d in vain** 
Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge 
Arc there no sins for satire's bard to greet 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street 
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's uallu 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath 



* Capel Lofft, Esq. the Mierciias of shoeni.'ikfrs, niid itreface-writer- 
gcneral to distressed versi'men ; a kind of gratis acrouchmr lo those who 
wish lo be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth. 

f See Nathaniel IJloomfiold's ode, elegy, or whatever he or anyone 
else chooses to rail it, on the enrlosure of " Iloniiiglon Green." 

t Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in tlie Moorlnmis of Slaflbrdshire." 
§ It would be supc'fluous to recal to the mind of the reotler the authors 
of " The Pleasures of Memory" and " The Pleasures of Hope," ihe ma«t 
beautifid dldaclic jkhmus in our langiingc, if we except ft)()e i " tjuuiy on 
Man :" but so many poetasters have started up, that even the namo« of 
Campbell and Rog^'rs are become slrame. 

Oeneath this note Loiil Hyren has written, in Iho copy of ibis satire 
which ho read In 1816, 

" Piplly Miss Jnrqiieline 
Had a nose aquiline, 
And would iMBril lude 
Things of MiM Uerlrude, 
While Mr. Mnrmion 
I.eil a givnt nrmv on. 
Making Kehauiu' look 
l.lkeafirneMmnehike." 
II MelodiouB Rogerc— Rogers has nol fulfilled tho promise of hit flrsi 
poems, but hiui still veiv great merit. -A/A', note 6y lAinl Hyton. 1816. 
n lilir..rd. Hiithorol the HiivUid and Mievlotl, the first satires oT the d«7, 

and translat.ii- of 'uv, ,,.,1 

Soihehv, I. ^\ l.uids Oberon and Vlvgil's Oeorgtes, and 

Macnril, « i serveiUv popular, particularly " Scotland's 

Health, or tin \^ ^ : of which Irn thotuand copies were aotd hi 

•• Mr. Olffonl promi«rd puhllclT that the Ravlod ami Mavlad should 
nol be his lost on«ii»l work* : let hlni retnomNr, •• Mot In pelu<Uii»«e 
dracones." 



428 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime? 
Arouse thee, GifFord ! be thy promise claini'd, 
Make bad men better or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White*! while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
fThe spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ; 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
She sow'd the seed's but death has reap'd the fruit. 
'T was thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart •. 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
That strain'd i-crvention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
'T is true, that all \,'ho rhyme, nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
Yet Truth sometimes v/ill lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Virtue's name let CrabbeJ attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

§And here let Shee|| and genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvass glow, 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
While honours, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the mui*es at their natal hour: 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar, 
1 he dime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And viev.s their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
WrightIF ! 't was thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

''And you, associate bards** ! who snatch'd to light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight : 



Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
V/here Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, 
And all their renovated fragrance flun^, 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue ; 
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
Resign Achaia's lyre and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as these, with just applause, 
Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme. 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass 5 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye*. 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
The meanest object of the lowly group. 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloydf ; 
Let them— but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
The native genius witli their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott J ! resign to minstrels rud 

The wilder Slogan of a border feud : 

Let others spin the meagre lines for hire ; 

Enough for genius if itself inspire! 

Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 

Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 

§Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, 

And brother Coleridge lull the babes at nurse ; 

Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 

To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 

IlLet Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from Moore, 

And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore ; ■ 

Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave. 

And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 

Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine. 

And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 

Let Stott, Carlisle^, Matilda, and the rest 

Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best, 



„.,» I f^ KirkeA\hite died at Cambridge, in October, I8C3, in conse- 
?„-,H . 1°^ T'^ '/"■"°" '"/'^^ P'"-^"'^ °f ^""^i^« that'would have ma- 
<ured a mmd whicli disease and poverty could not impair, and which deat>, 
Itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poeiT>s abound in su"hbea,Uies 
M must imprese the reader with the liveliest regret that so slior a period 

:iori!ira:!rir^rd^ts^i'.r'' '-'''^'-^'' -- ^'^ ^^^^^" 

* T/ie spoiler sw.pt that soaring lyre away, 

<; 1, J Which else had sounded an immortal lav. 

" The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to slefp for ever there " 
+ Crabbe.—l consider Crabbe and Colendw as the first of these timea 
.n point of power «nd genius.- fl/5. note by Lrd Byron. 8 6 

inl^ltd editfn"' '''-''''' '"^''""^ ^"^"'^-^^' """ -- --•'«' 

I m"- w'^Vrl^?"" °^ " ^}'^"'^^ "", ^'■'•" """^ " Elements of Art." 
IT Mr. Wright, late consul-general for the Seven Islands, is author of a 
rery beautiful poem just publShed : it is entitled " Hors Ionics "and it 
deocnpiive of the isles and the adjacent coast of Greece. ' 

»,.w \ A "■^"^'«*°™ of the Anthology, Bland and Merivale, hare since 
Srt5':^aurem^er™"' "'"' '""" ^"^''" ^"^' °"'^ ^^'J'"'" "^P^"" " 



\.l7^f- "-^'^''' "• ^^^ "Botanic Garden" is some proof of returning 
taste : tae scenery is its sole recoiTunendation. * 

^J Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and 

■.,Ti ^^^^^ "^I'J- ^°J^^ ""^i'" ^^'■- ^=o"'s next poem liis hero or heroine 
r U J'fbf t''""^'°u ?''="'^7'^'" ^"d '"o'-« to grammar, than the 
Lady of the Lay and her bravo, William of Deloraine. 

rid\e^frB;:^o.?ri!.Tffn°^eZ°'t^^^^^^^^^^ '"'""'"^ ""^ °" ^°''- 

■'LefMo^rbTlewd':-"'^*-^''^' ^'^'''°"- ^'^^ °"e'-' "--^-g --• 
Tl It niay be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my eu&r- 
diaji and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few 
years ago ?—1 he guardianship was nominal, at least as far as I have been 
able to discover ; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for 
VmrT''=.,n lo^'^hip seemed to forget It on a very essential occLion 
\l-^\l f "''S'"irie" my memory with the recollection. I do not 
hr'n'jLr =^r-fhr°°f ff^''""^^^ ^^^^^^°^ the UHJust condemnaUon of a 
brother scribbler ; but I see no reason why they should act as a preventive, 
when the author noble or ignoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled li 
nf^^r'i"^P^'''"''^''' ^^f 'Advertisements have it) wkh diverfrean^ 
v;.,XL^ h 'i ""P"'? "0"^«"=e. Besides, I do not step aside to 
vituperate the earl: no— his works come fairly in review with those of 
other patrician 1 terati. If, before I escaped from my teenl I said any 
t2 Tl/r"""","^ '"' 'r'^^hip's paper books, it was in the w^y of dut!fiU 
dedication, and more from the advice of others than my own judgment, 
and I sei^e he first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation, f 
have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obUgations to Lord 
taihsle : if so I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are 
knlvlpr^° Cvh""; }';''' ^''^y '"u7 ''^ "^''^y appreciated and pubUcIy ad 
thin^] "fl J ^"''^ humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed 

th ngs, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations from elegies. 
hiLrmme^idma'k'^''^' '^"'^"'■'^'" facetious and dainty tragedies betting 
" What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards ? 
Alas I not all the blood of all the Howards." 
So says Pope. Amen I 

L^TjBiron^^im. ''''*'^'"'' '*" fot^ndaUon might h».-MS. note by 
This note first appeared in the «econJ edition. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



429 



Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain, 
Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
Should leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Demand a hallo w'd harp — that harp is thine. 
Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field, 
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
♦For Sherwood's oudaw tales of Robin Hood? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard. 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her faded fame recal. 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

■fYet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victorsj fill the applauding skies ; 
A few brief generations fleet along. 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
§And glory like the phcenix midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 
Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies, 
II Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by HoylelT : 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist. 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list**. 
Ye ! who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam. 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

tfThere Clarke, stiU striving pitcously " to please," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buflbon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine. 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
Himself a living libel on mankindJJ. 



* In the first edition, " Outlaw'c' Sherwoo.l's." 

t Yet what avails, &c. — The following twelve lmc« were introduced in 
the second edition. 

I " Tollere liumo, victoriue virum volitare per ora." 

Virgil. 
§ Like the phmnix midnt her firea. — The devil lake that phanix I 
How came it there ? — A/.V. note by Lord Bi/ron. 1816. 

II Eoen from the tempting ore of Seaton's jirizc. — Thus corrected, in 
1816, by Lord Byron. In former editions : 

" And even spurns the great Seatonian prir.o." 

H Thus in tl^ie original munuscript : 

With odes by Smyth, and epic son;^ bv Hoylc ; 
Hoyle whose le.irri'd puce if still upheld by whist, 
Required no sacred theme to bid us list. 

*• The " Games of Hoyle," well knoffn to the votaries of whist, chess, 
&c. are not to be supcmcdeil by the vagaries of his pnotiral namcHiiko, 
whose poem comprised, as expressly staled in the iidveriisenienl, all the 
" plague.i of Egypt." 

it There (^/a/Jte, »/j7Z»<riBing-, iic— These eight lilies were added in 
the si'cnnd edition. 

Kighl enough . this was well dcsei-vod, and well laid on.— MS. note by 
/yird Bi/ron. 1816. 

n ''"his person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid symptoms of 
connrmcd aulliorsbip, is writer of (i {joem dciioniinaU'd tlie " Art of 
Pleasing,'' ns " lucus a non Incondu," containing liule pleasantry and less 
poetry. lie also jcls as monthly stiiwndiury ami cnlli'ilnr of ruhininios for 
the " Salirisl." If this unforluimlc young man would rxchangc the ma- 
gazines for Ihe mathematics, end omlcavoiir to laki" Ji dociil degree in his 
university, it might srentuajly prove mor» serviceable Uian his present 
salary. 



Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race* ! 

At once the boast of learning, and disgrace! 

fSo lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson'sJ verse 

Can make thee better, or poor Hewson's§ worse. 

But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 

The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 

On her green banks a greener wreath shejl wove,. 

To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; 

Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires. 

And modern Britons glory in their sireslT. 

For me, who, thus unask'd**, have dared to tell 
My country, what her sons should know too well, 
tfZeal for her honour bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
No just applause her honour'd name shall lose. 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'T is thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen: 
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shattcr'd in the main ; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd. 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
W'ith warning ever scoff^'d at, till too late ; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine Jf. 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit, 
And old dame Portland §§ fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
And Afric'sllll coast and Calpe'siriF adverse height, 
And Stamboul's*** minarets must greet my sight: 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native climeftf. 
Where Kaff"JJJ is clad in rocks, and crown'd with 
snows sublime. 



* " Into Cambridoesbire the Emperor Probns transported a consider- 
able body of Vandals."— Gibbons Decline ami Fall, p. 83, vol. ii. There 
is no reason to doubt the truUi of this assertion ; the breed is still in higb 
perfection.* 

These four lines were substituted for the following in the original nuuiu- 
scripl : 

Yet hold — as when by Heaven's supreme beheat, 
If found, ten riEhlcous had preserved the rest, 
In .Sodom's fated town, for Granta's name 
Let Hodgson's genius plead, and save her fame. 

t So lost to Phcehua, that, &c.— This couplet, thus altered in the fi(Ui 
edition, was originally printed, 

" So sunk in dulmss, and so lost in shame. 
That Smyth and Ilodgson scarce redeem thy fame." 

J This gentleman's name refjuiros no praise ; the mm who in transla- 
tion displays unquestionable genius may well beexpefteil to excel in orup- 
no] composition, of which it is to Ix) hoped we shall soon see a splcmud 
specimen. 

§ Hewson Clarke, Ksq., as it is n'ritten. 

II " Is" in the first edition. 

1! The " Al)original Uritons " an excellent poem, by Richards. 

** Unnek'd ; in the first edition unknown. 

tt Zeal for her honour, fee. — In the first editiisi this couplet ran, 
" Zeal for her honour, no inalignant ragi'. 
Has bade me spurn the follies of her age." 

Jt And urge Ihy hards to t;nin a name like thine. — With this verse Ih* 
autiro ended in the original edition. 

§§ A friend of mine beini; ttskrd why his grace of IVrtland wa« likened 
to an old woman :* replied, " he siipinsed it was l«ec«uiie he was i>«»t 
bearing." — His grace is now gBlhered to his graiidmotlirra, where h» 
sleeps as sound u.i ever ; but evrn bis sleep was t>ettcr than Itis colleagues' 
waking. IHII. 

Nil Afric's coiut. Saw it, August, 1809.— A/S. notebyLord Byrom. 
1816. 

flU Gibraltar. Saw It, Augiist, 18()9.— A/S. note by Utrd Byron. 1816. 

••* Stamboiil. Was tliert! the summer of \HM.—\tS.t¥>tebyLoTd 
Byron. 1NI6. 

\\\ Georgia. 

hX Mount CniirH.Ms Saw 0»e .listant rulg'" "f, ISIO, l.'»ll.— MS. note 
by Lord Byrof, I -Ik 



rr/er/i >•!.— In ihs flrtt mliUon ;— " ThsiM 
of iliu ssMniloii, as a larfs atock of Ui« 

at ibit J-y. 



* The brr, 
is no reason i 
samr biTvd ii 



430 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



But should I back return, no tempting press* 

Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess : 

Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 

Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr ; 

Let Aberdeen and Elginf still pursue 

The shade of fame through regions of vertu ; 

Wast© useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 

Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 

And make their grand saloons a general mart 

For all the mutilated blocks of art : 

Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 

I leave topography to rapid| Gell§ 

And, quite content, no more shall interpose 

To stun the public ear — at least with prose. 

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, 
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 



* But should Iback return, no tempting press 
Shall drag, &.C. 

These four lines were altered in the fifth edition. They originally stood, 
" Bui should I back return, no letter'd sage 
Shall drag ray common-place book on the stage ; 
Let vain Valencia* rival luckless Carr, 
And equal him whose work he sought to mar." 

* Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and 
without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias ! " Credat 
Judaeus !" 

t Rapid. Thus altered in the fifth edition. In all previous editions, 
" classic." 

I "Rapid," indeed! He topographized and typographized King 
Priam's dominions in three days ! — I called him " classic" before I saw 
the Troad, but since have learned better than to tack to his name what 
don't belong to it.— Note to the fifth edition. 

Mr. Gell s Topography of Troyf- and IlhacaJ cannot fail to ensure the 
approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the infor- 
mation Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reader, as for tlie abihty and 
research the respective works display. — Note to all the early editiom;. 

Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are somewhat changed as 
to the above note. Gell's survey was hasty and superficial. — MS. note 
by Lord Byron. 1816. 



* Lord Valencia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming with due 
decorations, graphical, topographical, typographical) deposed, on Sir John 
Carr's unlucky suit, that Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the 
"Stranger in Ireland." — Oh, fie, my lord .' lias your lordship no more 
feeling for a fellow-tourist? but " two of a trade," they say, &c. 

t Troy. Visited both in 1810 and 1811.— Af^'. Tiote by Lord Byron. 
1816. 

I Ithaca. Passed first in 1809.— ATS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 



This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own- 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house*, 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too arc *' penetrable stuff:" 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ; 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
But now so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I 've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth ; 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree. 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss. 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss ; 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I 've dared ; if my incondite layf 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say : 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, nowdeclarej. 



* Din of Melbourne house. — Singular enough, and din enough, 

God knows. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

t TTius much I 've dared ; if my incondite lay. 

■The reading of the fifth edition : originally printed, 

" Thus much I 've dared to do ; how far my lay.' ' 

J The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish had never been 
written — not only on account of the injustice of much of the critical, and 
some of the personal part of it— but the tone and temper are such aa I can- 
not approve. — Byron. July 14, 1816. 

Diodati, Geneva. 



THE FOLLOWING ARGUMENT INTENDED FOR THE SATIRE WAS IN THE 
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, BUT NOT PUBLISHED. 

The poet considereth times past and theirpoesy — maketh a sudden transition to times present — is incensed against book-makei-s — revileth W. Seotl 
for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with notable remarks on Master Southey— complaineth that Master Southey hath inflicted three poems epic and 
otherwise on the public — inveigheth against VVm. Wordsworth ; but laudeth Mr. Coleridge and his elegy on a young ass — is disposed to vituperate 
Mr. Lewis — and gieatly rebukelh Thomas Little (the late,) and the Lord Str.-ingford — recommendeth Mr. Hayley to turn his attention to prose— 
and exhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr. Grahame — sympathizeth with the Rev. — Bowles — anddeploreth the melancholy fate of Montgomery 
— breaketh out into invective against the Edinburgh Reviewers — calieth them hard names, harpies, and the like — aposlrophiseth Jeffrey and prcv- 
phesielh — Episode of Jeffrey and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance ; portents on the morn of combat ; the Tweed, 'Tolbooth, Frith of Forth 
severally shocked ; descent of a goddess to save Jeffrey ; incorporation of the bullets with his sinciput and occiput — Edinburgh Reviewere en masse 
—Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, Scott, Hallam, PiUans, Lambe, Sydney Smitli, Brougham, &c.— The Lord Holland applauded for dinners and transla- 
tions. — The Drama ; Skeffington, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry, &c. — Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon to write— return to 
poesy — scribblers of all sorts — Lords sometimes rhyme ; much better not — Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X. Y. Z. — Rogers, Campbell, Gifford, &c., 
true poets — translators of the Greek Anthology — Crabbe — Darwin's style — Cambridge — Seatcuian Prize — Smyth — Hodgson — Oxford — Richards— 
Poeta loquitur — conclusion. 



POSTSCRIPT.* 



1 have been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my 
Irusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing 
a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom 
tliey have already so be-doviled with their ungodly ribaldry : 



■ Tantsene 



coeleslibus irre I 



I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Anthony Agviecheek saith, " an I had 
known he was so cunning of fence, 1 had seen him damned ere I had fought 
him." What a pity it is that 1 shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the 
next number has passed the Tweed ! But 1 yet hope to hght my pipe with 
it in Persia. 

My northern friends have accnsed me, with justice, of personality to- 
wards their great literary anthroirophagus, Jeffrey ; but what else was to 
be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slandering," 
and slake their lliirst by " evil speaking ?" I have adduced facts already 
well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has 
lie thence sustained any injury ; — what scavenger was ever soiled by being 
pelted with mud ? It may be said that I quit England because I have 
censured there " persons of honoui- and wit about town," but I am coming 
back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those wlio 
know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different 
from fears, literary or personal : those who do not, may one day be con- 
vinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been con- 
cealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgres- 



Added to the second edition. 



sions,and in daily expectation of sundry cartels ; but, alas " the age of 
chivalry is over," or in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. 
There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (Subaudi esquu-e), a sizer of 
Emmanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
whom I have introduced in tiiese pages to much better company than he 
has been accustomed to meet ; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and 
for no reason that 1 can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, 
kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of 
his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me 
and what is worse, the defenceless mnocentabove mentioned, in "The Sa- 
tirist" for one year and some moiitlis. I am utterly unconscious of having 
given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name 
till coupled with " The Satirist." He has therefore no reason to complain, 
and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Pl.Tgiary, he is rather pleased than 
otherwise. 1 have now mentioned all who liave done me the honour to 
notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the editor of 
" The Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman — God wot ! I wish he could 
impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that 
Mr. Jemingham is about to take up the cudgels for his Mfficenas, Lord 
Carlisle : I hope not : he was one of the few, who, in the very short inter- 
coui-se I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and what- 
ever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further 
to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, Bnd 
publishers, and, in the words of Scott, I wish 

" To all and each a fair good night, 
And rosy dreams and glumberi light." 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 

BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND 
INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 



" Ergo fungar vice colis, aculum 
Reddere qu<e ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

HOR. De Arte Poet. 304, 305. 

RhTmei are difficult things — they are stubborn things, sir." 

FIELDING'S Amelia, Vol. iii. Boolf 5. Chap. 5. 



Athens. Capuchin Convent, March 12lh, 1811. 

Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvass with each flatter'd face. 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush. 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low* Dubost (as once the world has seen) 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen ? 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreamy, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
Poetic nightmares, witnout head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists know, 
May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow ; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task. 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask ; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams — 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labour'dj long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain ; 
The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls. 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 

walls: 
Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames. t 

Humano capiti cerviccm pictor cquinam 
Jungere ei velit, et varias inducerc pluinas, 
Undique collatis membris, iit turpiter airum 
Desinat in pisccm mulier (brmosa superne ; 
Spectatum adinissi risum tcneatis, amici .' 
Credite, Pisonus, iste labuhc fore librutii 
Persimilcm, cujus, velutajgri somiiia, vanaj 
Fingentiir species, ut ucc pee, ncc caput uni 
Redilatur formfc. Pictorihus atquc poetia 
Quidlibet audciidi semper fuiiajiiua poiestas. 
Scimus, ci banc veiiiym pctiinusiiuedamusciue viciasim: 
Scd nun ut piacidiscnthiiit immida ; non uC 
Serpentea avibu.s gciniiuMitur, tigribus agiii. 

Incoeptis gravibu.s pli:riun(|ue et magna professi. 
Purpureus, late qui Hplrndeat, unua et alter 
Assuitur paniiu.s ; cum Iucuh cl ara Dian.T, 
Et properantia aquas per amoenoa ainbiiiis agros, 
Aut flumcn Rhenum, ant pluviua dca(;ril)itur arcus. 



* In an English nRWNpupcr, wliich TiikIs its wiiy nliruiul whuri'vcr (hero 
are Englishmeti, I read im iiciciunt of this dirty dauliiT's curicaturn of 
Mr. H . njid the roniei^uent iictlon, Stc. 1'ho circumatancc In proba- 
bly tf)0 well known to require further commpnt, 

t " Where pur* dewriptiou held Iht place u( *tn»e."—Popi. 



You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shin»— 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign ; 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and forgot ; 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till true. 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
I labour to be brief — become obscure ; 
One falls while following elegance too &st ; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, 
He spins his subject to satiety ; 
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 

Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice, 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
None are complete, all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man, 
But coats must claim another artizan.* 
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! 

Dear auUiors ! suit your topics to your strength. 
And ponder well your subject, and its lenglli ; 

Sed nunc non eral hi.i locus : ct fortasao cuprcssum 
Scia simulare : <iuiil hoc, si fractia enatat exspea 
Navilnia, <Tro dato qui ))ingitur .' amphora ca pit 
Inatitui : currciitr rota cur urccus exit .' 
Denique sit quod via, simplex duntaxat ct unum. 

Maxima para vatiim, pater, et juvenes patredigni, 
Decipimur apecio recti. Brcvia osae laboro, 
OI)sciirns (lo : sertantem levia, nervi 
Detk'iunt animiquu : profeaaua grandia, turget : 
S(>rpit hiimi, tutus nimium, timidtiaquc procella : 
Qui variare ciq)ii rem prodigialiter uiiani, 
Delphiiium sylvia appiiigii IhiciibiiB nprum. 

Ill vitium durit ciiiprr fm;n, «i caret arte. 
yFmiliiun circa huhnii taluT nnus et unguea 
Exprimct, ct ihdIIoh iniiiabitur a^ro cnpillos; 
Inli'lix operia siunma, quia ponrrc totimi 
Neaciet. Hunc cso mo, ai quid romponcro cursm. 
Non m;icia esse velim, quam pravo vivernniso, 
Spuctanduni nigris ocuHa nigroquo capillo. 



MlT.. 



of th. 

kn..* 



Milaiit with on* UUor ami 
• n f.umd it im|H»«itV u^ 

. ir N^lv clothe*. I .,, ,1. 

.ucc taken \t\txr I t.. i.lu i 



432 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await the poet, skilful in his choice ; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line ; 
This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As *Pitt has furnish'd us a word or two, 
"Which lexicographers declined to do ;) 
So you indeed, with care, — (but be content 
To take this licence rarely) — may invent. 
New words find credit in these latter days, 
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
If you can add a little, say why not. 
As well as William Pitt and Walter Scott? 
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 
Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 
'Tis then — and shall be — lawful to present 
Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fade expressions which in season please. 
And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate. 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls, 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, sustain 
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old ocean's roar. 
All, all must perish ; but, surviving last. 
The love of letters half preserves the past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ;t 
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive, 

Sumite materiem vestris, qui scribitis, equam 
Viribus ; et versate diu quid ferre recusent 
Quid valeant humeri. Cui lecta potentererit res, 
Nee facundia deseret hunc nee lucidus ordo. 

Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aiit ego fallor, 
Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia did 
Pleraque differat, et praesens in tempus omittat ; 
Hoc amet, hoc spernat promissi carminis auctor. 

In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis : 
Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
Reddiderit junctura novum. Si forte necesse est | 
Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum, 
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis 
Cominget ; dabiturque iicentia sumpta pudenter ; 
Et nova factaque nuper habebunt verba Mem, si 
Graeco fonte cadant, parce detorta. Quid autem 
Caecilio Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum 
Virgilio Varioque ? ego cur, acquirere pauca 
Si possum, invideor ; cum lingua Catonis et Enni 
Sermonem patrium ditaverit, et nova rerum 
Nomina protulerit ? Licuit, semperque licebit, 
Signatum praesente nota producere nomen. 

Ut silvse foliis pronos mutantur in annos ; 
Prima cadunt : ita veibonnn vetus interit EDtaa, 
Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata, vigentque. 
Debemur morti nos nostraque : sive receptus 
Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet, 
Regis opus ; sterilisve diu palus, aptaque remis 
VJcinas urbes alit, et grave sentit aratrum : 
Seu cursum mutavit iniquum t'rugibus amnis, 
Doctus iter melius ; mortalia facta peribunt : 
Nedum sermonum stet honos, et gratia vivax. 
Multa renascentur, qua3 jam cecidere ; cadentque, 



* Mr. PiU w.is liberal in his additions to our parliamentary tongue, as 
may be seen in many publications, particularly the Edinburgh Review. 

t Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at present in as 
much request as old wine or new speeches. In fact this is the millennium 
of black letter : thanks to our Hebers, Webcrs, and Scotts ! 



As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels wage , 
Are tliey not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 
His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel, rhyme or blank ? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.* 

Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days, 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 
While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and puni in very middling prose. 
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
But so Thalia pleases to appear, 
Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year ! 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight: — 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to groan. 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 
Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 
Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
When common prose will serve for common things ; 
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire. 
To " hollowing Hotspur "J and the sceptred sire. 

'T is not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
To polish poems ; they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 

Quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus ; 
Quem penes arbitrium est, et jus. et norma loquendi 

Res gestae regumque ducumque et tristia bella, 
Quo scribi possent numero monstravit Homerus. 

Versibus impariter junctis querinionia primum ; 
Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos. 
Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor, 
Grammaiici certant, et adhuc sub jndice lis est, 

Archilocum proprio rabies armavit ianibo; 
Hunc socci cepere pedem grandesque cothurni, 
AJternis aptum sermonibus, et populares 
Vincentem strepitus, et natum rebus agendis. 

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum 
Et pugilem victotem, et equum certamine primum, 
Et juvenum curas et libera vina referre, 

Descriptas servare vices operumque coJorea, 
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poeta salutor ? 
Cur nescire pudens prave, quam discere malo? 

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult 
Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socco 
Dignis carminibus narrari ccpna Thyestae. 
Singula quaeque locum teneant sortita decenter. 
Interdum tamen et vocem comcedia tollit, 
Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore : 
Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul, uterque 
Projicit ampullas, et sesquipedalia verba; 
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. 

Non satis est pulchra esse poemata ; dulcia sunto, 
Et quocunque volent, animum auditoris agunto. 



* Mac Flecknoe, the Dunciad, and all Swift's lampooning ballads. 
Whatever their other works may be, these originated Id personal feelings, 
and angry retort on unworthy rivals ; and though the ability of these sa- 
tires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the personal 
character of the writers. 

t With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence of puns, they 
have Aristotle on their side, who permits them to orators, and gives ihsra 
consequence by a grave disquisition. 

X " And in his car I '11 hollow, Mortimer !"— 1 Henri/ IK 



Hints from Horace. 



433 



Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound. 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung. 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue. 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense ; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugh with any thing but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import. 
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or court 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ; " 
All persons please, when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, bom in Wilts or Wales. 

O-- follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
Constance King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil ! 

Ut ridentibus arrident, ita flentibug adflent 
Humani vultus ; si vis me flere dnlendum eat 
Primum ipsi libi ; tunc tua me infortunia lasdent. 
Telephe, vel I'eleu, male si mandata loi|ueria, 
Aut aormitabo, aut ridebo : tri.aia mcestiim 
Vultum verba decent ; iratum, plena minarum; 
Ludentem, lasciva ; sevorum, seria dictu. 
Format-enim natura prius non intus ad omnem 
Fortunarum habitum ; juvat, aut impellit ad iram ! 
Aut ad humum mtTore gravi deducit, et angit; 
Post effert animi motus interprete lingua. 
Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta, 
Romani tollent equites, peditesqiie cachinnum. 

Intererit multum, Davusne lor|uaiur an heroa ; 
Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente juventa 
Fervidus ; an matrona potcns, and sedula nulrix ; 
Mercatorne vagus, cuUorne virenlis agelli ; 
Colchus an Assyrius ; Thebis nutritus, an Argis. 

Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convcnientia finge. 
Scriptor honoratum si foru; reponis Achillem ; 
Impiger, iracundua, incxorabili.s, acer, 
Jura neget sibi nata, nihil iinn arroget armia. 
Sit Medea ferox invictaquc, flobilis Inn ; 
PerfiduH Ixion ; lo vaga ; tristis Ore.stca; 
Si quid inexpertum scen.-e comrniitia, et audos 
Personam fortnaro novam ; servettir ad imum 
Qualia ab incopto proccssnrit, <'t sibi coustet. 

Diftirile est propric cominunia dicere; tutjue 
Reclius Iliacum carmen diidncia in actus, 
Quam si proforren ignota indirtaquo primus. 
Publica materios privjiti juris erit, si 
Nee circa vilcni patuluniquo murabcria orbom ; 
Nee verbum verbo curaljis reddcrc (idus 
Interprea, nee (ii-ailies imitator in arftum 
Umlc pedem p-nrcrn- pudor votft, autoporis lex. 

Nee sic iricr|)ies, nt scriptor Cydicus olim : 
*' Fnrtunam I'riami cantabo, et iiobiUs bellum.'' 
Quid dignum tanio forot hie promissor liiatu 
Parturiunt moiitos : naacctur ridiculus mua. 
Q.uanto rectiua hie, qui nil moliiur iucpte ! 
3 E 



But if a new design you dare essay, 
And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past. 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'T is hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale 5 
And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err : 
Yet copy not too closely, but record, 
More justly, thought for thought than word for word ; 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways. 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lead 
To tremble on the nod of all who read. 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls. 
Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles!* 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ?— 
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice. 
Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
The temper'd warblings of his master lyre ; 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 
He speaks, but as his subject swells along, 
Earth, heaven, and hades echo with the song. 
Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
As if we witness'd all already done •, 
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight. 
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — light ; 
And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
If you would please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear ; 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 

*' Die mihi, Musa, virum captae post tempera Trojte, 
Qui mores hominum multoruin vidit, et urbes." 
Non fumunri ex fulgorc, sod ev fumo dare lucem 
Cogitat, utspeciosa dehinc miracula promat, 
Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim. 
Nee reditum Diomedis ab interitu Melcagri, 
Nee gemino bellum Trujanum orditur ab ovo. 
Semper ad eventum fe.-tinat; etin niediaa res 
Non secus ac notas, nuditoiem rapit, et quae 
Desperat tractata niiescere posse, relinquit : 
Atque ita mentitur, sic veris lalsn reniiscct, 
Priino ne medium, medio ne discrcpet imum. 
Tu, quid ego et populus mpcum deaideret, audi. 



* About two yenr« ago n yoniiR mnn, nnrnwl MV u 
by Mr. Cumberlnml (in a review »inre (loreawvli 
epic poem to bo pnlitlc<l " Armnjp"<liliiii." Tlic i 
mise much ; liiit 1 hope ni-iUier to (idViiil Mr. 'I\m 



by rccommomliiiK t» bin ittl>iiliuii ibc linM of ll.jr.uc 

If Mr. Townnfiid ■iircrcdf in hii iimltTtnliiiig, 



- Irirmla, 
icb thria 
rhymcii nlludc. ^( Mt. Townn«ii<l guri-ri>(lt in liii iimlrrtnkiiig, na thrr* 
is iTdKon to hopp, how iniich will the world be indebtvd lo Mr. Ciimlwrw 
bind for hriuf(iiiK Imn before the putilic I HiU till th^t pveiitfid day «rri»ei, 
it mnv Iw doubled whether iho prcinntiirc di«play of hit pUii (■ jbliinv «■ 
the idem coiifeMtfdly ni-e) bus not, bv riiisinit eipoclntion too \ng,h, or 
dimiulMhini; curiiwily, bv develoj>ing his Brgument, rntbir iiumif 1 ih« 
hMRrd of iiijiirinu ritr. I'owiiiieiid's future pninpecl*. Mi ■' 'I 
(whonti lalenU I ihall not depreeinle by (he bumble tribiid ! 

Mr. Towuscitd mud nut supiHAe uie uctuBlrU by uuworil < 

•imifeKtioM. I wish the .iMili.M .ill ilir Hu.,rv^ fi,- ,mii u 1 

■hull be truly hnpj)V I" ■■' 
illiemunlien wiib .S.Mii 
Wllkie. Pve,i.Md.ill |i 
not n Ml/io,,, U,' uv.y. 

AnIimitchitH. I ,1 

ofTertiiR advin- I 

hn» the grrnti II 

And emploviii' »> 

well "the urn' 
will tench Ml 
those who do 11 

rnont of it. I IM-M in 

will noon know nmiikin< 
iTwllee. 

The shove note Wu written b»f»r« the author wai appriMd «f Mr 
Cumborlauiri death. 



litter.' Thoae u 
mil it i» hnixl I.' 
iSir i iw ii.i'iiil ■ elian- will be ii 
ell enouKii not to attribute thin 






4U 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



While varying man and varying years unfold 
Life's little tale so oft, so vainly told. 
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays ; 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 

Behold him freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er *Virgil's devilish verses and his own. 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
He flies from T — v — I's frown to " Fordham's Mews 
(Unlucky T — v — ^1 ! doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils and by bearsf,) 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, 
Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore ; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — X becomes his passage to degrees); 
Fool'd, pillagedj dunn'd, he wastes his term away 
And, unexpell'd perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of arts ! as hells and clubs* proclaim, 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
Sits in the senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when caU'd to cheer. 
His son's so sharp — he '11 see the dog a peer ! 

Manhood declines — age palsies every limb ; 
He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves. 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
Counts cent, per cent., and smiles, or vainly frets. 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts ; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please. 
Commending every time, save times like these ; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot. 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ! 

But from the drama let me not digress. 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 

Si plausoris eges aulsea manentis, et usque 
Sessuri, donee cantor, Vos plaudits, dicat ; 
ilvtatis cujusque notandl aunt tibi mores, 
Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis. 
Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, et pede cevto 
Signal humiim ; gestit paribus colludere, et iram 
Colligit ac ponit temere, et mutatur in horas. 

Imberbis juvenis, tandem custode remoto, 
Gaudet equis canibusque, et aprici gramine campi ; 
Cereus in viiium flecti, monitoribus asper, 
Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus seris, 
Sublimis, copidusque, et amata relinquere pernix. 

Conversis studiis, setas animusque virilis 
Quserit opes, et amicitias, inservit honori ; 
Commisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret. 

Multa senem conveniunt incommoda ; vel quod 



* Harrey, the circulator of the circulation of the blood, used to fling 
away Vir^Iin his ewtacy of admiration, and say, "the book had a devil." 
Now, such a character as I am copjnn,^ would probably fling it away 
rIso, but rather wish that the devil had the book ; not from any dislike 
to the poet, but a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed the public 
ichool penance of " Ions; and short" is enough to beset an antipathy to 
poetry for the residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far may be an ad- 
vantage. 

t " Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." I dare say Mr. 
T— V— 1 (to whom I mean no affront) will understand me ; and it is no 
matter whether any one else does or no.— To the above events, " qusque 
ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui," all times and terms bear 
testimony. , ,. , 

J " Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, and are 
cheated a good deal. " Club," a pleasant purgatory, where you lose more, 
and are not supposed to be cheated at all. 



Though women weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd, 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thu."? subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, I here am French- 
Bloodshed 't is surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show j 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death ; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours, or nature bear 1 
A *halter'd heroine Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes. 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief, 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do. 
Whose postcripts prate of dyeing " heroines blue ?"♦ 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I 'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread ; 
In all, iniquity is grown so nice. 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore. 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ;" 
Squeezed in " Fop's Alley,"jostled by the beaux, 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 

Quserit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti ; 
Vel quod res omnes timide gelideque ministrat. 
Dilator, spe longus, rners, avidusque futuri; 
DifRcitts, quc-erulus, laudator temporis acti 
Se puero, castrgator censorque minorum. 
Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, 
Multa recedentes adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque viriies, 
Semper in adjunctis, sevoque morabimur aptis.. 

Aut agrtur res in scenis, aut acta refertur. 
Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem 
Quam qnse sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quee 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Non tamen intus 
Digna gcti, promes in scenam ; multaque tolleB 
Ex oculis, qufe mox narret facundia prassens. 
Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet; 
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreua ; 
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. 
Quodcunque ostendrs mibi src, incredulus odl. 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 
Fabula, quae, posci vult, ct spectata reponi. 
Nee Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
Inciderit. * * * 



* " Irene bad to speak two lines with the bowstring round her neck i 
but the audience cried out ' Murder ! ' and she was obliged to be carried oS 
thesl&^e."—BoswelVs Life of Johnson. ..,,,. 

t In the postscript to the " Castle Spectre" Mr. Lewis tells ns, that 
though blacks were unknowm in England at the period of his action, yet ho 
has made the anachronism to set off" the scene : and if he could have pro- 
duced the effect " by making his heroine blue" — I quote him—" blue h* 
would have made her I" 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



435 



Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release ; 
Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess ?— 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools • 
Give us but fiddlers, and they 're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk* 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark ?) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleas'd with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse joke 
Improving years, with things no longer known. 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
WTio still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'T is strange Benvolio suffers such a show ;-|- 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 

Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time ; 
Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best 
And tum'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers: 
" Alas, poor Yorick !" now for ever mute ! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When " Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope'to sit 
And smile at folly, if we can 't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee I '11 quit my cynic cell. 
And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle !" 
Which charm'd our days in each ^gean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past. 
Soothe thy life's scene's, nor leave thee in the last ; 
But find in thine, like pagan JPiato's bed. 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 
Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
Yet §Chesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs 
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays ; 
Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains. 
And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act ! again let Humour roam 
Wild o'er the stage — we 've time for tears at home ; 
Let " Archer" plant the horns on " Sullen's" brows. 
And " Estifania" gull her " CopperJI" spouse-, 

Ex noto fictum carmen aequar, ut sibi quivis 
Speret idem: suriet multiim, fnistraciue laboret 
Ausus idem : tantum series juncturaquo pollet ; 
Tantum de medio suintis accedit honoris. 

Silvis deduoti caveant, niejudice, Fauiii, 
Ne velut innati triviis, ac peric forcnses, 
Aut nimium tenoris juvenenlur versibus unquam, 
Aut imtnunda crepent, ijjnominiosaque dicta. 
Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, ct res : 
Nee, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis cmtor. 



• " The first theatrical represenlalioni, entitled ' M)Titcrif« anil Morul- 
ltie»,' were generally enacted ut C'hri»tma§, by monki (a« Ihii only per- 
son* who could rea<l), and latterly by thn clerKV nnd »tiident» of the 
univer«ilic8. The dramatis perHonin were usually Adam, Pater C(rlc»tii, 
Faith, Vice," <tc. Sic— Vide Warlon'ii Ilintory of KnglUk PoMry. 

T Benvolio does not bet ; but every mmi wlm maintiiiiin r«re-liorie« Is a 
promoter of all the concomitant eviU iil' the Hirf. Avoiding to bet ii a 
little Pharisaical. Is it an exculpation ? 1 think not. 1 never yet hcanl 
a bawd praised lor clinslity because aha hnrsel/iM not commit lomlcaU.m. 

X Under Plato's jiillow n volume of the Mimim of .Sophron was found 
the day he died — K/rfe /Jnr/At/6/ni, lie Pauw,m OinnKHgt Intiiliun, 
If aureeable. De Pauw calls it a )esl book.— Cumlierlaiid, in hit tjlucrver, 
terms it morid, like tlie sayings of " Pulillus Syrus." 

Jllis »i)ecch on the liceiisinR act is one of his most elociuent elTorls. 
Micliael Perei, tha " Copper C»i)t«ln," in " Rule a Wife and ha»« a 
Wife." 



The morals scant — but that may be excused, 

Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 

He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 

Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ; 

Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 

It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before 

And spite of puritans and Collier's curse,* 

Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 

Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men 1 

Nor bum damn'd Drury if it rise again. 

But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ! 

Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal? 

For times of fire and faggot let them hope ; 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze. 

So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin J 

While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loreg. 

And Simeon kicks where fBaxter only " shoves." 

Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunccj 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails. 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined. 
Instruct how hard the medium 't is to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite. 
But even too nasty for a city kniglit ! 

Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made Uiem pass, 
Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
Wliose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 
And, varied skilfiilly, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war. 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

.ffiquia accipiunt animis, donantve corona. 

Syllaba Idiifia brevi snbjecta, vocatur iambus. 
Pes citus : unde etiam irimctris nccrescere jussil 
Nomcn iamhcis, cinn senoa rcHiIerrt ictus, 
Priinua nd cxtrenuim siiniiis Aibi : non ita pridom, 
Tardior ut paiilo E;raviorquo venimad aures, 
Spondena suibiics in jura paterna reocpit 
Cominodus el pniicnH; non nt do sedc sccundft 
CedenU ant quarta socialitcr Hie et in Accl 
Nobilibns trinunris appant rams, cl Enoi. 
In Hcenam niia.sos nia^rno ouni pondcro versus, 
Aui opera! ctleria niniinni, onranuc carcntia, 
Aut iftnorataj premit artis rrimine turpi. 

Non quivis* vidct immoilnlaia pooniatn judex ; 
Ft data llonianis vonia i-Ht indi^iia poftis. 
Idciiiiiiu! vatfcr, Hnil>ain<vu' lircntcr ? nn 0(nnp« 



* .Teny Collier's controversy with (\in)ii-cve, &c. on the siibjerl of the 
drama, is Inn well kuown to ntpiire further i-ommenl. 

t " Baxter's .Shnw,. i.. h.Mvv..— .1 Chri.iuuis' The reriiahle tICe of 

.< bixik once in •■ ■ -i '■ '■ •"■' '''■•'- ■•m.'ukIi t.i l>e so .\galn.— Mr. Simeoa 

is ihe verv biiP " .'I " Ro.*! works." He ti ablf 

sup|Hu-(ed by I H"' v»u»i> rliiernn) : — hul \ say 

no more, loi n. ' .i comi^BgaUuu, " Nq 4njMi /«r 

VumaalntihM. 



436 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 't is hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To gain the paltry suffrage of" correct V 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise 7 

Ye who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen. 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste ; 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers in default of ears. 

In sooth I do not know or greatly care 
To learn, who our first English strollers were ; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, 
Our muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart. 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
There 's pomp enough, if little else, in plays ; 
Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
At least, we moderns, wisely, 't is confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse, 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
If all our bards, more patient of delay. 
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way ? 

Visuros peccata putem mea; tutus, et intra 
Spam venise cautus ? viiavidenique culpam, 
Non laudem merui. Vos exemplaria Graeca 
Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. 
At vestri proavi PJautinos et numeros et 
Laudavere sales ; nimium patienter utrumque, 
Ne dicam stulte, mirati ; si mode ego et vos 
Scimus inurbatium lepido seponere dicto, 
Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. 

Ignotum tragicae genus invenisse Camenae 
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
Quae canerent agerentque peruncti faecibus ora 
Post hunc personaj pallaeque repertor honestae 
^schylus, et modicis iiistravit pulpita tignis, 
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. 

Successit vetus his comoedia, non sine multa 
Laude ; sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
Dignam lege regi ; lex est accepta, chorusque 
Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi. 

Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetae ; 
Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Graeca 
Aussi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta; 
Vel qui praetextas, vel qui docuere logatas. 
Nee virtute foretclarisve potentius arniis. 
Quani lingua, Latium, si non offenderet unum- 
quemque poetarum limae labor, et mora. Vos, 
Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
Multa dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
Prssectum decies non castigavit ad unguem. 



Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail ! 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad ! 

But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth, 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lake, 
And keep your bushy locks a year fi-om Blake* ; 
Then print your book, once more return to town, 
And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
To purge in spring (like Bayes) before I write ? 
If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style ; 
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
1 11 labour gratis as a grinder's wheel, 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel, 
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, 
And from my own example, what is wrong. 

Though modem practice sometimes differs quite, 
'Tis just as well to think before you wnte ; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read. 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
To friend and country, and to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest ; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar ; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophise ; 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte 
Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetaa 
Democritus ; bona pars non ungues ponere curat 
Non barbara : secreta petit loca, balnea vitat. 
Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poetae. 
Si tribus Anticyris caput insanabile nunquam 
Tonsori Licino commiserit. O ego iaevus. 
Qui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam ! 
Non alius faceret meliora poemata : verum 
Nil tanti est : ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi : 
Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo ; 
Unde parentur opes ; quid alat formetque poetam ; 
Qiiiddeceat, quid non ; quo virtus, quo ferat error. 

Scribendi recie, sapere est et principium et fons. 
Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartae : 
Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur. 
Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis ; 
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospesj 
Quod sit conscripti, quod judicis officium; quae 
Partes in bellum missi duels ; ille profecto 
Reddere personse scit convenienlia cuique. 
Respicere exemplar vitoe morumque jubebo 
Doctum imitatorem, et vivas hinc ducere voces. 

Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte 



* As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and belter paid, aud may, like 
him, be one day a senator, having a better qualificatioD than one half ol 
the heads he crops, viz.— independence. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



437 



Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient dayg 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To " long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
•* A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
Two thirds, how much will the remainder make? — 
" A groat." — " Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum! 
He '11 swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses from his children's sight ; 
For poets (says this sage, and many more*,) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
Discovers little silver and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Ib poor as Irusf, or an Irish minej. 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
Redundance places memory on the rack, 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for too wond'rous tales. 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once: — that bard for all is fit 
Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 

Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
Valdius oblectat populum, meliusiiue moratur, 
Q,uam versus inopes rerum nuga^que canorae. 

Graiis ingenium. Grails dedit ore rotundo 
Musa loqui, praeter laudem nullius avaris. 
Romani pueri longis ralionibus assem 
Discunt in partes centum diducere : dicat 
Filiua Albiiii, Si de quiiicunce remota est 
Uncia, quid superat? poterat dixisse — Triens. Eu ! 
Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia : quid fit? 
Semis. An h.-ec animos a;rugo et cura i)cculi 
Cum semel imbuerit, speramus carinina fingi 
Posse linenda cedro, et levi servanda cupresso ? 

Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetm ; 
Aut simul el jucunda et idonea dicere vita!, 
Q,uidquid prct>cipies, esto brevis : ut cito dicta 
Percipiant animi dociles, teneanujue fidelcs. 
Omne supervacuum pluno de pectore mariat. 

Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris : 
Nee, quodcun(|ue volet, poscat aibi fabula credi : 
Neu pransai Lami.e vivum pueruin extrahat alvo. 

Centuriii! SHniorum agitant expcriia frugis : 
Celsi priiUereunt austera pocmata Rhamnes, 
Omne tulit punctum, qui miacuit utilt; dulci, 
Lectorem deiectando, pariteniiie nioncmlo. 
Hie meret sera liber Sosiia ; hie et mare transit, 



• I have not the original by me. but tlie IlnliHii tinn»lullon rum as U>1 
lowf : — " E una cosa a piio credere iiiolto slriivii^HiilL', clio uu iindre- 
desideri, o perinullu, die siio figliuolo coitiri « m-i r</.i(>iii muiilo luleiilo.i' 
▲ lillle further on : " Mi Irovuiio di rudo ncl IVrmiHo lu iiiiiiiure d' oro e 
d' a.r^tinla. "—Educnzione del PanciulU del Hignur Locke. Vviielian 
adilion. 

t " Iro paiipcrlor :" thi« <■ tho »ame bogRur whol)oxcd with UlyMci for 
R puiiiid uf Icid'i fry, which hu lovl, uud half u du'/.en Iveth bgilde*.— So 
Odyitey, h. 18. 

X The Iriih cold miiio nf Wlcklow, wbich yloldt Juil ort enough to 
■wear by, or gild a bad guinea. 



For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass); 
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 

But every thing has faults, nor is 't unknown 
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone. 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call 
With all his best endeavours, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their cover, flints withhold their spark. 
And double-barrels (damn them !) miss their mark*. 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally to books or men. 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
Despises all advice too much to mend. 
But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howso'er he sing. 
Let *Havard's fate o'ertake him, who, for once 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
At first none deem'd it his, but when his name 
Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its fame. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
In a long work 'tis fair to stead repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 

Hath led to listen to the muse's voice. 

Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 

Few reach the summit which before you lies. 

Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 

Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 

In these plain common sense will travel far ; 

All are not Erskines who mislead tho bar : 

Et longum note scriptori prorogat anvum. 

Sunt delicta tamcn, quibus ignovisse velimuB ; 
Nam neque chorda sonum reddit quern vult manuc et 

mens, 
Poscentique gravcm pcrs.Tpe rcmittit aculum ; 
Nee semper ieriet qnodcunque minahitur arcus. 
Varum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis 
Offcndar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, 
Aut humana i)arum cavit natura. Quid ergo ? 
Ut Rcriptor si peccat idem librarius usque, 
Q,uamvis est monitus, venia caret ; ut citharoedut 
Ridciur., chorda ijui semper oberrat eadem : 
Sic mibi, (|ui multum cessnt, fit Chcerilus ille, 
Quern his torvo honum cum riau niiror ; et idem 
Indignor, quandoque bonus durmital Homerus 
Verum operi longo fas est obroporc somnum. 

Ut pictura, piiesis : crit (|un>, si propiua stos, 
Te capict magis ; ei qua'(<am, si longius abates : 
Hiec nmnt ohscurum ; volet lia-c sub luce viderl, 
Judicis argutum qure non fdrniidai acumen : 
Hjpc placuit semol ; hire decii'a repotita placebit. 

O major juvcnum, quamvia ot voce patcrna 
Fingcris ad rectum, et per U; papis ; hoc tibi dictum 
Toilo memor : certis nii'dium ettoierabilo rebus 
Rcctn cdiicedi : corisulius JuriH, et actor 
Caunarum mcilioi-ris nhost virtuto disiirti 
MoasaliP, noc scit i|unntum ('a Holliiia Aiilus : 
S(;d tumiMi iu jirciio est : modidcribus er«se jwetla 
Nun homincN, nun tli, non cuncossorc columnir. 



• A» Ml. l'.>|M> (..ck th,- lilHTtv ..I dnrmuiiK H.>m<T, l.> *h.>m )>o wm 

under (neiil iilili){i\tiiini— " .\iiit Unintr (damn him ,') ca//*"— It ">»r I* 

jirciuinid thnl nnv KhIv or nnv thhiK m»v be dniinx.l hi Trr«ff by |Mrlical 

licence , and, in ca«e of arcWent, I lieg leave to plead •> Uluetrloua a pr»- 

cedent. _ 

f Fur the •If ' "" '■ " ■ ...Iv, nee •• I>«»le»'» l.lfeofOor- 

•k." Itiellev, !,ulr«the Kirit."— The HKM»«»l 

wAi kuKwii I I Hud the boolneUer refuted lo 

give lb* cuitoiii> ^ 



438 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



But poesy between the best and worst 

No medium knows ; you must be last or first : 

For middling poets' miserable volumes, 

Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel. 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel. 
Or mild Eclectics*, when some, worse than Turks, 
Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good works " 
Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim 
My felcon flies not at ignoble game.. 
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beast of chase ! 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas ! I cannot " strike at wretched kernes." 
Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 
Dear, d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs ? 
If unprovoked thou once couldst bid me bleed, 
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
What ! not a word ! — and am I then so low ? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent ? 
No wits for nobles, dunces by descent ? 
No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, 
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 
Is it for this on Ilion I have stood. 
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood ? 
On shore of Euxine or .^gean sea. 
My hate untravell'd, fondly turned to thee. 
Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom burns, 
From Corydon unkind Alexisf turns : 
Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 
Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors, 

Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle papaver 

Offendunt, poterat duci quia coena sine istis 

Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandie. 

Si paulum a summo decessit, vergit ad imum. _ 

Luderequi nescit, campestribus abstinet armis, 
Indoctusque pilas, discive, trochive, quiescit, 
Ne spissae risum tollant impune coronae : 
Qui nescit, versus tamen audet fingere !— Quid ni ? 
Liber et ingenuus praesertim census equestrem 
Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omnl. 
Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva : 
Id tibi judicium est, ea mens ; si quid tamen olim 
Scripseris, in Metii descendant judicis aures, 
Et patris, et nostras, nonumque prematur in annum 
Membranis intus positis, delere licebit 
Quod non edideris ; nescit vox missa reverti. 

Sylvestres homines sacer ir.terpresque deorum 
Caedibus et victu fcsdo deterruit Orpheus : 



* To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return thanks for 
the fervour of that charity which in 1809 induced them to express a hope, 
that a thing then published by me might lead to certain consequences, 
which, although natural enough, surely came but rashly from reverend 
lips. I refer tliem to their own pages, where they con gi-a tula ted them- 
•elves on the prospect of a tilt between Mr. Jeflrey and myself, from 
which some great good was to accnie, provided one or both were knocked 
onthe head. Having survived two years and a half those " Elegies" 
which they were kindly preparing to review, 1 have no peculiar gusto to 

Sve them "so joyful a trouble," except, indeed, " upon compulsion, 
al ;" but if, as David says in the " Rivals," it should come to " bloody 
Bword and gim fighting," we " won't run, will we, Sir Lucius .'" I do 
not know what I had done to these Eclectic gentlemen : my works are 
their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces like Agag, if it should seem 
meet unto them ; but why they should be in such a hurry to kill off their 
author, I am ignorant. " The race is not always to the swift, nor the 
battle to the strong :" and now, as these Christians have " smote me on 
one cheek," I hold them up the other; and in return for their good wishes, 
give them an opportunity of rejwating them. Had any other set of men 
expressed such sentiments, I should have smiled, and left them to the 
" recording angel," but from the pharisees of Christianity decency might 
be expected. I can assure these brethren, that, publican and sinner as I 
am, I would not have treated " mine enemy's dog thus." To show them 
the superiority of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon 
or Ramsden should be engaged in such a conflict as that in which they re- 
quested me to fall, I hope they may escape with being "winged" only 
and that Heaviside may be at hand to extract the ball, 
t lareaie* alium, a te hie fastidit, Alexin. 



What then? — Edina starves some lanker son, 
To write an article thou canst not shun : 
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry, 
And poppies please not in a modem pie ; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites ; 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun ; 
Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach expertness without years of toil ; 
But fitly dunces can, with perfect ease. 
Tag twenty thousand couplets when they please. 
Why not ?— shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate. 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kermels, packs. 
To all their income, and to twice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault. 
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt? 

Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ;" but you, 
Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 
And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
And hark'ye, Southey* ! pray — but don't be vext- 
Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 



* Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail in the "Curta 
of Kehama," maugre the neglect of Madoc. &c., and has in one instance 
had a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely 
evening last summer, on the eleventh brkjge of the Paddiiigton canal was 
alarmed by the cry of " one in jeopardy :" he rushed along, collected a 
body of Irish haymakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock), 
procured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horescb 
referens) pulled out — his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone 
for ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, 
which proved, on inquiry, to nave been Mr. Southey's last work. Its 
" alacrity of sinking'' was so great, that it has never since been heard of, 
though some maintain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman 
Birch's pastry premises, CornhiU. Be this as it may, the coroner's in- 
quest brought in a verdict of " Felo de bibliopola" against a "quarto 
unknown;" and circumstantial evidence being since strong against the 
" Curse of Kehama" (of wliich the above words are an exact description), 
it will be tried by its peers next session, in Grub-street.— Arthur, Alfred, 
Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, Exodia, Epigonaid, Calvary, 
Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the 
Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, 
and the bellman of St. Sepvdchre's. The same advocates, pro and con, 
will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. Burdett's celebrated cause 
in the Scotch courts. The public anxiously await the result, and all livg 
publishers will be subpcened as witnesses. 

But Mr. Southey has published the " Curse of Kehama :" an inviting 
title to quibblers. By the by, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Camp- 
bell, and not much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle 
them, in the Edinburgh Annual Register (of wliich, by the by, Southey ie 
editor) " the grand poetical triumvirate of the day." But, on second 
thoughts, it can be no great degi-ee of praise to l)e tlie one-eyed leaders of 
the blind, though they might as well keep to themselves " Scott's thirty 
thousand copies sold," which must sadly discomfit poor Southey's unsole. 
ables. Poor Southey, it should seem, is the " Lepidus" of this poetical 
triumvirate. I am only surprised to see him in such good company. 

" Such things we know are neither rich nor rare, 
But wonder how the devil he came there." 

The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid ; " Because, 
in the triangles DEC, ACB, DB is equal to AC, and BC, common to both : 
the two sides DB, BC, are equal to the two AC, CB, each to each, and 
the angle DBC is equal to the angle ACB : therefore, the base DC is equal 
to the base AB, and the triangle DBC (Mr. Southey) is equal to the tri- 
angle ACB, the less to the greater, which is absurd," &c. — The editor of 
the Edinburgh Register will find the rest of the theorem hard by his 
stabling : he has only to cross the river ; 't is the first turnpike t' other 
side " Pons Asinorum."* 



* This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edinburgh. Ballan- 
tyne said it meant the " Bridge of Berwick," but Southey claimed it 
as half English ; Scott swore it was the " Brig o' Stirling ;" he had just 
passed two King James's and a dozen Douglasses over it. At last it was 
decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more nor less than the " counter 
of Arehy Constable's shop," 



Hints from horace 



439 



But why this vain advice ? once published, books 
Can never be recall'd — from pastry cooks ! 
Though " Madoc," with " Pucelle*," instead of Punch, 
May travel back to duito on a trunk"} ! 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower ; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
And served the church without demanding tithes ; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest. 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince, 
And fighting 's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtseus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
And gods were not ashamed on 't, why should we ? 

The muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ; 
In turns she '11 seem a Paphian or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain ; ;t 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

Dlctus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque leones ; 
Dictns et Ainphion, Thebanfe conditor arcis, 
Saxa moverc sorio testudinis, et prece blanda 
Ducere quo voUct : fuit Iltrc sapientia quondam, 
Publica privatis aecernere ; sacra profanis ; 
Concubitii prohibere vaero ; dare jura maritis ; 
Oppida moliri; leges incidcre ligno. 
Sic honor et nomen divinia vatibua atque 
Carminibus venit. Post hos insignis Homerus 
TyrtTusque mares animos in Martia bella 
Versibus exacuit ; dicXin per carmina sortes :' 
Et vitae monstrata via est: et gratia regum 
Pieriis tentata modis : ludusque rcpcrtus, 
Et longorum operum finis : ne forto pudori 
Sit libi Musa lyrrr- solera, et cantor Apollo. 
Ndtura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Quajsitum est : ego uec studium sine divite vena, 
Nee rude quid prosit video Ingenium ; aitcrius eic 
Altera poacit opem res, et conjurat amice. 
Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, 
Multa tulit fecit(|ne pucr ; sudavit, et alsit ; 
Abslinuit Venerc et vino: qui Pytliiacantat 
Tibicen, didicil prius, cxtimuitque magimrum. 
Nunc satis eat dixisso ; ego mira poomata pang^ : 
Occupetextremum scabies; mihi turpo relinqui est, 
Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 



• Voltairn'ii " Pucclle" li not qullo no iimnHniliitp ai Mr. Southey'i 
•' Joan of Arc," uiul yel I am Bl'raid llio I-'rfiKliiimii lim lioth more Uutli 
and ijoutry too on liii Hido— (llicy rar(!l;;r i?o toprllier)— limn our pulriMiio 
mlnatifl, wliOBii (lr»t CHyiiy wan in priiiMc! ot ii 1'iuii>Iu-hI rrrncli utruiniirt, 

fhoiio title of witch woiilil Ixj cori-BCt with Ihc chiuiKe of the fir«l Irltrr. 
t liiko Sir H. HuiKi'«H'i Hicliard, the Imilh hook of which I ri-ml iil 
ivJrIIr, on n trunk of KyrcK, 19, Corkupiir-rtrcot. If this Ihj duuhtod, I 
nail buy a pormiiniraii lo i|iiiiie from. 



The youth who trains to ride or run a race 
Must bear privation with unruffled face. 
Be call'd to labour when he thinks to dine, 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight. 
Have foUow'd music through her farthest flight ; 
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
" I 've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
And that 's enough ; then write and print so fast ;— 
If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command. 
Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! 
Cash cannot quell them ; Pollia play'd this prank 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank !) 
Not all the living only, but the dead. 
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus^ head**, 
Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive— 
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 
Reviews record this epidemic crime. 
Those " Books of Martyrs" to the rage for rhyme. 
Alas ! woe worth the scribbler ! often seen 
In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine. 
There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-prest, 
Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
To muse-mad baronets or madder lords. 
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale. 
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft ! 
The cobbler laureats singf to Capel Loff'tJ ! 
Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears. 
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 

There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
'Gainst future fueds his poor revenge of rhyme ; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse. 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 



* Turn quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsiim, 

Ourgite cum medio portans CEnEH'ius Hebrus, 

Volveret Enrydicen vox ipsa, cl frigida lin^ia ; 

Ah, miseram Eurydicen ! anima fueienle vocabat ; 

Eoiydicen lolo referebant ftumiiie np«. — Georgic. iv. 523. 
t 1 bee Nathaniel's pardon ; he is not a cobbler ; it ia a tailor, but 
begged Cajiel Loffl to sink the profession in his preface lo two pair of pan- 

ta psha 1— of cantos, which he wished the public to try on ; but lh« 

sieve of a iiatron let it out, and so far saved the expense of 'an adverlisa- 
ment to his country customers. — Merry's " Moorfictd's whine" wa» 
nothing to nil this. The " Delia Cruscana" were people of some e<luca- 
tion, and no profession ; but these Arcadians ("Arcades nmbo" — bumi>- 
kins both) send out their native nonsense without the smallest alloy, niid 
leave all the shoes and smallclothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up 
Elegies on Enclosures and Pjeans to (lUiipowder. Sittmg on a shopbonrd. 
they describe fields of battle, when the only blood they ever saw w-ui shed 
fi-om the finger . and an " Essay on War" is producud by the ninth part 
of a " poet." 

" And own that nint such poets mode a Tale." 
Di<l Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, why not take it a* 
his motto ? 

X This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled »ome excellent shoe-makers, 
and been accessary to the mietical luidoing of many of the indu'<lriou« p,>or. 
Nathaniel Hloomfiehl and his brother Hobbv have iet all Somer«el«liir« 
singing ; nor has the malady coi\fined itseff to one coUHly. P-«tt loo 
(who once was wiser) has caught the contagion of palronagr, and ch>i-oye<l 
a poor fellow named lllackett into poetry ; but he died durinc the oj^era- 
lion, leaving one child and Iwo volumes of " Itomains" Ullerly destilutc. 
The girl, if Blie don't lake a jMM'tiral twist, and lomo forth as .i shoe- 
making Sappho, nnv d<' well ; but the " tragedies" are as lickety as if 
they hail been the ol<'«pring of an Earl or a Healonian prii« po«l. Tha 
pat'i-ons of this poor lad are cerlalnlv answerable for his end, anil it oiujhl 
to be an indictable oHence. Ilnl this i* the least they have done, ('W, by a 
refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man |i»»thonuiusly 
ridiculous, by printing what ho would have had seme enough never 1^ 
piinl hinuelf. Certes these rakers of " Ki'uiuins" come inider the iliilula 
aKainst " resurrection men." What d.HS it sigiiily whether a uvr, .lesr, 
ileail dunce is to be stu k up in Sm-mms' or in Slalioneni' Hall f I« it «« 
bad to unearth his Um,'* n- lii« Munl.i h .■> U it not better to gibln-l hli 
body on a heath, than h ' ivoi> " Wo know wliot we are. 

hut we know not wh.u n I it Is to \v ho^^.d we never shall 

know, if a man who li . Iif^ with a sort of eclat Is to And 

himself a niounlebaiik ,>i.,., .,„i m,,,,!.- Ik, ,.,..., I. .« 

Ulnckelt, thi- laughini; ' ' 

pmvide for the ciiild ; i 

dum'a" frl..iid» ..nd - ' .< 

Pratt into lii..'j ' 

cnm.l-"T.. I 1 

Mrs.iindMi. 

out (he " sotl . - » 

divides it am.... ■■ ' o..i .« pull I, n / l>.«t 

thou think six ' ■ H> quiet i*— There Is » 

chilli, a bo.ik, • I«t Urac., Um »oluniM U 

the |roc»r, an.l ■ 



440 



HINTS FROM HORACfi. 



If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 

More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 

But what is shame, or what is aught, to hira? 

He vents his spleen or gratifies his whim. 

Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, 

Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate ; 

Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 

The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 

Perhaps at some pert speech you 've dared to frown, 

Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town 5 

If so, alas ! 't is nature in the man — 

May heaven forgive you, for he never can ! 

Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 

Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 

While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 

The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 

But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 

Be, (what they never were before) be sold ! 

Should some rich bard (but such a monster now, 

In modem physics, we can scarce allow). 

Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 

Some rhyming peer — there 's plenty of the sort* — 

All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 

(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!) 

Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 

Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 

How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf. 

Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 

Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death. 

He '11 risk no living for a little breath. 

Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 

(The Lord forgive him !) "Bravo! grand! divine!" 

Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry fed 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread), 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot. 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die ! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 

But all dissemblers overact their jiart. 



* Here will Mr.Gifford allow me to introduce once more to his notice the 
BoJe survivor, the " ullimus Romanoriim," the last of the " Cruscanti !" 
— " Edwin" the " profound," bv our Lady of Punishment ! here he is as 
lively as in the davs of " well said Baviad the Correct." I thought Fitz- 
gerald had been the Uil of poesy, but, alas ! he is only the penultimate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTI-E TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
MORNING CHRONICLE. 

" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 

Do some men spoil, who never think ! 

And so perhaps you '11 say of me, 

In which your readers may agree. 

Still I write on, and tell you why ; 

Nothing 's so bad, you can't deny, 

But may instruct or entertain 

Without the risk of giving pain. 

And should you doubt what I assert, 

The name of Camden I insert. 

Who novels read, and oft maintain'd 

He here and there sime knowledge gain'd : 

Then why not I indulge my pen. 

Though I no fame or profit gain. 

Yet may amuse your idle men ; 

Of whom, though some may be severe, 

Others may read without a sneer ? 

Thus much premised, I next proceed 

To give you what 1 feel my creed, 

And in what follows to display 

Some humours of the passmg day. 

ON SOME MODERN aUACKS AND REFORMISTS. 

In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses. 
Though strange, 't is true, we often find 

It taows not its resources • 

And men through life assume a part 

For which no talents they possess, 
Tet wonder that, with all their art, 

They meet no better with success. 

'T is thus we see, through life's career, 

So few excel in their profession ; 
Whereas, would each man but appear 

In what 's within his own possession, 

We should not see such daily quacks 

(For quacks there are in every art) 
Attempting, by their strange attacks 

To meliorate the mind and heart. 



Ye who aspire to build the lofty rhyme, 
Believe not all who laud your false " sublime ;" 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answers, " Bum !" 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 
But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
And will not alter what you can't defend, 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains*,— 
We '11 have no words — I 've only lost my pains. 

Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside — 
Better let him than all the world deride. 
Give light to passages too much in shade, 
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you 've made ; 
Your friend 's " a Johnson," not to leave one word, 
However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
And furnish food for criticsf, or their quills. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune. 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon. 
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, 
As yawning waiters flyj Fitzscribble's lungs ; 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
As prelate's homily or placeman's speech ; 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease. 
When riot pauses until rents increase. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through urifrequented ways, 
If by some chance he walks into a well, 
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 
" A rope ! help. Christians, as ye hope for grace !" 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace ; 

* * * Si carmina condes, 

Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentep. 

Quintilio si quid recitares, Corriere, sodes. 
Hoc (aiebat) et hoc : melius te posse negares. 
Bis terque expertum frustra, deiere jubebat, 
Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 
Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles, 
Nullum ultra verbum, aiit operam insumebat inanem. 
Quia sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes : 
Culpabit duros ; incomptis allinet atrum 
Transverso calamo signum ; ambitiosa recidet 
Ornamenta ; parum Claris lucem dare coget; 
Arguet ambigue dictum ; mutanda notabit ; 
Fiat Aristarchus : nee dicet. Cur ego amicum 
Offendam in nugis ? hae nugae seriaducent 
In mala derisum semel exceptumque sinistre. 



Nor mean I here the stage alone. 
Where seme deserve th' applause they meet : 

For quacks there are, and they well known, 
In either house, who hold a seat. 

Reform 's the order of the day, I hear, 

To which I cordially assent : 
But then let this reform appear. 

And ev'ry class of men cement. 

For if you but reform a few. 

And others leave to their full bent, 
I fear you will but little do. 

And find your time and pains mispent. 

I<et each man to his post assign'd 
By Nature, take his part to act, 
And then few causes shall we find 
To call each man we meet— a quack.* 
* Bastard of your brains. — Minerva being the first by Jupiter's fieadt' 
piece, and a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such 
as Madoc, &c. &c. &c. 

t " A crust for the critics." — Bnyrs, in the Rehearsal. 
j And the " waiters" are the only fortunate people who can " fly" from 
them ; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribei-s to the " Literary Fund," being 
compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation without a hope of exclaim- 
ing, " Sic" (that is, by choaking Fitz. with bad wine or worse poetry) 
" me servavit Apollo !" 



* For such every man is who either appears to be what he is not, or 
strives to be what be cannot. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



441 



For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
Though this has happen'd to more bards than one, 
I '11 tell you Budgeli's story, and have done. 

Budgell a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood) 
When teased -.vith creditors' continual claims, 
« To die like Cato*," leapt into the Thames ! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves ; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 

Ut mala quern scabies aut morbus reglut; urguet, 
Aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 
Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam, 
Qui sapiunt ; agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur. 
Hie dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat 
Si veluti meriilis intentus decidit auceps 
Inputeum, foveamve; licet, Succurrite, longum 
Clamet, lo cives! non sit qui tollere curat. 
Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittere funem, 
Qui scis an prudens hue se dejecerit, atque 
Servari nolit? Dicam: Siculique poeta3 
Narrabo interitum. Deus immortalis haberi 
Dum cupit En:".pedoc]es,ardentem frigidus jEtnam 
Insiluit : sit jus liceatque perire poetis : 
Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti. 
Nee seme! hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit. jam 
Fiet homo, et ponet famosas mortis amorem. 
Nee satis apparet cur versus factitet; utrum 
Minxeritin patrios cineres, an triste biJental 
Moverit incestus; certe furit, ac velut ursus, 
Objectos caveae valuit si frangere ciathros, 
Indoctum doctumque Ciigai recitator acerbus. 
Quem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo, 
Non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo. 



* On his table were found these words : Wfiat Cato did and Addison 
approved cannot be wrong." But Addison did not " approve ;" and if 
lie had, it would not nave mended the matter. He had invited his daughter 
on the same water party, but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this 
last paternal atterUiou. Thus fell the sycophant of " Atticus," and the 
enemy of Popi;. 



Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 
*Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 

And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage 

Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 

If free, all fly his versifying fit, 

Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 

But him, unhappy ! whom he seizes, — him 

He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 

Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, 

And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 



* If" dosed with," &c. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to tlie 
original for something still lower ; and if any reader will translate "Minx- 
erit in patrios cineres," &c. into a decent couplet, I will insert said couplet 
in lieu of the present 



" Diflicile est proprie communia djcere. "—Mde. Dacier, Mde.'da 
Sevigne, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of 
this passage in a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It '» 
printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevign^'a 
Letters, edited by Grovelle, Paris, 1806. Presuming that all who can 
construe may venture an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so 
many who can not have taken the same liberty, I should have held mjr 
" farthing candle" as awkwardly as another, h.ad not my respect for the 
wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan sifecle induced me to subjoia 
these illustrious authorities. 1st, Boileau : " 11 est difficile de trailer des 
sujets qui sont i la port4e de tout le monde d' une mani&re qui vous lea 
rende propres, ce qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le lour qu' on f 
donne." 2dly, Batteux : " Mais il est bien difficile de donner des traiu 
propres et individuels aux Stres pureraenl possibles " 3dly, Dacier : " II 
est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caracl6res que tout le munde 
pent inveiUer." Mde. de Sevigiid's opinion and translation, consisting of 
some thirty p.ages, I omit, particularly as M. Grouvelle observes, "La 
chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne pa- 
rail 6lre la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years after- 
wards, " lie lumiiieux Dumarsais" made his ajipearance to sel Horace on 
his legs again, " dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissenti- 
me ns ;" and, some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will 
doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais aiiil his system on this weighty 
affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or comments of no 
more consequence than astronomical calculations on the present comet. I 
am happy to say, "la longueur de la dissertation" of M. D. prevent* 
M. G. from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, 
and at least as good a scholar as Sevign^, has said, 

" A little learning is a dangerous thing." 

And by this comparison of comments it may be perceived how a good deaj 
may be rendered as perilous to the proprietors. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



" Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallaa 
Immolat, et poenam sceleralo ex sanguine sumil. 



♦Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ; 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows; 
On old iEgina's rock and Hydra's isle 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
Though there his altars arc no more divine. 
Descending fast, the moimtain-sliadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salainis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
More deeply purfiled, meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam ho cast 
When, Athens! hero thy wisest looked his last. 



* The lines with which this satire opnii, to " As thus, within the wslls 
of Pbllas' faoe," ure repealed, with K>me Klloratioiip, at (he commence- 
meat of (h< third canto oi the Corsair. 

3F 



How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murdor'd sage's* latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he scem'd to pour. 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cilhirron's head, 
The cup of woo was quaff 'd — the spirit fled; 
The soul of him that scorned to fear or My, 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain 
Tho (lueon of night asserts her silent roignf; 
No murky vapour, herald of tlio !«torm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With corn ill' glimmering a.s the inoonbttams pldy, 
There the white coliunn greets her grateful ray, 



days lu wiuiM ajt I 



lit n >hor( tlma twfon> auosft ^I'w bour of 
ic snlrMkUM uf his diKi|il«a lo wail UU 0>» 



.' tnutii >'>ort*r (han in mir own couaUy { th» 
ui in siiiuniet of hm liuraUoa. 



442 



THE CURSE OP MINERVA. 



And bright around with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkled o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 
The glimmering turret of tlie gay kiosk*, 
And sad and sombre mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the ^gean, heard ivo more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan. 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease. 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god 
But chiefly, Pallas 1 thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the starding tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 

Yes, 't was Minerva's self; but, ah ! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand : 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle aegis bore no Gorgon now ; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance ; 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp 
And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow. 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe ! 

" Mortal !" ('twas thus she spake) "that blush of shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free. 
Now honour'd less by all, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing? — look around. 
Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane •, 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain ; 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'df , 
TTiat Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 



* The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the pahn is without the pre- 
sent walls of Athens, not from the temple of Theseus, between which and 
the tree the wall intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus 
hai no stream at all. 

t This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the Acropolis in par- 
ticular : the temple of Jupiter Olympins, by some supposed the Pantheon, 
was finished by Hadrian; sixteen column! sre stauding, of the most 
Jcjauliful marble and architecture. 



For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 
Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer ; 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast, 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own ; 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd : 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with his pollutes my shrine : 
Behold where Dian's beams disdained to shine ! 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame*,' 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply. 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye: 
" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-bom Briton may the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on England ; England owns him not: 
Athena ! no ! thy plunderer was a Scot, 
Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyles' tower* 
Survey Bceotia ; Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard landf 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command : 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist : 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain. 
Till, burst at length, each wat'ry head o'erflows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide ; 
Some east, some west, some every where but norths 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year ! — 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth. 
As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
And shine like children of a happier strand ; 
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place. 
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 

" Mortal !" the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine, 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
Hear and believe, for time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light, on him and all his seed : 
Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 
Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the day ! — 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey. 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 



His lordship's name and that of one who no longer bears it are carred 
conspicuously on the Parthenon ; above, in a part not far distaot, are the 
torn remnants of the basso relievos destroyed in a vain attempt to remoTe 
them. 

t " Irish Vaftards," according to Sir Calla^han O'Brallaghan. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



443 



With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 

And own himself an infant of fourscore*. 

Be all the bruisers cuU'd from all St. Giles' 

That art and nature may compare their styles ; 

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 

And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shopf there. 

Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep, 

To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 

While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 

On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 

The room with transient glance appears to skim, 

Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 

Mourns o'er the difference of now and then : 

Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men ' 

Draws sly comparisons of these with those, 

And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 

When shall a modern maid have swains like these ! 

Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 

And last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 

Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 

In silent indignation mixM with grief. 

Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 

Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 

May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust I 

Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, 

Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 

And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 

In many a branding page and burning line ; 

Alike reserved for aye to stand accurst. 

Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar. 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself had made ; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

"Look on your Spain! — she clasps the hand she hates, 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look there 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls, 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there 's nothing left. 



• Mr. West, onwelnglhe " Elgin Collection" (I lupponcwe •linll heur 
of the Abomhaw and " Jack Shcphard'*" collection), declared hlnruelf '• a 
mere tyro" in art. , „ t. l 

t Poor Crib wa« §adly pu7.7,lcd when exhibited nt E Houie : he 

atked if it wat not " a itone ihop ?"— He wbi right ; It i» a »hoii. 



' Blest paper credit*,' who shall dare to sing? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear 5 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. 
On Pallas calls, but calls, alas ! too late: 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
And pirates barter all that 's left behindf. 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
Or back returning sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal on his own encumbcr'd shores : 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the common doom. 
Then in the senate of your sinking state 
Show me the man whose councils may have weight. 
Vain is each voice where tones could once command 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle. 
And light witli maddening hands the mutual pile. 

" 'T is done, 't is past, since Pallas warns in vain 
The furies sieze her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brandfl, 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 
O'er whose gay trappings stem Bellona smiles ; 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call. 
The glorious death that decorates his fall, 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know a lesson you may yet be taught, 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
Though drench'd with gore, liis woes are but begun: 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 
The rifled mansion and the foe-rcap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyros from Tagus to the Rhino : 
Now should they burst on tliy devoted coast, 
(to, ask tliy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of hoavon and earth is life for life, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife. * 



• " BliMl paper credit I Uit and beet nipply. 

That lend* ComuKion lighter wiofi totfy \''^Pppt. 
1 The Peal and Do»cr trafneken in epecte. 



THE WALTZ; 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 



" dualis in Eurotae ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana chores." 

Virgil. 

' Such on Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight, 
When in the dance the raceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads. " 
Dryden's Virgil, 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 



Sir, 



I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. I 
Blight have been a parliament-man for a certain borough. 
having had the oiTer of as many votes as General T. at 
the general election in 1812.* But I was all for domes- 
tic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, 
I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived 
happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife 
and T were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a dis- 
tant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. 
Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a mar- 
riageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having 
besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the 
family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which, by 
the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a 
week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, 
of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could 
drive, but never see the inside — that place being reserved 
for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general 
and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s 
dancing, (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the 
latter end of the last century,) I unbooted, and went to a 
ball at the countess's, expecting to see a country dance, 
or, at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to the 
newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, to 
see poor dear Mrs^ Hornem with her arms half round 
the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set 
eyes on before ; and his, to say truth, rather more than 
half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, 

to a d d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that 

reminded me of the "Black joke," only more '■'■ affettuoso^'' 
till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not 
80. By and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they 
would sit or fall down : — but, no ; with Mrs. H.'s hand on 
his shoulder, ^'quam familiariter^''] (as Terence said, 
when I was at school,) they walked about a minute, 
and then at it again, lilce two cockchafers spitted on 
the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, 
with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina 
(a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, 
though her mother would call her after the Princess of 
Swappenbach) said, "Lord I Mr. Hornem, can't you see 
they arevaltzing!" or waltzing, (I forget which ;) and then 
up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, 
and round-abouted it till supper-lime. Now that I know 
what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs. H. 
(though I have broken my shins, and four times over- 
turned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the prchminary 
steps in a morning.) Indeed, so much do I like it, that 
having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some elec- 

• State of llvi poll, (last day,) 5. 

t My Lacin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what 
«e never remembered ; but I bought my titlepa^e motio of a Catholic 
^ieit foraihree shilling bank token, after much haggling for the eren 
•izpeKce. J grudged the money to a papist, being all for the memory of 
Per«!val and " No popery," and quite regretting the downfall of the 
poD«, beCAoce we-caAM.buru hiro any more. 



lion ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories, (but 
til! lately I have had little practice in that way,) I sat 
down, and with the aid of W. F. Esq. and a few hints 
from Dr. B. (whose recitations I attend, and am mon- 
strous fond of Master B.'s manner of delivering his father's 
late successful "D. L. Address,") I composed the follow- 
ing hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to 
the public, whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise as well 
as the critics. 

I am, Sir, yours, &c. &c. 

HORACE HORNEM. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet!* whose charms 
Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 
Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 
Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 
Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly. 
If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 
Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 
Dance forth — sans armour thou shall take the field. 
And own — impregnable to most assaults. 
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz." 

Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar, 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz !— beneath whose banners 
A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley'sf fame, 
Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his aim ; 



* " Glance their many-twinkling feet. "—Gray. 

t To rival Lord W.'s, or his nephew's, as the reader pleases : — the on* 
gained a pretty woman, whom he deserved, by fighting fur ; and the other 
has been fighting in the PeninsuKi many a long day, "by Shiewsbury 
clock," without gaining any thing in that country but the title of " the 
Great Lord," and " the Lord," which savours of profanaiion, having been 
hitherto applied only to that Being to whom " Te /Pcu/ns" for carnage 
are the rankest blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the genera! will one day 
return to his Sabine farm ; there 

" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain 1" 

The Lord Piterborough conquered continents in a summer ; we do 
more— we contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If 
the " great Lord's" CincinfiaZian progress in agriculture be no speedier 
than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according 
to the farmer's proverb, be " ploughing with dogs." 

By the by— one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten— it is, 
however, worth remembering — *' Salvador del munlo!" creditc,posteri! 
If this be the appellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Pennisula to 
the name of a man who has not yet saved them— query— are they worth 
saving even in this world > for, according to the mildest modifications of 
any Christian creed, those three words make the odds much against them 
in the next. — " Saviour of the world," quotha !— it were to be wished 
that he, or any one else, could save a corner of it — his country. Yet thig 
stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connexion between super- 
stition and impiety, so far ha? its use, that it proves there can be little to 
dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial Catholics too) who can confer 
such an appellation on a Protestant. I suppose next year he will b« 
entitled the "Virgin Mary :" if so. Lord George Gordon himself would 
hare oothlDg to object to such liberal bastard* of our Lady of Babylon. 



THE WALTZ. 



445 



Hail moving muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 

Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 

Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 

The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 

To " energise the object I pursue," 

And give both Belial and his dance their due! 

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine, 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,) 
Long be thine import from all duly free, 
And hock itself be less esteemed than thee ; 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
And only left us thy d — d debts and dances ! 
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft. 
We bless thee still— for George the Third is left ! 
Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
To Germany, and highnesses serene, 
Who owe us millions — do n't we owe the queen ? 
To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood. 
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
A dozen dukes — some kings — a queen — and Waltz, 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet. 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's "fiat!" 
Back to my theme — O Muse of motion ! say, 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
From Hamburg's port, (while Hamburg yet had mails,) 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow* yet had news to send. 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch. 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Lcipsic fairs; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 
Of Hcyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
Delightfiil Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate. 



• The paliiolic nrson of our nniial>lf nllio cannot he gulUcii-nlly com- 
mended— nor miliicrihcd fur. Ainoni; oilier dvliiili omillfd in lliit viuioiit 
dunpalches of our elnqiieiit nrnliiistuidiir, he did not bIrIo, (hrinij loo much 

occupied with the exploit* of Col. C , in iwimining riven fri'rpii, 

ttiid galloping over ronds impnsguhle,) thul one entire provinou prrUhcti 
by fiimine in the most meluncholy rminner, at followi : — In Ueni'rul Ko 
Rtopchln'i consiiininate coiiflogriilion, the coniiimptlon of tallow and 
trniii oil was ao gront, Ihnt the innrkct wim inade(|uate to the demand : 
nnd thua ono huiidii'd mid thirty-lhreu Ihoiisnnd porioni were ttnrved to 
<leath, hy hiini; leduied to wholesome diet I The iBmiilighteri of l.onilon 
have Hlnce »ul))i> ril»d a pint (of oil) a pleCA'.Biid the mllow-chiindleri have 
onaiiiiiiously vuted a quiinllty of bimt inoiilda (four to (he pound) to the 
relief of the mirvlviuK Neytliiaim— the ic.airlty will •oun, by inch exer- 
tioiii, and a proper altenlion to the r/un/i/j/ rather than ihe rjunntltv of 
jiroviilon, be totally alleviated. It la anld, in return, that the unloucheil 
Ukraine hn« aiibicribed ilxiy Ihouiand bcuvei for a day '■ meal to our luf. 
fering nmnufuclurert. 



The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 

And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 

Not decent David, when, before the ark, 

His grand pgis-seul Acited some remark ; 

Not love-lorn Q^uixote, when his Sancho thought 

The knight's fandango friskier than it ought ; 

Not soft Herodias, when with winning tread 

Her nimble feet danced oflf another's head ; 

Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 

Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck, 

Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 

Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 

Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 

To you of nine years less, who only bear 

The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 

With added ornaments around them roU'd 

Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 

To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 

To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; 

To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — 

Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords; 

To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 

Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 

As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, 

To gain your own, or snatch another's bride 

To one and all the lovely stranger came, 

And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz ! — to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe ! 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demsuids, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray '' put out the light." 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this remark, 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" 
But here the muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every lime ! 
Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime! 
O say, shall dull Roinaika's heavy round. 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's boinid ; 
Can Egypt's Almas* — tantalizing groii|) — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoo[> — 
Can aujjht from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after waltz be borne? 
Ah no! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph Pjr *' Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign bt^gan of yore. 
With George the Tliinl's — and ended long before!— 
Though in your daujrhters' daughters yol you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive! 
Bat k to the ball-room speed your sf)cclred host : 
Fool's Paradi.^ie is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powtior bids conj(>eturi^ <]uake; 
No slitl-starch'd stays make ujeddling lingers aehe , 
(Transf»«rr'd to tho-ii- umhigtimis tilings that n|>c 
Goats in their vLsago,! women in their shape ;) 



• Dancing glrli— who ilo for hire what Wullr doth grntli. 

t It cannot he coinplninetl now. ni in the l.adv Hnuuier*'! tlm», of th« 
" .sieur de la Croix," that there be " no wht.kn.. ;" but how far (h«M 

arc liidlrnlioni of valoiirln Ihr fleUl.or rUe«' ■ ..;' k.. ...i,-.ii.i«. 

aide. Muchmay beandhKlhlwnavo.i.b. ' ' "'O 

time philoiopluM-i had whifken, and iiohlir: »M 

■haven— Hannibal IhuUKhl lii-< m' ' ' ' * 

braid; but Adrian, the »''• 

iliin, wbi.h neither the i:. "''1 

abide)— Tiirenno had whi»'. '"• 

whiikerrd, the Regent wb ' ""^ 

whliker* may or may not go t..£rtlirr : but .rruiulv the dill.n-ni '^«">«r* 
roiirri, iliice lJ>c growth of th* la»l -ro«nllouc«l, go further In l>«h«ir of 



446 



THE WALTZ. 



No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore; 
Werter — to decent vice though much inclined. 
Yet Avarm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
Though gende Genlis, in her strife witli Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris"ball ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads ; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of " Waltz !" 
Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut; 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new;* 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; 
New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (most newf ) to follow those that fled ; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success ; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 't is true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks,;];) 
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, [sticks ! 

New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 

So saith the muse — my ,§ what say you? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 
Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 
Morais and minuets, virtue and her stays, 
And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 
The ball begins — the honours of the house 
First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 
Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloucester's mien. 
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 
That spot where hearts|| were once supposed to be ; 



whiskers than the anathema of Anselm did against long hair in the reign 
of Henry I. 

Formerly red was a favourite colour. See Lodowick BaiTey's comedy 
of Ram Alley, 1661, Act I. Scene 1. 

" Taffeta. Now, for a wager — What Coloured beard comes next by 
the window .' 

" Adiiano. A black man's, T think. 

" Taffeta. I think not so : I think a Ted, for that is most in fashion." 

There is " nothing new under the sun ;" but red, then a favourite, has 
now subsided into a favourite's colour. 

* An anachronism— Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are before said 
to have opened the ball together : the bard means, (if he means any thin".) 
Waltz was not so much in vogue till the Regent attained the acmo of his 
popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new government, illu- 
minated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much about the same time : 
of these the comet only has disappeared ; the other three continue to 
astonish us still. — Printer's Devil. 

t Among others a new ninepence— a creditable coin now forthco- 
ming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation. 

J " Oh that right should thus overcome might.'" Who does not re- 
member the " delicate investigation" in the " Merry Wives of Wind- 
sor ?" 

" Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without cause, why then 
make sport at me ; then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. How now .' 
whither bear you this? 

" Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither Uwy hear it 1— you were 
best meddle with buck-washing." 

§ The gentle, or ferocious reader, may fill up the blank a.s he pleases— 
there are several dissyllabic names at his service, (being already in the 
Reeenl'g:) it would not be fair to back any peculiar initial against Uie 
alphabet, as every month will add to the list now entered for the sweep- 
stakes ; — a distinguished consonant is said to be the favourite, much 
■gainst the wishes of the knowing ones. 

II " We have changed all that." says the Mock Doctor— 't is all gone— 
Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance how wo- 
aiea I hearts are disposed of ; they have nature's privilege to distribulg 



Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow in their rank, 

The Earl of— Asterisk— and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, 

For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post ;" 

(Or if for that impartial print too late. 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date,) — 

Thus all and each, in movement soft or slow. 

The genial contact gently undergo ; 

Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 

If nothing follows all this palming work?"* 

True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my rh3nne — 

Something does follow at a fitter time ; 

The breast thus pubUcly resign'd to man, 

In private may resist him if it can. 

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
And thou, my prince ! whose sovereign taste and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Gtueensberry ! whose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
Flush in the cheek and languish in the eyes 
Rush to the heart and lighten through the frame, 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame ; 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
WTio, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be or ought; 
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
Round the sHght waist, or down the glowing side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign, 
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 
Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme? 
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore, forgive! — at every ball 
My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall ; 
My son — (or stop — 't is needless to inquire — 
These little accitjents should ne'er transpire ; 
Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



them as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men with hearts 
so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often mentioned 
in natural history ; viz. a mass of solid stone— only to be opened by force 
— and when divided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, and with 
the reputation of being venomous. 

* In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and superfluous ques- 
tion-literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on seeing a 
waltz in Pera.— KJd* Morier'i Travel*. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE ; 



OR, 



CARMEN SECULARS ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 



Impar Congressus Achilli." 



The " good old times" — all times when old are good — 

Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 

Great things have been, and are, and greater still 

Want little of mere mortals but their will ; 

A wider space, a greener field, is given 

To those who play their " tricks before high heaven." 

I know not if the angels weep, but men 

Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again. 

If. 

All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad, 
Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
As the deep billows of the uEgean roar 
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
But where are they — the rivals ? — a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
Of *' Dust to dust •," but half its tale untold : 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
O'er which from empire she lured Antony ; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
On shore's he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
He wept for worlds to conquer — htilfthe earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth. 
And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
He "wept for worlds to conquer!" he who ne'er 
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
With even tjie busy Northern Isle unknown, 
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 



But where is he, the modern, mightier fur, 

Who, born no king, made monarciis draw his car ; 

The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings. 

Freed from the bit, believe themselves wiili wings, 

And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 

Chain'd to the chariot of the chiefliiin's state? 

Yes! where is he, the cham|)ion and the child 

Of all that 's great or little, wise or wild? 

Whoso game was empires, and whoso stakes wore 

tlirones? 
Whose table earth — whose dice were liuman bones ? 



Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, 

And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 

Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 

Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 

Smile to survey the queller of the nations 

Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 

Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 

O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 

O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 

Is this the mr.n who scourged or feasted kings? 

Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 

A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues 

A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 

The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 

Is this indeed the tamer of the great. 

Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 

The paltry gaoler and the prying spy, 

The staring stranger with his notebook nigh ? 

Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; 

How low, how little was this middle state. 

Between a prison and a palace, where 

How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 

Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill, 

His food and wine were doled out duly still : 

Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 

So free from homicide — to doubt 's a crime ; 

And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 

Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 

But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 

Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art; 

Though, ipve the few fond friends, and imaged face 

Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 

None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 

Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; 

Smile — for the fotter'd eagle breaks his chain. 

And higher worlds than this arc his again. 

IV. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The little that he was and sought (o be ! 
What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, Uiough with scarce a bound ; 
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 
EIo tasted empire's blessings and its curse; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape; 
How must ho smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 
The proudest seamark tliat o'ortops the wave! 
What though his gaoler, duteous to the lost, 
Scarce deem'd the coflin's lead could keep him {k»ty 
Refusing one poor line along the lid, 
To date the birth atid tieath of all it liid ; 
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
A talisman to all save him who boro: 
The ^(uMs that s>v«'ep before the pa»(om blnst 
Shall hear their seabovs hail it from the mMt* 



448 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 

Like Porapey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 

The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 

Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 

And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 

Do more than niggard envy still denies. 

But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 

Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 

Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 

Naught if he sleeps — ^nor more if he exists : 

Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile 

On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 

As if his ashes found their latest home 

In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 

He wants not this ; but France shall feel the want 

Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 

Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones, 

To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 

Or carried onward in the battle's van, 

To form, like Guesclin's* dust, her talisman. 

But be it as it is — the time may come 

His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. 



Oh heaven ! of which he was in power a feature ; 

Oh earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 

Thou isle! to be remember'd long and well, 

That savv'st the unfledg'd eaglet chip his shell ! 

Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 

Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 

Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone ! 

Alas ! why past he too. the Rubicon — 

The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 

To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 

Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 

Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 

And shook within their pyramids to hear 

A new Cambysis thundering in their ear ; 

While the dark shades of forty ages stood 

Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 

Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell. 

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 

To re-manure the uncuUivated land ! 

Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 

Austria ! v^'hich saw thy twice-ta'en capital 

Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! i 

Ye race of Frederic! — Frederics but in nam^/p 

And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 

First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 

Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel past. 

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste, 

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim. 

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name. 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 

That souud that crashes in the tyrant's ear — 

Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the thirst of war 

Gasps pDr the gore of serfs, and of their czar. 

The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 

Gleam in the sun, but 't is a sun that sets ! 

Moscow ! thou limit of his long career. 

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 

To see in vain — he saw thee — how ? with spire 

And palace fuel to one common fire. 

To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 

The prince his hall — and Moscow was no more ! 



• Ouesclin died during the siege of a city ; it surrendered, and the keys 
were brought and Intd upon his hier, so (hat the place might appear 
Tendered tohistshcs. 



Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla 's tame; 

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 

For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 

Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 

To come, in which all empires shall expire I 

Thou other element ! as strong and stern. 

To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn I 

Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, 

Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 

How did they numbing beak and silent fang 

Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang! 

In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 

For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 

In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 

Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wines ; 

Or stagnant in their human ice remains 

In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 

In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 

Her offspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 

Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 

What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car : 

The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 

The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 

Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory. 

Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die: 

Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 

Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before ; 

But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 

And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield 

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 

To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's, guide ; 

And backward to the den of his despair 

The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair 

Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh France ! who found 

Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground 

Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 

His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 

Look'd dovra o'er trampled Paris ! and thou Isle, 

Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile 

Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 

Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride 

Oh France ! retaken by a single march, 

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch I 

Oh bloody and most bootless Waterloo ! 

Which proves how fools may have their fortune too. 

Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 

Oh dull Saint Helen ! with thy gaoler nigh — 

Hear ! hear Prometheus* from his rock appeal 

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long. 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd ; 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 

The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 

Of fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 

His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their decent dignity of fall. 

Yet Vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought, 

By pointing out on history's fruitless page 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven. 

Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 

Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ; 

While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er 

Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air : 



t refer the reader to the first address of Prometheui in ^chylus, 
when he is left alone by' hi* alteadants, and before the arrival of the 
Chorus of Seaiiymijbt. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



449 



While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 
Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
Which wrafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 
Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 
The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own. 
To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

VI. 

But 't will not be — the spark's awaken'd — lo ! 

The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow; 

The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 

Through eight long ages of alternate gore 

Revives — and where? in that avenging clime 

Where Spain was once synonymous with crime. 

Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 

The infant world redeems her name of " New." 

'T is the old as|)iration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh. 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 

Where Greece was — No ! she still is Greece once more 

One common cause makes myriads of one breast. 

Slaves of the east, or helots of the west ; 

On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, 

The self-same standard streams o'er either world ; 

The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ; 

The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique ; 

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar ; 

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 

Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France, 

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main ; 

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye 

Break o'er th' jEgean, mindful of the day 

Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise. 

Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories. 

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 

By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed, 

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle. 

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile 

The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 

But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece, 

Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 

How should the autocrat of bondage be 

The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 

Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 

Than swell the Cossaquc's prowling caravan ; 

Bettor still toil for masters, than await. 

The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 

Numbcr'd by hordes, a human capital, 

A live estate, existing but for thrall. 

Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 

For the first courtier in the czar's regard ; 

While their immediate owner never tastes 

His sleep, sans drcaming-of Siberia's wastes ; 

Better succumb even to their own despair, 

And drive the camel than purvey the boar. 

VII. 

But not alone within the hoariest climo 
Whore Freedom dales her birth with that of Time, 
And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 
Of Incas darken to a (iul)i()us cloud, 
The dawn revives: ronown'd, romantic Spain 
Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
Not now the Roman tribe nor I'uiiic hordo 
Demand her fields aa lists to prove tlio sword ; 
Not now the Vandal or tho Visigoth 
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 
3G 



Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 

That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. 

But these are gone — their faith, their swords, their sway, 

Yet left more antichrist ian foes than they ; 

The bigot monarch and the butcher priest. 

The Inquisition, with her burning feast. 

The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 

While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 

Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 

That fiery festival of agony ! 

The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 

By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth : 

The long degenerate noble ; the debased 

Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced. 

But more degraded; the unpeopled realm; 

The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 

The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 

The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 

The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 

Save hers who eam'd it with the natives' gore ; 

The very language which might vie with Rome's, 

And once was known to nations like their home's. 

Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 

But such he is not, nor shall be again. 

These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 

The new Numantine soul of old Castile, 

Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 

The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 

Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 

Revive Uie cry — " lago ! and close Spain !"* 

Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round. 

And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 

The exterminating war, the desert plain, 

The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 

The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 

Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop 

For their incessant prey; the desperate wall 

Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 

The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 

Waving her more than Amazonian blado 

The knife of Arragon,f Toledo's steel ; 

The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; 

The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 

The Andalusian courser in the van ; 

The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 

And in each heart the spirit of the Cid: — 

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 

And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, France? 

VIII. 

But lo ! a congress ! What ! that hallow'd namo 
Which freed the Atlantic? May wo hope the 
P\ir outworn Europe? AVilh the sound arise, 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets of young Frordom, suniinon'd far 
From climes of Washington ami Bolivar ; 
Henry, the forest-born Domoslhenes, 
Whose tluindiT phook the Philip of the soas ; 
And stoic Franklin's energetic .shade, 
Robed in the lightnings whioli his hand allay'd ; 
And Washington, tlu- tyrunt-tamer, wake, 
To bid us hliisli for these old chains, or break. 
But who eompose this senate of tiie few 
That should r»'dooMJ the innny ? Who renow 
This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
To councils held to bcnclit mankind ? 



• " HI. Uro I niiii clo»r Simin I" th* oUI SfMnlih war«r7. 
t Tliii Anoauiiiniii nri< |iociillarIy ilfitrroiM In tli« UM of Ibll VflipCMi. 
iiid dliplKytdlt |<nr(i(ulni Ir In formtr Krpiirli win. 



450 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Who now assemble at the holy call ? 

The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 

A pious unity ! in purpose one — 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed. 

Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 

But these, more hungry, must have something more, 

The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 

Ah ! how much happier were good ^sop's frogs 

Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 

With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 

And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 

All dully anxious to leave little work 

Unto the revolutionary stock. 

IX, 

Thrice blest Verona I since the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 

Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 

The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets;" 

Thy Scaligers— ;for what was " Dog the Great," 

" Can Grande," (which I venture to translate,) 

To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 

And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate ; 

Thy good old man,* whose world was all within 

Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in: 

Would that the royal guests it girds about 

Were so far like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 

To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 

The comedy is not upon the stage ; 

The show is rich in ribandry and stars, 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

For thus much still thy fettered hands are free. 

X, 

Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb czar, 

The autocrat of waltzes and of war I 

As eager for a plaudit as a realm. 

And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit. 

And generous spirit, when 't is not frostbit ; 

Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 

But harden'd back whene'er the morning's raw; 

With no objection to true liberty. 

Except that it would make the nalions free. 

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace, 

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece! 

How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 

Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet! 

How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 

With all hfir pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 

How royally show off in proud Madrid 

His goodly person, from the South long hid! 

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 

By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 

Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son 

La Harpe, thine Aristode, beckons on ; 

And that which Scythia was to him of yore 

Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 

Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 

Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 

Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 

Many an old woman, but no Catherine. f 



* The famous old man of Verona. 

tThe dexterity of Crtthcrine extricated Peter (called the Great by 
courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the riyer 



Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 

The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 

Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 

Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 

To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, 

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout. 

Than follow headlong in the fatal route. 

To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 

With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe; 

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 



And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher 



prey 



Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
But were I not Diogenes, I 'd wander 
Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinop6 : 
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 



And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of Me plus ultra ultras and their baM 
Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator fii'st clambers 
Before he finds a voice, and when 't is found, 
Hears " the lie" echo for his answer round ! 
Our British commons sometimes deign to **hear!" 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate. 
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who had ratlier 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot, 
To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, 
In saying eloquence meant " Action, action!" 



But where 's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 

Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt? 

Have revolutionary pates risen. 

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 

Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops? 

Or have no movements folio w'^d traitorous soups ? 

Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 

Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded 

Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 

I read all France's treason in her cooks f 

Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say. 

Desirable to be the " Desire ?" * 

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode, 

Apician table, and Horatian ode. 

To rule a people who will not be ruled, 

And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? 

Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 

For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed : 

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 

To be a kind host and as good a guest. 

To talk of letters, and to know by heart 

One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art; 

A scholar always, now and then a wit. 

And gentle when digestion may permit ; — 

But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 

The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 

XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 

From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 

" Arts — arms — and George — and glory — and the isles— 

And happy Britain — wealth — and freedom's smiles— 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



451 



White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof- 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof— 
Proud Wellington, with Eagle beak so curl'd, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world!* 

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose penltnife slit a goose-quill t' other day — 
And ' pilots who have weathcr'd every storm' — 
(Bat, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform.") 
These are thei themes thus sung so oft before, 
Methinks we heed not sing them any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near, 
There 's no occasion you should find them here. 
Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
With reason, and, what 's stranger still, with rhyme. 
Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit, 
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit. 
And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 
Our last, our best, our only orator, 
Even I can praise thee — tories do no more ; 
Nay, not so much •, — they hate thee, man, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, 
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow ; 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the fourfooted pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure. 
Nor royal slallion's feet extremely sure; 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that? the animal shows blood. 



Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 

Bewail her now wncountry gentlemen ? 

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 

The first to make a malady of peace. 

For what were all these country patriots born ? 

To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of com ? 

But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall. 

Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 

And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 

Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? 

He was your great Triptolcmus ; his^^s 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintaiffd your prices 

He amplified to every lord's content 

The grand agrarian alchymy, higlit rent. 

Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 

And lower wheat to such desponding cjuartors ? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone? 

The man was worth much more upon his throne. 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt ; 

But what of that ? the Gaul may bpar the guilt; 

But bread was high, the farmer mid his way, 

And acres told upon the api)ointe(l day. 

But where is now the goodly audit ale? 

The purseproud tenant, never known to fail ? 

The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 

The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? 

The impatient hope of the expiring lease? 

The doubling rental? What an evil's peace! 

In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 

In vain the Commons pass Ihoir patriot bill ; 

The landed mtcrext — (you may understand 

The plirase much better leaving out the land) — 



* " Nnso itiRpfiKlIt arliinco. ''—//arnr'*. 
(Tho Koman H|i|illei ii to one who merri; wnt imptrioui to liii nc- 
<|iiaiiilAi)rv.) 



The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 

For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 

Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, 

Or else the ministry will lose their votes. 

And patriotism, so delicately nice, ' 

Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 

For ah! " die loaves and fishes," once so high, 

Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 

And naught remains of all the millions spent. 

Excepting to grow moderate and content. 

They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 

About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 

Now let their virtue be its own reward, 

And share the blessings wliich themselves prepared. 

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 

Farmers of war, dictators of the fann ; 

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 

Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 

Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 

Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 

Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. 

Blood, sweat, and tear- wrung millions — why? for rent 

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they 

meant 
To die for England — why then live ? for rent ! 
The peace has made one general malecontent 
Of these high-market patriots; war was rent! 
Their love of country, millions all mispent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent? 
No: down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess ; 
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
What I would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. 
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? 
Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have gone. 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, stale, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
Shorn of her bisho])S, banks, and dividends. 
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
And why? to pamper tho self-seeking wants, 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
"Goto these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" 
Admire their patience through each sacrilice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
Tho debt of nations : — pray m.7io made it ftigh ? 



Or turn to sail between those sliifiing rocks, 
The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 
Where Midas might again his wish behold 
In real paper or imagined golil. 
That niagie palace <if Alcina shows 
J\li)re wealth than Britain ever luul to lose, 
Were all her atoms (if nidcavfu'd ore, 
And all lur pil»l)les from Paii.ilus' sliorr. 
There l-'nrtune plays, while Rumour iiolds die stak^, 
And the work! trtMuhles to bid brokers break. 
How rich is Britain! not indoed in nunes, 
Or peace or plenty, eorn or oil, »>r wines; 
[No land of ('annan, full «)f milk and honoy, 
Nor (fiave in pap«n shekelfi) ready money : 



462 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



But let us not to own the truth refuse, 

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 

Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 

And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control. 

And waft a loan <' from Indus to the pole." 

The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed 

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 

Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 

Fresh speculations follow each success ; 

And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 

Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain. 

Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march ] 

'T is gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 

Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 

In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 

Two Jews keep do%vn the Romans, and uphold 

The accursed Him, more brutal than of old : 

Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 

The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 

What is the happiness of earth to them? 

A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 

Where baronies and orders both invite — 

Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight 7 

Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 

Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 

But honour them as portion of the show — 

(Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 

Could it not favour Judah with some kicks ? 

Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ?") 

On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 

To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange sight this congress ! destined to unite 

All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 

I speak not of the sovereigns — they 're alike, 

A common coin as ever mint could strike : 

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine. 

While Europe wonders at the vast design : 

There Mettemich, power's foremost parasite, 

Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ;* 

And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 

There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters, 

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat. 

To furnish articles for " the Debats ;" 

Of war so certain — ^yet not quite so sure 

As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 

Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 

Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? 

He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again 

*' Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.' 



• Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgoUen the author in the 
minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary 
sovereign : " Ah ! Monsieur C , are you related to that Chateau- 
briand who— who — who has written something?" (kcniquelguc. chose!) 
It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his 
legilimacjr. 



Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 

The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 

The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 

The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride 5 

The molher of the hero's hope, the boy, 

The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 

The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 

That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 

She flits amid the phantoms of the hour, 

The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 

Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 

A daughter ? What did France's widow tliere ? 

Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave, 

Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 

But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 

Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 

The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 

Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 

What though she share no more, and shared in vain, 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas I 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 

Where Parma views the traveller resort 

To note the trappings of her mimic court. 

But she appears I Verona sees her shorn 

Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn — 

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 

To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; 

But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 

She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 

Nor Homer's) — Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans I 

Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 

Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, 

Is offer'd and accepted ! Could a slave 

Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave .' 

Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 

And the ejc-enipress grows as er a wife I 

So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 

Why spare men's feelings, when their ovm are jests ? 

XVIII. 

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 
And sketch the group — ^the picture 's yet to come. 
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! 
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan 
To hail their bg^er, Vich Ian Alderman ! 
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar. 
While all the Common Council cry " Claymore 1" 
To see proud Albyn's tartan's as a belt 
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 
She burst into a laughter so extreme. 
That I awoke — and lo ' 't was no dream ! 



Here, reader, will we pause : — if there 's no harm in 
This first — ^you '11 have, perhaps, a second " Carmen." 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 

BY aUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLER." 



A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.' 



PREFACE. 

It hath been wisely said, that "One fool makes many ;' 
)Stnd it hath been poetically observed, 

" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."— Po;>e. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no 
business, and where he never was before, and never will 
be again, the following poem would not have been 
written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as 
his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupi- 
dity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, 
the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and im- 
pious cant of the poem by the author of Wat Tyler, 
are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of 
himself — containing the quintessence of his own attri- 
butes. 

So much for his poem, a word on his preface. In 
this preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate to 
draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic School," the 
which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature ; 
thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those 
of an informer. If there exists any where, excepting in 
his imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently 
armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth 
is, that there are certain writers whom Mr.S. imagines, 
like Scrub, to have " talked of him ; for they laughed 
consumedly." 

I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom 
he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their in- 
dividual capacities, have done more good in the chari- 
ties of life to their fellow-creatures in atiy one year, than 
Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities 
in his whole life ; and this is saying a great deal. But 
I have a few questions to ask. 

Istly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler? 
2dly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a 
blasphemous and seditious publication? 

3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
parliament, " a rancorous renegado?" 

4thly. Is ho not poet laureate, with his own lines on 
Martin the regicide staring him in the face? 

And 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, 
with what conscience dare he call the attention of the 
laws to the publications of others, bo they what thoy 
may? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding ; 
its meanness speaks for itself; but f wish to touch upon 
the TTioiivc, which is neither more nor loss than that Mr.S. 
has been laughed at a little in some recent publicalidus, 
as he was of yore in the *' Anti-jacobin" by his present 
patrons. Henco all this " skimblo scamblo Ktulf" about 
" Satanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy of him — 
** Qucdis ab inccptoy 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opinions 
of a portion of the public in the following poem, they 



may thank Mr. Southey, He might have written hexa- 
meters, as he has written every thing else, for aught that 
the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. 
But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, whatever 
were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor 
a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign 
passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothin* 
of the aggression upon France, — like all other exagge- 
ration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever man- 
ner he may be spoken of in this new " Vision," his 
public career will not be more favourably transmitted by 
history. Of his private virtues (although a little expen- 
sive to the nation) there can be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, 
I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as 
an honest man) have a better right to talk of theni than 
Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tole- 
rantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the 
laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is 
like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely 
ludicrous, it would be something worse. I do n't think 
that there is much more to say at present. 

aUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in 
these objectionable times, to the freedom with which 
saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 
" Vision." But for precedents upon such points I must 
refer him to Fielding's " Journey from this World to iho 
next," and to the Visions of myiself, the said Quovodo, 
in Spanish or translated. The reader is also rc«jucsted 
to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or 
discussed ; that the [)erson of the Deity is carefully with- 
held from siglit, whieh is more than can he said for the 
laureate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not 
" like a school divine," but like the un>rh()larIiko Mr. 
Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of 
heaven; and Chaucer's Wife of Hath, Pulci's INIorganto 
Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and the other works 
above referred to, are eases in point of the freedom with 
which saints, &.c. may be permitted to converse in works 
not intended to be serious. 

Q.R. 

[ + ^* Mr. Southey bring, as he snvs, n gO(Hl Christian 
and vin(ii<"live, threatens, 1 umlcrsland. a reply to this 
our answer. It is to be ho|icd that his visionary faeulliea 
will in the meantime have acquirrvl a little more jiul^- 
nient, properly so calK'd : otherwise he will j;«>t himsrlf 
into new dilenmtas. These nposlate jacobins furnish 
rich r«join<lers. l.el him lake a specimen. Mr. Southey 
laudelh grivvously " one Mr. I.undor," who cullivaica 
luueh i)rivalo renown in the .shape of I.alin verses; aiul 
not lonj; ago, the poet laureate dnlicaled to him, it ap- 
peareth, one of his fugitive lyric-s, tipon the iitrcnf(th of 
a poom called Gtbir. Who could tlup^>o8e, tliat in this 



454 



THE VISION OP JUDGMENT. 



same Gebir the aforesaid Suvage Landor (for such is his 
grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less 
a person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's 
heaven, — yea, even George the Third! See also how 
personal Savage becometh, when he hath a mind. The 
following is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign: 

{Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions 
the shades of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called up 
to his view, and he exclaims to his ghostly guide) — 

" Aroar, what wretch that nearest vis? what wretch 
Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow ? 
Jjisteii ! him yonder, who, bound down supine, 
Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 
He loo amons my ancestors ! I hate 
The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
Was he our countryman ?" 

" Alas, O king ! 
Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
Inclement winds blew blighting from northeast." 
" He was a warrior then, nor f'ear'd the gods?" 
" Gebir, lie fear'd the demons, not the gods, 
Though them indeed his daily lace adored ; 
And was no warrior, yet the thousand Rves 
Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
Oh madness of mankind! address'd, adored V— Gebir, p. 23. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, 
wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave 
but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it ; but 
certainly these teachers of " great moral lessons " are apt 
to be found in strange company.] 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate ; 

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
So little trouble had been given of late ; ' 

Not that the place by any means was full, 
But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight" 

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 
And " a pull altogether," as they say 
At sea — which drew most souls another ^vay. 

II. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And hoarse with having little else to do. 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
Or curb a runaway young star or two, 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 

Splitting some planet with its playful tail. 

As boats are sometimes by a wanton v/hale. 

III. 

The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 
Finding their charges past all care below ; 

Terrestrial business fill'd naught in the sky 
Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
With such rapidity of vice and wo, 

That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 

And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

IV. 

His business so augmented of late years. 

That he was forced, against his will, no doubt, 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
For some resource to turn himself about 

And claim the help of his celestial peers. 
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 

By the increased demand for his remarks ; 

Six angeLs and twelve saints were named his clerks. 

V. 

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven 
And yet they had even then enough to do, 

So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 
So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 

Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, ^ 
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 

They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 

The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 



This by the way ; 'tis not mine to record 

What angels shrink from: even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited with the infernal revel ; 

Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword, 
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 

'T is, that he hath both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 

Let 's skip a few short years of hollow peace. 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont. 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease. 
With nothing but new names subscrib'd upon 't ; 

'T will one day finish : meantime they increase, 

" With seven heads and ten horns;" and all in front. 

Like Saint John's foretold beaist ; but ours are born 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIII. 

In tlic first year of freedom's second dawn 
Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded t}Tants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun : 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died — but left his subjects still behind. 

One half as mad — and t' other no less L/iiid. 

IX. 

He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 

His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. 
For these things may be bought at their true worth : 

Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X. 

Form'da sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 

The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the wo. 

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the 

[palU 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold ; 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XI. 

So mix his bodv with the dust! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air \ 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 

What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He 's dead — and upper earth with him has done : 
He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill. 

Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
For him, unless he left a German will ; 

But where 's the proctor who will ask his son ? 
In whom his qualities are reigning still, 

Except that household virtue, most uncommon. 

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII. 

" God save the king!" It is a large economy 

In God to save the like ; but if he will 
Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 

Of those who think damnation better still : 
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 

In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction. 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



456 



XIV. 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'T is blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd. 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. 

XV. 

God help us all! God help me too! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more difficult to danm 
Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
Not that I 'm fit for such a noble dish 

As one day will be that immortal fi-y 

Of almost every body born to die. 

XVI. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when lo ! there came 
A wond'rous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great. 

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim ; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
Said, " There 's another star gone out, I think!" 

XVII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 

At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose : 
" Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise !" 

Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes : 

To which the saint replied, " Well, what 's the matter? 

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?" 

XVIII. 

" No," quoth the cherub ; " George the Third is dead." 
" And who is George the Third ?" replied the apostle : 

" What George ? what Third?" " The king of Eng- 
land," said 
The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 

Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 
Because tlie last we saw here had a tustle, 

And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces. 

Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 

" He was, if I remember, king of Franoe ; 

That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 

A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 
If I had had my sword, as I had once 

When I cut ea^fi|^^, I had cut him down ; 
But having but im^tys, and not my brand. 
I only knock'd hisTlead from out his hand. 

XX. 

« And then he set up such a headless howl. 

That all the saints came out, and took him in ; 
And there ho sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 

That fellow Paul — the parvenu I The skin 
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 

In heaven, and upon earth rcdeem'd his sin 
So as to make a martyr, never sptni 
Better tlian did this weak and wooden head. 

xxr. 
" But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 

There would have been a dili'frent (ulo to toll: 
The fellow-feeling in the saints bchoKU'rs 

Seems to have acted on them like a spi-ll ; 
And so this very foolish head heaven solders 

Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
And seems the custom hero to overthrow 
Whatever has been wisely done below." 



XXXI. 

The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and all entire, 

And never knew much what it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: 
My business and your own is not to inquire 

Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII, 

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind. 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

Some silver stream, (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed,) and mid them an old man 

With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated tlieir fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 

But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

A spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved ; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate. 
And sweated through his apostolic skin 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor. 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled altogether. 
Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every foather. 
And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 

Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew whither 
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes, (for by many stories, 

And true, we learn the angels all are lories.) 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the pate flew 

Asimdcr, and the flashing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges 
Rcach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 

Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ioo-lwund, 
By Captain Parry's crews, in " Melville's Sound." 

XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown ojhmi issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 

itadiant with glory, like u banner streaminj; 
Victorious from some worlil-o'erlhrowing fight; 

My poor comparisons must needs be teennng 
With earthly likenesses, for here the nijjit 

Of clay obscures our best conce|itions, saving 

Johanna Soutiicoto, or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 

'T was the nrchangel Michael: nil men know 
The nmko of angels and archangels, since 

There's scarce a scribbler has not one t«i sliow, 
From the fiemls' leader to the angels' princ«5. 

There also are some altiir-pieces, though 
I really can't say tlial lliev much evince 

Ono's inner notions of ininiortal Bpiriiu; 

Hut let the connoisseurs explain thar merits. 



456 



THE VISION OP JUDGMENT. 



XXX. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal past — he stood ; 

Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary, 
(I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.) 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bow'd do^vn before 

That archangelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nurst 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill ; 

Such was their power, that neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe ; but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In either's eye, as if 't were less their will 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their " champ clos" the spheres. 

XXXIII. 

But here they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 

And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 

Must keep him company ; and we might show, 
From the same book, in how polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the Powers 

Of Good and Evil — but 't would take up hours. 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract, 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 

If Job be allegory or a fact, 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion 

And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 

The gate of heaven; like eastern thresholds is 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er. 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect : though they did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau. 

But with a graceful Oriental bend. 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 

But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXVII, 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant ; and then raisuig it, he stood 

In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 

Cause why King George by no means could or should 

Make out a case to be exempt from wo 
Eternal, more than other kings, endued 

With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 

Who long have "paved hell with their good intentions." 



XXXVIII. 

Michael began • " WTiat wouldst thou with this man,^ 
Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? What ill 

Hath he wrought since his mortal race began. 

That thou can'st claim him ? Speak 1 and do thy will, 

If it be just : if in this earthly span 
He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 

His duties as a king and mortal, say, 

And he is thine ; if not, let him have way.** 

XXXIX. 

"Michael r' replied the Prince of Air, " even here, 
Before the gate of him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject ; and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

" Look to our earth, or rather rrdne ; it was, 
Once, more thy master's : but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their kings, — 

XLI. 

" And these but as a kind of quitrent, to 

Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
i such an inclination, 'twere (as you 

Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad, 
That hell has nothing better left to do 

Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 
And evil by their own internal curse. 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLII. 

" Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign. 
The world and he both wore a different form, 

And much of earth and all the watery plain 

Of ocean call'd him king: through many a storm 

His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 

For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIII. 

" He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old : 
Look to the state in which he found his realm, 

And left it ; and his annals too behold. 
How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 

How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 

The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 

Thine eye along America and France. 

XLIV. 

" 'T is true, he was a tool from first to last, 
(I have the workmen safe ;) but as a tool 

So let him be consumed. From out the past 
Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 

Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 
Of sin and slaughter — from the Ceesars' school. 

Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 

More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slain. 

XLV. 

" He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 
Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 

So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty !' 

Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose 

History was ever stain'd as his will be 
With national and individual woes ? 

I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 

His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



457 



XLVI. 

" I know he was a constant consort ; own 

i He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 

As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 

I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
And this was well for him, but not for those 
Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XLVII. 

" The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans 
Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be re- taught them, wake 

Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake ! 

XLVIII. 

"Five millions of the primitive, who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 

Apart of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to catholic participation 

In all the licence of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 

'* True ! he allow'd them to pray God ; but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Which would have placed them upon the same base 
With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 

But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
And cried, "You may the prisoner withdraw: 

Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 

While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 

L. 

"Sooner will I v.'ith Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure !" 
" Saint!" replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made your satellites endure ; 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I '11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil ! 

Pray, not so fast : you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level: 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say ?" — " No." — " If you please, 
1 'II trouble you to call your witnesses." 

LII. 

Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 

Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 
Clouds farther off than we can understand, 

Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 
Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 

In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 



This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assign'd; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely — being damn'd Uie same. 
3H 



They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins; or like to an " entre" 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay, 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell — 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, even to a second, 

For every ray that travels to dispel 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacon'd, 

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year, 

If that the summer is not too severe : — 

LTI. 

I say that I can tell — 't was half a minute : 
I know the solar beams take up more time 

Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 
But then their telegraph is less sublime, 

And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime. 

The sun takes up some years for every ray 

To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVII. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd, 
(I 've seen a something like it in the skies 

In the JEgean, ere a squall;) it near'd, 
And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an aerial ship, it tack'd, and steer'd, 
Or was steer'd, (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer; — 

LVIII. 

But take your choice ;) and then it grew a cloud ; 

And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
They shadow'd v^ilh tl.eir myriads space ; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wild-geese, 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose,) 
And realized the phrase of "hell broke loose." 

LIX. 

Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 

Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : fwull?" 
There Paddy brogwcd " By Jasus !" — "What's your 

The tcrpperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost swore 
In certain terms I shan't translate in full, 

As the first coachman will ; and mid the war 
The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 

Our President is going to war, I guess." 
i.x. 
Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and |)rofissions, years and trades, 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as rlubs in '^irds are against spades: 
All suinniou'd by this grand " suh|>(rna," to 
To try if kings may ii't be damn'd like mo or you. 

l.XI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grow palo, 
As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 

Ho turn'd all colours — as a peafoek's tail, 
Or sunset streaming through a golhic skylight 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 

Or distant lightning on the hori/on hi/ night, 

Or a fresh raitibow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 



458 



Tg[E VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Then he addressed himself to Satan: *' Why — 
My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 

Our difference is political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below. 

You know my great respect for you ; and this 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 

Lxrii. 
" Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 

My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
That you should half of earth and hell produce; 

'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 
True testimonies are enough : we lose 

Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
The accusation and defence: if we 
Hear both, 't will stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view: 

I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone through 

Already ; and I merely argued his 

Late majesty of Britain's case with you 

Upon a point of form: you may dispose 

Of him; I 've kings enough below, God knows!" 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the Demon, (late call'd "multifaced" 
Ey multo-scribbling Southey.) " Then we '11 call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael: " Who may be so graced 
As to speak first? there's choice enough — who shall 

It be?" Then Satan answer'd, " There are many ; 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite, 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Drest in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 

All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Abnost as scanty, of days less remote. 

rxvii. 

The spirit looked around upon the crowds 

Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends of all 
The spheres, we shall catch cold among these clouds ; 
/^ So let 's to business: why this general call? 
ff^those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
'^^And 't is for an election that they bawl. 
Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 
Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ?" 

LXVIII. 

*' Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake : these things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
♦* Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; anJ that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ?" 

LXIX. 

" He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 

" If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives licence to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 

Said Wilkes, " do n't wait to see them laid in lead. 

For such a liberty — and I, for one. 

Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 



" ^bove the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 

To urge against him," said the Archangel. " Why," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 

With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I do n't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

LXXI. 

" Foolish ^^no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poorviinlucky devil without a shilling ; 

But thejMJ^^OTl the.man himself much less 
ThHft^ut.e and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To see him punish'd here for their excess. 

Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 

And vote his ' habeas corpus' into heaven." 

L,XXII. 

"Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand all this ; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide. 
He won't be sovereign more : you 've lost your labour^ 
For at the best he will but be your neighbour. 

LXXIII. 

" However, I knew what to think of it, 

When I beheld you in your jesting way 
Flitting and whispering round about the spit 

Where Belial, upon duty for the day. 
With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 

His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say ; 
That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 
I '11 have him gagged — ^'t was one of his own bills. 

I-XXIV. 

" Call Junius ! From the crowd a shadow stalk'd, 
And at the name there was a general squeeze, 

So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 

But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd, (but to be balk'd, 
As we shall see,) and jostled hands and knees. 

Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 

Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 



The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 
That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 

Q,uick in its motions, with an air of vigour, 
But naught to mark its breeding or its birth ; 

Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger. 
With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 

But as you gazed upon its features, they 

Changed every instant — to tvhat, none could say. 

LXXVI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 

The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess; 
They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 

And several people swore from out the press, 
They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 

He was his father: upon which another 

Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: 

Lxxvir. 

Another, that he was a duke or knight. 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; but the wight, 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increased 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself— he was so volatile and thin. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



459 



LXXVIII. 

The moment that you had pronounced him one, 
Presto! his face changed, and he was another; 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 
It varied, till I don't think his own mother 

(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to t' other ; 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
" Three gentlemen at once," (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop ;) then you might deem 
That he was not even one ; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days : 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

LXXX. 

I 've an hypothesis — 't is quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne. 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown; 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'T is, that what Junius wc are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I do n't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too ; 

And really till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due. 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

** And who and what art thou ?" the Archangel said. 

" For that you may consult my title page," 
Replied this mighty shadow (^ a sliade: 

" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now." — " Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further?" Junius answer'd, "You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter: 

LXXXIII. 

" My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

« Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past 
Exaggeration? something which may doom 

Thyseff if false, as him if true? Thou wast 
Too bitter— is it not so ?— in thy gloom 

Of passion ?"—" Passion !" cried the phantom dim, 

" I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIV. 

«' What I have written, I have written : let 
The rest be on his head or mine !" So spoko 

Old " Nominis Umbra ;" and while speaking yet, 
Away he melted in celestial smoke. 

Then Satan said to Michael, " Do n't forget 

To call George Washington, and John Home Tooko 

And Franklin ;"— but at this time there was hoard 

A cry for room, thougli not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV, 

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to thai post, 
The devil Asrnodeus to the circle made 

His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down ho laid, 

"What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a 
*' I know it," quoth (ho incubus ; " but he [ghost ? 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to mo. 



LXXXVI. 

" Confound the renegado ! 1 have sprain'd 
My left wing, he 's so heavy ; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point : while hovering o'er the Brink 

Of Skiddaw, (where as usual it still rain'd.) 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII. 

The former is the devil's scripture, and 

The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 
And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 

I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air— 
At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

LXXXVIII. 

Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here ; 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear; 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

" But since he's here, let's see what he has done." 

" Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates 
The very business you are now upon. 

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?" 
" Let's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has to say; 
You know we 're bound to that in every way." 

xc. 
Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 

By no means often was his case below. 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 

His voice into that awful note of wo 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 

XCI. 

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
And cried," For God's sake stop, my friend \\ were best— 
Non Di, non fiomincs— you know the rest." 



A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which scem'd to hold all verso in detestation ; 

The angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service ; and the generation 

Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
Bi-fore, to profit by a new occasion ; ^ 

The monarch, mute till then, exclaim d, ">;»«»<• 

Pyc come again ? No more— no more of that . 

XCIII. 

The tumult grew ; an universal cough 
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate. 

When Castlorcagh has been up long enough, 
(Ueforo he was first niiuistor of slate, 

I mean— the nUives hair now .) sonic mod ' 
As at a farre ; till grown quit,. doHpcrate 

The bartl Saint Poter pray'd to inlerpos* 

(Himself an author) only for hia prose. 



what! 



Off, off!" 



460 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



XCIV. 

The varlet was not. an ill-favour'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A s;Tiart and sharper looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Q,uite a poetic felony " de se." 
xcv. 
Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 

With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 

Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly over-crow'd ; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause. 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

xcvi. 
He said — (I only give the heads) — he said, 

He meant no harm in scribbling ; 't was his way 
Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread. 

Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould delay 
Too long the assembly, (he was pleased to dread,) 

And take up rather more time than a day, 
To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
Wat Tyler — Rhymes on Blenheim — Watei-loo. 

xcrii. 
He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all lungs whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide, 

And then against them bitterer than ever ; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever; 
Then grew a hearty antijacobin — 
Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd his skin. 

XCVIII. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 

Reviewing* "the ungentle craft," and then 
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 

Fed, paid, and paraper'd by the very men 

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 

He had writtten much blank verse, and blanker prose, 

And more of both than any body knows. 

xcix. 
He had written Wesley's life : — here, turning round 

To Satan, " Sir, I 'm ready to write yours, 
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound. 

With notes and preface, all that most allures 
The pious purchaser ; and there 's no ground 

For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 
So let me have the proper documents, 
That I may add you to my other saints." 



Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you. 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 



• See " Life of H. Kirke WJijte. 



"But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision! 

Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition. 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 
Like King Alfonso.* W*hen I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

cir. 
He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 

Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints. 
Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 

He read the first three lines of the contents ; 
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 

Had vanish'd, with variety of scents. 
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 
Like lightnmg, oif from his " melodious tvvang."f 

cm. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions; 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions— 
(For 't is not yet decided where tliey dwell. 

And I le2.ve every man to his opinions ;) 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but lo! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow ! 

CIV. 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys 

And at the fifh line knock'd the poet down; 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown 
A different web being by the Destinies 

Woven for the laureate's final wreath, when'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 

cv. 
He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 

But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 
For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks,J 

By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 
Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks. 

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 
[n his own den, to scrawl some " Life" or " Vision," 
As Wellborn says — " the devil turn'd precisian." 

cvi. 

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free fi-om all delusion, 
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown ; 

All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one ; 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 



King Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemeaii system, said, that " had he 
been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the 
Maker some absurdities." 

t See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared " with a 
curious perfume and a melodious twang ;" or see the Antiquary, vol. i. 

J A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; it then floats, as most 
people know. 



4G1 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 

DI MESSER LUIGI PULCI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando In- 
namorato the honour of having formed and suggested the 
style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of Boiardo 
were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, 
and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his continuation, by a 
judicious mixture of the goyety of Pulci, has avoided the 
one, and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has 
corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the pre- 
cursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly 
been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. 
He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very 
lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the in- 
genious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Ronces- 
valles in the same language, and more particularly the 
excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the 
same source. It has never yet been decided entirely 
whether Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the 
religion which is one of his favourite topics. It appears 
to me, that such an intention would have'been no less 
hazardous to the poet than to the priest, particularly in 
that age and country ; and the permission to publish the 
poem, and its reception among the classics of Italy, prove 
that it neither was nor is so interpreted. That he in- 
tended to ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his 
imagination to play with the simple dullness of his con- 
verted giant, seems evident enough ; but surely it were 
as unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as 
to denounce Fielding for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, 
Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, 
— or Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenanters in 
the " Tales of my Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the liberty of 
the origuial with the proper names ; as Pulci uses Gan, 
Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlo- 
mano ; Rondel, or Rondello, &c. as it suits his conve- 
nience ; so has the translator. In other respects the 
version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in 
combining his interpretation of the one language with the 
not very easy task of reducing it to the same versification 
in the other. The reader, on comparing it with the ori- 
ginal, is requested to remember that the antiquated lan- 
guage of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the gene- 
rality of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of 
Tuscan proverbs ; and he may therefore be more indul- 
gent to the present attempt. How far the translator has 
succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
are questions which the public will decide. He was in- 
duced to make the experiment partly by his love for, and 
partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which 
it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and with whicli 
it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accu- 
rately conversant. The Italian language is like a capri- 
cious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favours 
to few, and sometimes least to those who have courted 
her longest. The translator wished also to present in an 
English dress a part at least of a poem never yet ren- 
dered into a northern language ; at the same lime that it 
has been the original of some of the most celebrated pro- 
ductions on this side of the Alps, as well as of those 
recent experiments in poetry in England which have 
been already mentioned. 



CANTO I. 



In the beginning was the Word next God ; 

God was the Word, the Word no less was he : 
This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and without him naught could be : 
Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
One only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 

II. 

And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride. 

Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 
Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside, 

The day thy Gabriel said " All hail!" to thee, 
Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied. 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 
Be to my verses then benignly kind, 
And to the end illuminate my mind. 

III. 
'T was in the season when sad Philomel 

Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 
Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 

And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the hand 
Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 

His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 
Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 
Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow : 

IV. 

When I prepared jny bark first to obey. 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly— and wrote worse. " 

V. 

Leonardo Aretino said already. 

That if, like P(>pin, Charles had had a vwiter 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 

No hero would in history look brighter ; 
He in the cabinet being always ready. 

And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
Who for the church and christian faith had wrought 
Cerles far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may sec at Saint Liberators 

The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to liis glory. 

Borauso of the great battle in which fell 

A pagan king, according to the story, 

And fiion people whom (^liarlrs sent to hell : 

And Uiere are bones so many, a"'! «« many, 
1 Near them Giusaffa's wouM srrin few, if any 



462 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



But the world, blind and ignorant, do n't prize 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty dost arise 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow, 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 

Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now, 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance. 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

VIII. 

Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 
The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 

Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 

In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too, 

Wliile the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do. 

And Dante in his comedy has given 

To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 

IX. 

'T was Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 

In festival and in triumphal sport, 

The much-renown'd St. Dennis being the cause; 

Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 

And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 

X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salemone, 

Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldovin, 
Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 

Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
The son of Pepin : — when his knights came hither. 
He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 

But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 

While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing ; 

Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king 

One day he openly began to say, 

" Orlando must we always then obey ? 

XII. 

** A thousand times I 've been about to say, 

Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 

Hamo, and Otlio, Ogier, Solomon, 
Each have to honour thee and to obey ; 

But he has too much credit near the throne, 
Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
By such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIII. 

" And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
To let him know he was a gallant knight, 

And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
But I know who that day had won the fight , 

If it had not for good Gherardo been : 

The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 

He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 

XIV. 

" If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 

When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christian cause had suffered shamefully. 
Had not liis valour driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there 's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor ! that all complain : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which I cross'd witih two and sixty counts. 



" 'T is fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
So that each here may have his proper part, 

For the whole court is more or less in grief; 

Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart ?" 

Orlando one day heard this speech in brief. 
As by himself it chanced he sate apart: 

Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, 

But much more still that Charles should give him credit. 

XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 

But Oliver thrust in between the pair. 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And thus at length they separated were 
Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there 
Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 
And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 

XVII. 

From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 

And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 
And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 

Stretch'd forth her arms (o clasp her lord again : 
Orlando, in whose brain all was not well. 

As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said, 

Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

XVIII. 

Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 

Which Aldabella thought extremely strange ; 
But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 

And his spouse toolc his bridle on this change, 
And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 

Of every thing which pass'd without demur. 

And then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
And far as pagan countries roam'd astray ; 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remember'd by the way; 

And wandering on in error a long space. 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

'Mid glens obscure, and distant lands, he found. 

Which form'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 

Descended from Angrante : under cover 
Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood," 

But certain savage giants look'd him over; 
One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 

And Alabaster and Morgante hover 
Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 
In daily jeopardy the place below. 

XXI. 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 

Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 

Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood, 

And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
We give you freely, since that you believe 

With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 
And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 

The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 

The reason why our gate was barr'd to you 

Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 



II 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



463 



XXIII. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 

These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 

As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 

XXIV. 

** These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 

For late there have appear'd three giants rough 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
When force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — ive are not enough : 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters change. 

XXV. 

** Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 

For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain 

That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 
But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in [bread, 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 
From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI 

*' The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 
Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 

And flings them, oor community to bury ; 
And all that I can do but more provokes." 

While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 

Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came tumbling over, 

So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XXVII. 

" For God sake, cavalier, come in with speed; 

The manna's falling now," the abbot cried. 
" This fellow does not wish my horse should feed. 

Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
" Of restiveness he 'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good will and aim applied." 
The holy father said, " I do n't deceive : 
They '11 one day fling the mountain, I believe." 

XXVIII. 

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 

And also made a breakfast of his own : 
" Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 

Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone. 
Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow ; 

As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife. 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

" That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must; 

You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just; 

If go you will, guard well against their iirts, 
For these are very barbarous and robust." 

Orlando answcr'd, " This I '11 sec, be sure. 

And walk the wild on foot to bo secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the groat cross on his front, 
" Then go you with God's bcnison and mine :" 

Orlando, after he had scaled tiie mount, 
As the abbot had directed, kept the lino 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes ubservant, 

Then ask'd him, '< If ho wish'd to stay as servant ?" 



XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease. 
But, said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 

I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train ; 

You with his monks so oft have broke the peace- 
Vile dog ! 't is past his patience to sustain." 

The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 

When he received an answer so injurious. 

XXXIl, 

And being return'd to where Orlando stood, 

Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging; 

It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 

And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 

So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 

But more than dead, he seem'd so stupified. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 
Said, " I will go, and while he lies along, 

Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?" 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long 

Especially Orlando, such a knight. 

As to desert would almost be a wrong. 

While the giant goes to put off his defences, 

Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 
To the right about — without wings thou 'rt too slow 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
'T was but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 

The giant his astonishment betray'd. 
And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on. 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 

XXXV, 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand, 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed: — 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand. 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd. 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would naught be found: 
I pray thee take liced of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman." 

XXXV II. 

And having said thus much, he went his way ; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in liim lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say 

" IIow ihink'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ?" 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
Ho suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
That if it had in fact fullillM its njission, 

And Koland not avail'd him of his targe, 

There wonlil have been no noeil of a physician. 

Orlando sot himself in turn to charge, 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The l.uit ffll ; but.o'crlhrown, h« 

Ilowovtr by no menus forgot Rlacone. 



464 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode, 
Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 

And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode, 
And shut himself at night within his berth. 

Orlando knock'd, and knockM again, to goad 
The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth, 

The door to open, like a crazy thing. 

For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him, 
And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 

Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him ; 
But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 

At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 
And to the gate he came with great regret — 

" Who knocks here ?" grumbling all the while, said he 

" That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see. 

XLI. 

" I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ; 

For Providence divine, in you and others. 
Condemns the evil done by new acquiantance. 

'T is writ on high — your wrong must pay another's ; 
From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 

Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 

I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 

XLII. 

Morgante said, " Oh gentle cavalier ! 

Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
The favour of your name I fain would hear. 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

XLIII. 

The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

"I have had an extraordinary vision; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone, 

And Macon would not pity my condition ; 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition; 
His timely succour set me safe and free. 
And I a Christian am disposed to be." 

XLIV. 

Orlando answer'd, " Baron just and pious. 
If this good wish your heart can really move 

To the true God, who will not then deny us 
Eternal honour, you will go above, 

And, if you please, as friends we will ally us. 
And I will love you with a perfect love. 

Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud ; 

The only true God is the Christian's God. 

XLV. 

** The Lord descended to the virgin breast 

Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 
If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest. 

Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 
Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test, 

Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 
Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
To which Morgante answer'd, •' I 'm content." 

XLVI. 

And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 
And made much of his convert, as he cried, 

" To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
To whom Morgante, " Lotus go," replied; 

" I to the friars have for peace to sue." 

Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 

Saying, " My brother, so devout and good. 

Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 



" Since God has granted your illumination. 

Accepting you in mercy for his own. 
Humility should be your first oblation." 

Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, malce known- 
Since that your God is to be mine — your station, 

And let your name in verity be shown ; 
Then will I every thing at your command do." 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 

XL VIII. 

" Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 
A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 

Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 

Through all the different periods of my days: 

And, as I said, to be your vassal too 
I wish, for your great gallantry always." 

Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 

And onwards to the abbey went their way. 

XLIX. 

And by the way about the giants dead 
Orlando with Morgante reason'd : "Be, 

For their decease, I pray you, comforted ; - 
And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me. 

A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred, 
And our true Scripture soundeth openly, 

Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 

Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 

L. 

"Because his love of justice unto all 
Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 

All who have sin, however great or small ; 
But good he well remembers to restore. 

Nor without justice holy could we call 
Him, whom I now require you to adore. 

All men must make his will their wishes sway. 

And quickly and spontaneously obey. 

LI. 

And here our doctors are of one accord. 

Coming on this point to the same conclusion, — 
That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord, 

If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 
For their unfortunate relations stored 

In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion,— 
Their happiness would be reduced to naught. 
And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LII. 

" But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
Which seems to him, to them too must appear 

Well done ; nor coukl it other wise befall : 
He never can in any purpose err. 

If sire or mother suffer endless thrall. 

They do n't disturb themselves for him or her;] 

What pleases God to them must joy inspire ;— 

Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 

LIII. 

" A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 
" Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 

How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 
And if the will of God seem good to me. 

Just, as you tell me, 't is in heaven obey'd — 
Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be ! 

I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, ' 

And carry them unto the holy monks. 

LIV. 

" So that all persons may be sure and certain 
That they are dead, and have no further fear 

To wander solitary this desert in. 
And that they may perceive my spirit clear 

By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtain 
Of darlmess, making his bright realm appear." 

He cut his brethren's hands off at these words. 

And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



465 



Then to the abbey they went on together, 
Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 

The monks who knew not yet the fact, ran thither 
To their superior, all in breathless rout, 

Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 
You wish to have this person in or out ?" 

The abbot, looking through upon the giant. 

Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 

I, VI. 

Orlando, seeing him thus agitated. 

Said quickly, '* Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 

And ha<h renounced his Macon false;" which here 
Morgante with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
Saying, " Thou hast contented me, oh Lord!" 

rvii. 
He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 

And more than once contemplated his size ; 
And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 

Know that no more my wonder will arise, 
How you could tear and fling the trees you late did, 

When I behold your form with my own eyes. 
You now a true and perfect friend will show 
Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LVIII. 

" And one of our apostles, Saul once named. 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 

Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 

' Why dost thou persecute me thus !' said Christ ; 

And then from his offence he was reclaim'd, 
And went for ever after preaching Christ, 

And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

" So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 

He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before !" 

LX. 

And thus great honour to Morgante paid 

The abbot : many days they did repose. 
One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 

And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 
The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 

Much armour was, and hung up certain bows ; 
And one of these Morgante for a whim 
Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 

Lxr. 
There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
" Morgante, I could wish you in this case 

To go for water." " You shall bo oboy'd, 
In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 

Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 
And went out on his way unto a fountain. 
Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 

LXir. 
Arrived there, a prodigious noise ho hears, 

Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 
Whereat from out his <iuiver ho prepares 

An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
And lo! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 

And onward rushes with tempestuous troud, 
And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 
So that the giant 's join'd by all tlie "boars. 
31 



LXIII. 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 

And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough ; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 

And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
He gave him such a punch upon the head* 

As floor'd him so that he no more arose, 
Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
The other pigs along the valley fled ; 

Morgante on his neck the bucket took. 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook. 

LXV. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there wero 
The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 

With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 

Marvell'd to see his strength so very great ; 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the water fresh and good. 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork ;— 

All animals are glad at sight of food : 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 
That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 

Of rankness and of rot there is no fear. 

For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 

And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honour great, 

A few days after this convivial scene, 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 

LXVIII. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 
To gallop, and to put him to the proof. 

Thinking that he a back of iron had, 
Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur !" 

And still continued pricking willi Uie spur. 

LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, " 1 am as light as any foathcr, 

And he has burst ; — to this what say you, count ?" 
Orlando answer'd, '* Like a ship's mast rather 

You seem to mo, and with the truck for front: — 
Let him go ; Fortune wills that wo together 

Should march, hut you on foot INlorganto still." 

To which the giant answer'd, "So I will. 

LXX. 

" When tlicre shall bo occasion, you will see 
How I approve my eotirnge in the fight." 

Orlando said, " ! really think you'll b«», 

If it should prove tJini'^ will, a goinlly knight; 

Nor w ill you nn|ipiiig there discover nie. 

l^ut never mind your horse, though out of si;;ht 

'T were best lo carry him into some wood, 

If but tlio means or way I understootl." 



• " nil ilrUo In iiiIIb Icitt "n (fun iiutinau'." I« !• itrwiilto •><«» V\i\ti 
»ho<iUl httvo Utfinllv nnd. i|mlp.l ihc t»rluiiinl turn* of n>Y oM filriMl 
■ ml .nil lor, J«rltion', mill tl>' "H »liicl> Im !>»» onuit lo lit hi|twn 



466 



TRANSLATION OF MORGAN TE MAGGIORE. 



LXXI. 

The giant said, " Then carry him I will, 
Since that to carry me he was so slack — 

To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
But lend a hand to place him on my back." 

Orlando answer 'd, " If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 

To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 
. As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXII. 

" Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 
As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 

I do n't know if the fact you 've heard or read ; 
But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 

*' But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
" And you shall see what weight I can endure. 

In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 

With all the bells, I 'd carry yonder belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The abbot said, " The steeple may do well. 

But, for the bells, you 've broken them, I w^ot." 
Morgante answer'd, " Let them pay in hell 

The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ;" 
And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 

He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 
Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ;" — 
And then he made two gambols witli the horse. 

rxxiv. 
Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 't is no prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd. 

Once more he bade him lay his burden by : 
" Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 
Morgante said, "I '11 carry him for certain." 

LXXV. 

He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 

Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay? 
" Morgante, here is naught to do indeed." 

The abbot by the hand he took one day, 

And said, with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 

He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 

LXXVI. 

The honours they continued to receive 
Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd : 

He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 

The lost days of time past, which may be blamed ; 

Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment, 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXXVII. 

" But in my heart I bear through every clime 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 

So much I love you in so short a time ; 

For me, from heaven reward you with all good 

The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 

Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 

And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 

LXXVIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 

Such fervour in his bosom bred each word ; 
And, " Cavalier," he said, '' if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd, 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I 've done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 



pitch. " Apxmch on the head,'' or " a punch in the head," — " 
zone in salla testa,"— is the exact tind frequent phrase of our b 
list*, who little dream that they are talking thp purest Tuscan. 



LXXIX. 

" We can indeed but honour you with masses, 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters. 

Hot suppers, dinners, (fitting other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters ;) 

But such a love for you my heart embraces. 
For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 

That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be, 

And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

" This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 

But you I Icnow are sage, and feel, and taste. 
And understand my speech with full conviction. 

For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward and benediction 

By whom you were directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due, 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 

txxxi. 

" You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, that the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost ; 

But months and years you could not stay in sloth. 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth ; 

iXXXII. 

" But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed. 
With these as much is done as with this cowl; 

In proof of which the Scripture you may read. 
This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 

By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 

But, if I 'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 

That here an angel was sent down fi-om heaven. 

I.XXXIII. 

" If you want armour or aught else, go in, 
Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose. 

And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
Orlando answer'd, " If there should lie loose 

Some armour, ere our journey we begin, 

Which might be turn'd to my companion's use. 

The gift would be acceptable to me." 

The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

I.XXXIV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 
Was covered with old armour like a crust. 

The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 

The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too smafl. 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly. 

Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 

LXXXV. 

'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 

By the great Milo of Agrante fell 
Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story on the wall was figured well ; 
In the last moment of the abbey's foe, 

Who long had waged a war implacable : 
Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him. 
And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 

LXXXVI. 

Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 
In his own heart, " Oh God, who in the sky 

Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ? 
Who caused the giant in this place to die ?'* 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 

From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 



POEMS 

NOT INCLUDED IN ANY COLLECTION OF LORD BYRON'S WORKS 
UNTIL AFTER HIS DEATH. 



THE BLUES. 

A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 



Nimium nd crede colori. 



■VirgU. 



O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue. 
Though your hair were as red as your stockings are i 



ECLOGUE FIRST. 

London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 

Ink. You 're too late. 

Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in flower, 
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the fashion ; 
So instead of " beaux arts," we may say " hbelle passion" 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 

Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There 's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords 

and Co. 
With their damnable — 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 

Whom you speak to? 

TVa. Right well, boy, and so does "the Row :" 

You're an author — a poet — 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 

To the Nine ; though the number who make some pretence 

To their favours is such but the subject to drop, 

I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces. 
As one finds every author in one of those places,) 
Where I just had been skimming a charming critique. 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek ! 
Where your friend — you know who — has just got such a 

threshing. 
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely ^'rrfrcuhing.''^ 
What a beautiful word ! 

Ink. Very true ; 't is so soft. 

And so cooling — they use it a little too oft; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
So they 've cut up our friend then ? 

7Va. Not left him a tatter- 

Not a rag of his present or past reput^ition, 
Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 

Ink. I 'm sorry to hear this ; for friendship, you know — 
Our poor friend I— but I thought it would terinitiatn so. 
Our friendship is such, I 'II read nolhiir^ to shock it. 
You don't happen to have; iho Review iu y<»ir pocket ? 

Ti-a. No: 1 lefi arom..! .|.>/,.„ nr;.i.t!.,,rs .•uid others 



(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, 
And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 

Lik. Let us join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture 7 

Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there 's not room 
for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

Tra. How can you know that till you hear him ? 

Ink. I heard 

Cluite enough ; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 

Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 

Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 

I 'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
Pump'd op with such eflfort, disgorged with such labour, 

That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 

neighbour. 

TVa. I make you ! 

Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 

Tra. To speak ill? 

Is that your deduction? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly /offotT), not set an example. 
The fellow 's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

7V«. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool 
makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Itik. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

Ink. There must bo attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jews'-harp lie nicknames his lyre, 
To call you to this hotbed. 



own It — t IS true — 



A spinster? 



Miss Lilac 



The Blue ! 



Tra. 
A fair lady- 

Ink. 

Tra. 

Ink. 
Tlic heiress ? 

Tra. The angel ! 

Ink. The devil I why, man '. 

Pray get out of this hobble ns fust as you ran. 
Von wed with Miss Lilac! 't would he your perdition: 
She 's a poet, a ciiymist, a mathematician. 

TVa. I say she 's an angel. 

Ink. Say ratlirr an anfh. 

If you and she marry, yoti 'II certainly wrnnpio 
I say she 's a Hlue, man, us bine as the ether. 

Tki. And is that any cause for not rominfj tojfether? 

Ink. Himiph! I can't sny 1 know any happy nlliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with Bcicncc. 
She 's so learned in all things, luid fond of concerning 
Herself in all matters conneetwl with learning. 
Thfti 

Tra. What? 

fnk. I perhaps may ai well hold my tonp'*" ; 



468 



POEMS 



But there '3 five hundred pe<^le can tell yoa you 're 
wrong. 
Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as Jew. 

Ink. Is it miss or the cash of manima you pursue ? 

Tra. Why, Jack, I 'U be frank with you — s<Hnething 
of both. 
The girl 's a fine girl. 

Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To har good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your own. I will bet. 

Tra, Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I demand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand. 

Ink. Why, that heart 's in the inkstand — that hand 
on the pen. 

Tra. A{Mx^)os — ^Will you write me a song now and 
then ? 

Ink. To what purpose ? 

Tra. Toa know, my dear friend, that in prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes : 
But in rhyme ^ 

Ink. Too 're a terrible sti(^, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it : and yet, in these times, tho-e 's no lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 

Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. In my name. I will copy them oat, 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

Ink. Are vou so far advanced as to hazard this ? 

Tra. ' Why, 

Do ycHi think me subdued by a Blue- stocking's eye, 
Bo &r as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
"What I 've told her in prose, at the least, as suUime ? 

Ink. As subUme ! If it be so, no need oi my Muse. 

Tra. But c<xisider, dear Inkel, she 's one of the 



Ink. As sublime ! — ^Mr. Tracy — ^I 've nothing to say, 

Stick to prose — ^As saUime ! ! — but I wish you good day. 

Thi. Nay, stay, my dear feDow^-consider — I 'in 



I own it ; but, pridiee, c<Mnpo6e me the song. 

Ink. As sukime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 
bad taste. 

TVa, I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
Can I say to you more ? 

Mc I see what you 'd be at : 

Too disparage my parts with insidious abuse, 
Till you think you can turn them best to vour own use 

Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 

/"*. ^ Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what : 

And you, who 're a man of the gay world, no less 
Than a poet of t' other, may easilv gu^ 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like you. and moreover my friend. 

Ink. No doubt ; you by this time sboukl know what 
is due 
To a man o f ■ b ut come-^let us shake hands. 

Tra. You knew, 

And you Jaww, my dear feDow, how heartily I, 
"VMiatever you puUish, am ready to buy. 

Ink. Th^ 's my bookseller's business ; I care not for 
sale; 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, 
And my own grand romance-^— 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puff'd in the '* Old Girl's Review." 

Ink. What Review ? 

Tra, 'T is the English " Journal de Trevoux f 

A clerical work of our Jesuits at hcmae. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 

If^k. That pleasure 's to come. 



Tra. Make haste then. 
Ink. TMiy so ? 

TVa. I have heard peofde say 

That it threatea'd to give op the ghost t' other day. 
Ink. Well, that is a sign of scwoe qiirU. 
Tra. No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout 1 

Ink. I 've a card, and shall go : but at present, as soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the 

mocffl. 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits.) 
And an interval grants £com his lecturing fits, 
I 'm engaged to the Lady Bluebotde's collation. 
To partake of a luncheon and leam'd cooveisation : 
'T is a sort of reimion for Scamp, (m the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold toogoe and praise. 
And I own, for my own part, that 't is not unpleasant. 
Will you go ? There 's Miss Lilac will also be presoit. 
Tra. That *• metal 's attractive." 
Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 

Tra. You should ralh» eoooorage my passion than 
shock it. 

But let us proceed : for I think, by the htnn 

Ink, Very true : let us go. then, before they can oome. 
Or else we 'A be kept here an hour at their levy, 
On the radt of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark ! Zounds, they '11 be cm us : I know by the drone 
Of dd Botherby's spouting, ex-cathedra tone. 
Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp I better join 
Your fideods, or he '11 pay you back in your own coin. 
Tra. AU fair; 't is but lecture for lecture. 
Ink. That's clear. 

But for God's sake let 's go, cr the bore will be here. 
Come, come : nay, I 'm (^ [Exit lyni,. 

TVa. You are right, and I 'II foQow ; 

'T is high time for a " Sic me servavU ApoUo.^^ 
And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes. 
All floddng to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Ladv Bludmtile's. 

[Exit TuACT, 



ECLOGCX SZCOSB. 

An Apartment in the House of Ladt Bi-CXBOTTLE. — 
A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle solus. 

Was there ever a man who was married so sony ? 
Like, a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
rSIy life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
]Mv davs, which oace pass'd in so gende a void. 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd: 
The twelve, do I say ? — of the wh<Je twenty-four. 
Is there one which I dare call my own any more ? 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining. 
What with learning, and teac^iing, and scribUing, and 

shining. 
In science and art, I Tl be curst if I know 
]Myself from my wife ; for although we are two, 
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shaD be done 
In a style that proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the biUs rfthe week (though they trooUe me sore) 
Is the numerous, hiraiorote, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue. 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost 
— For the biU here, it seems, b defrayed by the ' 
No pleasure 1 no leisure ! no thought for my poJns, 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains ; 
A smaller and chatter, glean'd out erf" reviews, 
Bv the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call 

A rabWe who know not But soft, here they come ! 

Would to God I were deaf! as I 'm not, I 'D be dumb. 



POEMS. 



469 



Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Blue- 
mount, Mr. Botherb y, Inkel, Tracy, Miss Ma- 
zarine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer, ^c. ^c. 
Lady Blud). Ah ! Sir Richard, good morning ; I 've 

brought you some friends. 
Sir Rich, {bows, and afterwards aside.) If friends, 

they 're the first. 
Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans ceremonie.^^ 
i Mr. Scamp, you 're fatigued ; take your chair there, next 
me. [They all sit. 

Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 
Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy- 

Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, to place 

ye; 
And you, Mr. Botherby — 

Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 

I obey. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Inliel, I ought to upbraid ye : 
You were not at the lecture. 

Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 

And when 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling ; but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 
Both. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that? there are two more. 
Both. Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a wing ? 

Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures 

next spring ? 
Both. Dick Dunder. 
Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not? 

Ink. No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira? 

Lady Bluem. With pleasure. 

Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that Winder- 
mere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings. 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and kings? 
Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 
Ink. As a footman? 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

I7ik. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his master; 
For the poet of pedlars 'twere, sure, no disaster 
To wear a new livery ; the more, as 't is not 
The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his coat. 
Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 

could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel ; we all know, 
my dear, 
'T is his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 't is one in " the Stamps :" 
He is made a collector. 

Tra. Collector ! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What ? 

Ink. 1 shall think of him oft when I buy a nt;w hat: 

There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 

Ink! I shan't go so fiir— I can have them at Grange's.* 

Lady Blueb. Oh fie ! 

Miss Lil. And for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You 'ro too bad . 

• Ornngp U or wr» a Umouf pattry-cook nud rmllerer in Piccadilly. 



Very good ! 



Both. 

Lady Bluem. How good ? 

Lady Blueb. He means naught — 't is his phrase. 

Lofly Bluem. He grows rude. 

Lady Blueb. He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 

Lady Bluem. Pray, sir ! did you mean 

What you say ? 

Ink. Never mind if he did ; 't will be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 

Both. Sir ! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 
'T was in your defence. 

Both. If you please, with submission, 

I can make out my own. 

Ink. It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend. 
Apropos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 

Both. At last ? 

Ink. Why I thought — that 's to say — there had past 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you know 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 

Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so 's the 
committee. 

Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our "pity 
And fear," as the Greek says : for " purging the mind," 
I doubt if you '11 leave us an equal behind. 

Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to have 
pray'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 

Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play 's to be 
play'd. 
Is it cast yet ? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 

Lady Blueb. We '11 all make a party, and go the Jirst 
night, 

Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 

Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I '11 do what I can, though my pains must be double. 

Tra. Why so? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I 'm happy to say, I 've no fears on that 
score. 
Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Ink. Never mind mine; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own lino. 

Lady Bluem. You 're a fugitive writer, 1 think, sir, 
of rhymes? 

Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to tlight. 

Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common; but 
time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Bfcoine its reproach. 

Ink. I 'vo no sort of objection, 

So I 'm not of the party to take the infection. 

iMdy Blurb. Perhaps you have doubts that tJiey ever 
will tnkr .^ 

Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake 
Have taken already, an<l still will continue 
To take — what tlu-y run. from a groat to a guinea, 
Of pension or place; — but the subject 's a bore. 

lM(ly Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming. 

Ink. Scamp ! do n't you foel soro ? 

What say you to this ? 

Scamp. They \n\vv merit, I own; 

Though their system's absunlity keeps it unknown. 

Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your Iccturos ? 

Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my 
strictures. 

f^idy lilutb. Come, a truce will) all tarUu'M :— ill© 
joy of my heart 



470 



POEMS 



•Per al ikai is ait. 



Sir Gcorse 



wAL^ 



ik^ vrLoid Setcrt^^Av, «k> protects ov dear Btod, 
Aad who gave Iim Ibs place, bas^dw y c Uiial regaid 
For &e poet, ibIm^ siigiBg cf 
Has iba^ oiirt dK ««y tD 
TVs. Ami Too^Scuap! — 

£^ Do ■>tcalii|nBScaa^»,iihi»'sak»d^aohaK»5'<l 



n«. Wel,OK 
takaoi 



I 
MJL 

Tokwi 



■otlKaaDy 
ladkt 



TUs « feast of ov reaaoB^ aiii Ant flf tiie ao^" 
Oh^ardevMr.Botfaofay! ^t^Blhiiw !— I 
Kofw fed sDck a laptore, I ^m readr fe> flf , 
I fed ao cfaetie--" aa iaijf f ■■ i aij aiK !"♦ 

Ak. Tncflepalfaewiaiair. 

TVs. ^-^ Iwiahlwr—iiJijiiyaa't. 



fifis 



THE THI7.D ACT C7 MANFRET. US' ITS 
(HlIGrS'AL ^.-£Ar-Z. AS FIRST SENT TO 
THE PUBLISHER.- 

ACT ra. 

ScEXE I.— ^ J3aa m tk Onfc < Jfa^h^ 
Ma:stxxi> • 
Jfbk Wbtislbehiv? 



mr. 



Mfnlj Inili^t. 



ite«Kt9 



S»j. 



Arealllia^i spfeposedofialhe 
AsIArectad? 

JHr. An,a7lardl,aieie^: 

Here 6 Ae k^ afld raiAi I 



Thoaan^st 



bi 



B a< 
till 



[£!rir Hebkav. 



Did Mt bela^ to irint I knew rf fife^ 
H dat I did not knoir plnlo80|iliT 
To be of al onr faailies die midiest, 
The Merest word diat ever faoPd dte e 



>ovkiC 
Upaaeaiik. Gwc it nay; *t is aa laniiBi i 
Ow^apaBttfeB»earA;dbe iidiliwi arfgjfa; 
For wkick poor FltOMeAKas ins ckaia'd to Ibbboi 

*T is the uuBii.1 qfalaeii"— rat fi < lii^'a^nBe faita 
"Tis&eYiaiaaarHevTCBi^aoEwdk: 'tisthe gv 
or the aad : H is the seini^ of shades as dM7 pas. 



The goUoi seotet, die so^ « Kalaa" fe^ 
And seated ianysodL It «il mt iMt, 
BotitiswdltobavekwMaii, Ihii^ hd imt. 
It hadi edbi*ed ht tfao^its with a aew aease, 
Aad I widda ay tdtfeto wmid ■ole do«a 
ThatdnreissKhafed^. WhoisAere? 

Rf mfci Hira^^y 

Bar. My lord, die AUhK of Sc Maorice era* 
TogieetyovprcaeKe. 

J&dsr Ae Abbott of St. Mattsice. 



JiriL SbdIhelpjBai,ayfiieadl,toBliltfeMR:«toe? 
JBML Idbakyoa; Botaof More, ar, tiQIdiBe. 
JB^ Aprapao Da yaa dhK wid 

3Va.I 



£iL It ad^ be of yore; bitwe aadnrs Mm leak 
To the hB^ as a badkid, Bwh MR dM dto Di^e. 
The ti«A is, each wiiier Bo<r qnle at his ease is. 
Abb (esDept vito bis pdnsher) dscs where he |'«'a*''H 
Bk *t B BOW BeHiy file, aad I ^ to die FBdL 

IVb. Aai 1% t^BBtam wiih yao there tilHis 



!;lBH5ttoB7Bales, 
For Hy'leetore BBtf week. 

Hk, HeMBTfBriwh— he^BBl 

Om of *< Elegaat Extncto.'* 

Lm^B^dk. Wdl,BBw we breaks; 

Btt laaeHber SCsB Diddfe hmles OS to si^ 

ibL TWa Bt tw> hon part aadbi^wv al w 




Peace be with Coot 
faah-fether! wdmaetoAeae 
Tliy preaaoe hoants thea^ aad bksaes those 
Who dwdl widuB dieaa. 

WobU it were ao, GOMI ! 



J^L Henaaa retire. Wlttt wadd my 

C¥ [llnf HCBJCAB. 

fAa^ IBckide;— A^ aad aed, mj 



Ov 

Majabobea^haay. 

Aad of whaly BBtBR, are abroad, 

dyiBB— aanWraaf 
Fa- ceatafies ; any be wha beais it av 

jBUl TissaiddnBhakkstoaawcE 
Wbadi aie fariaddea to fte seaach of ■ 
Tbat widi die AmrSkas of the duk abodes. 
The Boay eri aad ladii nidj spaite 
Which wbK die valey of the shade of deal 
Thoaiimi ii I kaow that widi nadc 
ThrfeloM 

■age thy Am^glBs, aad that dif 
Is as aa aacfaarBef's, were it bat holy. 
Aad what are th^ who doa 
My 

Tea ^ «M>B vassab — who do htok ca dwe 
WidtanatMfMeteyes. TI7 fife 's ia per9. 
Takok. 

I caae to save, aad aot di 



I wooid Bot pry ino Ay aeoet sod : 
! Bib if these t^^ be sooth, Aere sdi is 
) IviakallAeaepeapkwered-^jForpeaiteaeeaBdpitr.-raetaciedKe 
[£««■<. }Widi die* 



■I* Mr. i^ny. Jprfl H. 197. p^i 



POEMS. 



471 



Man. I hear thee. This is my reply •, whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish !* 

Abbot. Then, hear and tremble ! For the headstrong 
wretch 
Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal 

Man. Charity, most reverend father, 
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
That I would call thee back to it ; but say, 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Abbot. It may be there are 

Things that would shake thee — but I keep them back, 
And give the till to-morrow to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 
To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
To the monastery 

Man. I understand thee, — well 

Abbot. Expect no mercy ; I have warned thee. 

Man. {opening the casket.) Stop — 

There is a gift for thee within this casket. 

[Manfred opens the casket, strikes a light, 
and burns some incense. 
Ho! Ashtaroth! 

The Demon Ashtaroth appears, singing as follows: 

The raven sits 

On the raven stone. 
And his black wing flits 

O'er the milkwhitc bone ; 
To and fro, as the night winds blow, 

The carcass of the assassin swings ; 
Arid there alone, on the raven-stone,* 

The raven flaps his dusky wings. 

The fetters creak — and his ebon beak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
And this is the tune by the light of the moon 

To which the witches dance their round. 
Merrily, merrily, ciieerily, cheerily. 

Merrily, merrily, speeds the ball : 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds. 

Flock to the witches' carnival. 

Abbot. I fear thee not — hence — hence — 
Avaunt thee, evil one ! — help, ho! without there ! 

Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn — to its 
peak — 
To its extremest peak — watch with him there 
From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him not ; and, when the morrow breaks, 
Set him down safe in his cell — away with him ! 
Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
Convent and all, to bear him company? 

Man. No, this will serve for the. present. Take him up. 
Ash. Come, friar ! now an exorcism or two. 
And we shall fly the lighter, 

Ashtaroth disappears with the Abbot, singing aH 
follows : 
A prodigal son and a maid undone, 

And a widow ro-wi;dd(!d within thu year ; 
And a worldly monk and a pregnant nun, 
Are things which every day appear. 

Manfred alone. 
Man. Why would this fool break in on mo, and force 
My art to pranks fantastical? — no matter, 



* It will be pcrccivptl ihnt, at f«r an thli, Ihe orl|;iaal mtUerot Iho 
Third Act hn* been retained. 

• " RHvenntnnf , (Rnlu'nilfln,) a tinnMnlion of llie normnn woixj for 
the (jibhel, which in Qcrmajiy and BwllJiei land if [wrmnnfiit, uml matlo 
of ■tonti." 



It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens 
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul ; 
But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
After the hurricane ; the winds are still. 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
And there is danger in them. Such a rest 
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd 
In the immortal part of me. — What now ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain, 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the vnndow of the hall. 
Glorious orb !* the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb I that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearta 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for, near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 

Scene II.— 7^e Mountains— The Castle of Manfred at 
some distance — A Terrace before a Totver. — TSme, 
Twilight. 

Herman, M.inuel, andothcr Dependants o/"Manfred, 

Her. 'T is strange enough ; night after night, for 
years. 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have wo all been ofttimes ; but from it. 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute of auglit 
His studies tend to. To bo sure, there in 
One chamber where none enter; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To pore upon its mysteries, 

Mnmicl. 'T wore dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what tliou know'st already. 

Hi-r. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within th« 

castle — 
How manv years is 'l ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfrtvl'.-* birth, 

I .served his father, whom he na<i<,'lit resembles. 

//,r. There be more sons in like pre.lieamenl. 
But wherein do they »liHer .' 

Manuel. I s|»«'ak not 



• Thli tollloquy, and ««<"«« tW of th» iubMHHwl ifent.hR** Utn 
retained In the pieeenl form of Iho drnma. 



472 



POEMS. 



Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day ; he did not wallf the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in these few years.* 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some, to while away our watch : 
I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like it that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing seem'd to love, 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
The lady Astarte, his 

Her. Look — ^look — the tower — 

The tower 's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth ! what sound, 
What dreadful sound is that ? \A crash like thunder. 

Manuel. Help, help, there! — to the rescue of the 
Count, — 
The Count 's in danger, — what ho ! there ! approach ! 

[The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach, 
stupified with terror. 
If there be any of you who have heart 
And love of human kind, and will to aid 
Those in distress — pause not — but follow me — 
The portal 's open, follow. [Manuel goes in. 

Her. Come — who follows ? 

What, none of ye? — ye recreants! shiver then 
Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
His few remaining years unaided. [Herman goes in. 

Vassal. Hark ! — 

No — all is silent — not a breath — the flame 
Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone ; 
What may this mean? let 's enter ! 

Peasant. Faith, not I, — 

Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
I then will stay behind ; but, for my part, 
I do not see precisely to what end. 

Vassal. Cease your vain prating — come. 

Manuel, {speaking within.^ 'T is all in vain — 

He 's dead. 

Her. {within.) Not so — even now methought he moved ; 
But it is dark — so bear him gently out — 
Softly — how cold he is ! take care of his temples 
In winding down the staircase. 

Re-enter Manuel and Herman, bearing Manfred in 
their arms. 

Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
For the leach to the city — quick ! some water there ! 

Her. His cheek is black — but there is a faint beat 
Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 



AlUred, in the present form to " Some strange thing* in them, 



[They sprinUe Manfred with water; after apause 
he gives some signs of life. 
Manuel. He seems to strive to speak — come— cheerly, 
Count ! 
He moves his lips — canst hear him ? I am old. 
And cannot catch faint sounds. 

[Herman inclining his head and listening. 
Her. I hear a word 

Or two — ^but indistinctly — what is next? 
What 's to be done ? let 's bear him to the castle. 

[Manfred motions with his hand not to remove him, 
Manuel. He disapproves — and 't were of no avail — 
He changes rapidly. ] 

Her. 'T will soon be over. ' 

Manuel. Oh ! what a death is this ! that I should live 
To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
Of the house of Sigismund. — And such a death ! 
Alone — we know not how — unshrived — untended — 
With strange accompaniments and fearful signs — [ 

I shudder at the sight — but must not leave him. 

Manfred, {speaking faintly and slowly.) Old man ! 
't is not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred, having said this, expires. 
Her. His eyes are fix'd and lifeless. — He is gone. 
Manuel. Close them. — ^My old hand quivers. — He de- 
parts — 
Whither ? I dread to think — But he is gone L 



TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. 






[the following lines are the earliest written by- 
lord BYRON. THEY WERE ADDRESSED TO MISS CHA- 
WORTH, AFTERWARDS MRS. MUSTERS, IN 1804, ABOUT 
A YEAR BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.] 

Adieu to sweet Mary for ever ! 

From her I must quickly depart ; 
Though the fates us from each other sever, 

Still her image will dwell in my heart. 

The flame that within my heart bums 
If unlike what in lovers' hearts glows ;. 

The love which for Mary I feel 
Is far purer than Cupid bestows. 

I wish not your peace to disturb,. 

I wish not your joys to molest ; 
Mistake not my passion for love, 

'T is your friendship alone I request. 

Not ten thousand lovers could feel 

The friendship my bosom contains ; 
It will ever within my heart dwell. 

While the warm blood flows through my veins. 

May the Ruler of Heaven look down. 

And my Mary from evil defend ! 
May she ne'er know adversity's frown, 

May her happiness ne'er have an end ! 

Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu ! 

Farewell ! I with anguish repeat, 
For ever Ii'll think upon you 

While this heart in my bosom shall beat.. 



TO MISS CHA WORTH. 

Oh Memory, torture me no more, 
The present 's all o'ercast ; 

My hopes of future bliss are o'er» 
In mercy veil the past. 



POEMS. 



473 



Why bring those images to view 

I henceforth must resign ? 
Ah ! why those happy hours renew, 

That never can be mine ? 
Past pleasure doubles present pain, 

To sorrow adds regret. 
Regret and hope are both in vain, 

I ask but to — forget." 



1804. 



FRAGMENT. 

1. 

Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, 
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 

How the northern tempests, warring, 
Howl above thy tufted shade ! 

2. 
Now no more, the hours beguiling, 

Former favourite haunts I see ; 
Now no more my Mary smiling 

Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 



1805. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven I 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 
Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou see'st my soul is dark within; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 
No shrine I seek to sects unknown ; 

Oh point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile. 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rites beguile. 
Shall man confine his Maker's sway 

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 
Thy temple is the face of day ; 

Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. 
Shall man condemn liis race to hell 

Unless they bend in pompous form ; 
Tell us that all, for one who fell. 

Must perish in the mingling storm ? 
Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 

Yet doom his brother to expire. 
Whose soul a different hope supplies. 

Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 
Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or wo ? 
Shall reptiles; groveling on the ground. 

Their great Creator's purpose know ? 
Shall those, who live for self alone, 

Whoso years float on in daily crime- 
Shall they by Failii for guilt atone, 

And live beyond the bounds of Time? 
Father ! no propliel's laws I seek, — 

Thy laws in Nature's works a[)poar;— 
I own myself corrupt and weak. 

Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hoar! 
Thou, who canst guide the wamloring star 

Through trackless realms of ether's space ; 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose hand from pole lo polo I truce:— 
Thou, who in wisdom placed mo here. 

Who, when thou wilt, can lake me hence, 
Ah ! whilst I tread this eartlily sphcro, 

Extend lo mo tiiy wide defence. 
3K 



To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or wo betide, 
By thy command I rise or fall, 

In thy protection I confide. 
If, when this dust to dust restored, 

My soul shall float on airy wing, 
How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed. 
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer. 

Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful for all thy mercies past, 
And hope, my God, to thee again 

This erring life may fly at last, 

29tA Dec. 1806. 



FRAGMENT. 

[Wlien Lord Byron first went to Newstead on his arrival from Ab«r- 
deen, he planted a young oak in some pari of the grounds, and had aa 
idea that as if flourished, so should he. Some six or seven years after, 
on revisiting the spot, he found lils oak choked up by weeds, and almost 
destroyed. The following opening lines are a specimen of the poena he 
wrote on the occasion.] 

Young Oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride ; 

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, 

Thy decay not tlie weeds, that surround thee, can hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 

A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire, &c, &c. 



ON REVISITING HARROW, 

[Some years ago, wlien at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on 
a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as •. 
memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, Uis 
autbor destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On r«riiiliijg 
the place in 1807, he wrote under it the following stanzas.] 

1. 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 
Young Friendship's record simply traced 

Few were her words, — but yet though few, 
Resentment's hand tlie line defaced. 



Deeply she cut — but, not erased, 
The characters were still so plain, 

That Friendship once return'il, and gazed, — 
Till Memory liaii'd the words again. 

3, 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join'd hor g'^ntlc name; 
So fair the inscription soein'dourc more. 

That Frieiulship thought it still the same. 

4. 
Thus might the Record now have been ; 

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, 
Or Friendship's tears, Priiio rush'd betwoou, 

And blotted out the lino for ever! 



L'AMITIK EST L' AMOUR SANS AILES. 
1. 

Why shoulil my anxious broaal repine, 

n» cause my y<H>il» i^ fl«'i' ' 
Days of delight n>ay still bo mine ; 

Airuction is not tloud. 



474 POEMS. 


In tracing back the years of youth, 


8. 


One firm record, one lasting truth 


Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours, 


Celestial consolation brings ; 


My memory and my hope ; 


Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 


Your worth a lasting love ensures, 


Where first my heart responsive beat, — 


Unfetter'd in its scope ; 


" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 


From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 


2. 
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 
What moments have been mine ! 


With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, 


Let Adulation wait on kings. 
With joy elate, by snares beset. 


Now, half obscured by clouds of tears, 
Now, bright in rays divine ; 


We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

" Friendship is Love without his wings I'* 


Howe'er my future doom be cast. 


9. 
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 


My soul, enraptured with the past. 


To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own. 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone, 

*' Friendship is Love without his wings !" 


Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward, 

To me no bays belong ; 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies. 


3. 


Me the enchantress ever flies. 


Where yonder yew-trees Ughtly wave 


Whose heart and not whose fancy sings : 


Their branches on the gale. 


Simple and young, I dare not feign, 


Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 


Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 


Which tells the common tale ; 


" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 


Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 


December, 1806. 


TiU the dull knell of childish play 




From yonder studious mansion rings ; 






But here whene'er my footsteps move. 




My silent teai-s too plainly prove 


TO MY SON.* 


" Friendship is Love witiiout his wings !" 


1. 

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 


4. 
Oh Love ! before tliy glowing shrine 


My early vows were paid ; 


Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 


My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine. 


Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 


But these are now decay'd ; 


And smile to steal the heart away, 


For thine are pinions like the wind. 


Recall a scene of former joy. 


No trace of thee remains behind, 


And touch thy Father's heart, my Boy ! 


Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 




Away, away ! delusive power, 

Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 


2. 
And thou canst lisp a father's name — 


" Unless, indeed, without thy wings !" 


Ah, William, were thine own the same, 




No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 


5. 


My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 


Seat of my youth ! thy distant spire 


Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy. 
And pardon all the past, my Boy. 


Recalls each scene of joy ; 


My bosom glows with former fire, — 


In mind again a boy. 


3. 


Thy grove of elms, thy verdatnt hill, 


Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 


Thy every path delights me still, 


And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 


Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 


Derision sneers upon thy birth. 


Again, as once, in converse gay, 


And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 


Each dear associate seems to say 


Yet shall not these one hope destroy,— 


''Friendship is Love without his wings !" 


A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 


6. 
My Lycus ! wherefore dost tliou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 't will wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet. 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs; 


4. 
Why, let the world unfeeling frown. 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown ? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love. 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 


While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 




Absence, my friend, can only tell, 




" Friendship is Love without his wings!" 


* " The only circumstance I know, thai bears even remotely on the sub- 
ject of this poem, is the following. About a year or two before the date 


7_ 


affixed to it, he wrote to his mother, from Harrow, (as I have been told by 




a person, to whom Mrs. Byron herself communicated the circumstance,) 


In one, and one alone deceived. 


to say , that he had lately had a good deal of uneasiness on account of a young 


Did I my error mourn ? 


woman, whom he knew to have been a favourite of his late friend, Curzon, 


and who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towardi 


No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 


maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. This. 


I left the wretch to scorn. 


he positively assured his mother was not the case ; but, believing, as ho 
did firmly, that the child belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it 


I turn'd to those my childhood knew. 


should be brought up with all possible care, and he therefore entreated 


With feelings warm, with bosoms true. 


that his mother would have the kindness to take charge of it. Though 
such a request might well (as my informant expresses it) have discom- 


Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break, 


posed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she notwithstanding 
answered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly 
receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whatever 
manner he desired. Happily, however, the infant died almost, immedi- 
ately, and was thus spared the being a tax on the good nature of any 
body."— Mo we. 


For none but these my breast shall wake, 
" Friendship, the power deprived of wings !" 



POEMS. 



475 



5. 
Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son ; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 

6. 
Although so young thy heedless sire. 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee, 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 



1807. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF 
SOUTHWELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A Carrier, who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 
He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 
He could not carry off, — so he 's now carri-oru 

Sept. 1807. 



FRAGMENT, 

[The following lines form the conclusion of a poem writteu by Lord 
Byron under the melancholy impression that he should soon die-l 

Forget this world, my restless sprite. 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight. 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown. 
Bow down beneath th' Almighty's Throne ,— 

To him address thy trembling prayer 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 
Father of Light! to thee I call, 

My soul is dark within ; 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall. 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Who calm'st the elemental war. 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

1807. 



!i«TO MRS. * * ♦, 

ON BKINO ASKED MV REASON FOR ftUITTINQ ENGLAND IN 
THE BPRINQ. 

When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 

A moment linger'd near the gate. 
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 

And bade Wm curse liis future fato. 

But, wandering on through distant climen, 

Ho learnt to bear his load of grief; 
Just gave a sigh to other times. 

And found in busier scenes relief 



• ThU and the At. following po.m. were flr.l ,u,t,li.hr.l In Ilobhou.. . 
MtiotUany. 



Thus, Mary, will it be with me, 
And I must view thy charms no more ; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 

Escaping from temptation's snare ; 
1 cannot view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there.* 

Dec, 2, 1808. 



A LOVE-SONG, 

TO*******. 

Remind me not, remind me not, 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours 
When all my soul was given to thee ; 
Hours that may never be forgot. 

Till lime unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to b«. 

Can I forget — caast thou forget, 

When playing with thy golden hair. 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move 1 
Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet, 

With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast. 
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire, 
And still we near and nearer prest, 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close, 

And bid their lids each other seek, 

Veiling the azure orbs below ; 

While their long lashes darkening gloss 

Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 

Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 

I dreamt last night our love retum'd, 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy 
Than if for other hearts I biim'd. 

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not , 

Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
Till thou and I shall be forgot, 

And senseless as the mouldering stono 
Which tells tliat we shall be no more. 



STANZAS 

TO *****♦*• 

There was a time, 1 need not 

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 
When all our feelings were the same 

As still my soul hatJi been to thoc. 
And from thai hotir when first thy tongue 

Confoss'd tt love \vhi<-h equallM mine, 
Though nmny a gri«'f my luart linth wrung, 

Unknown oiul tlius tuifelt by tltine, 
None, non.' hath sunk so «l.>«p us this— 

To think how all that lovo Imlh llown ; 
Transient as every fniiltless kiss, 

Hut transient in thy breast ulono. 



. In the original IhUllnf •'""-'V.*:^"'""";' » rl'l' 'V»"*;L'*"'" 
The readlnf iIt.i. .boTO U from « KlS. cowlion by Lonl Uyroo. 



476 



POEMS. 



And yet my heart some solace knew, 
When late I heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true. 
Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 't is doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

What e'er thou art or e'er shalt be. 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine l 



TO THE SAME. 
And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady 1 speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 

My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine 

And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
It falls for one who cannot weep : 

Such precious drops arc doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



SONG 



Fill the goblet again, for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ; 

Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through life's 

varied round. 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have'tried in its turn ail that life can supply ; 

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 

I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can declare 

That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its spring. 

And dreams that affection can never take wing, 

I had friends! — who has not? — but what tongue will 

avow. 
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst 

change : 
Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — ^but on earth what 

appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 



Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow. 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
We are jealous ! — who 's not ? — thou hast no such alloy ; 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, was she not ? — but the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 
We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be forgiren, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



STANZAS 

TO * * *, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast : 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be v.hat I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest— 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'T is long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery; 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of it again ; 
For though T fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate. 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face, 
And even in crowds am still alone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam. 
And I will seek a foreign home ; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest veriest wretch on eartli 
Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or sooth in wo ; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, 
There 's not an eye will weep for me ; 
There 's not a kind congenial heart. 
Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 



POEMS. 



477 



To think of every early scene, 

Of what we arc, and what we 've been. 

Would whelm some softer hearts with wo — 

But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats on as it begun, 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
And why that early love was crost. 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I 've tried another's fetters too. 
With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
And I would fain have loved as well. 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to ovm 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'T would sooth to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eye§ to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.* 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

Falmouth Roadg, June 30th, 
1. 
Huzza ! Hodgson, we arc going. 

Our embargo 's off at last 
Favourable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvass o'er the mast 
From aloft the signal's streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gun is fired \ 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that our time 's expired. 
Here 's a rascal 
Come to task all. 
Prying from the custom-house 
Trunks unpacking, 
Cases cracking. 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket. 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

2. 
Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar ; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering, 

Wc 're imi)ali<'nt— push from shore. 
" Have a care ! that case holds licjuor — 
Stop the boat— r 'm sick— oh Lord !" 
'* Sick, ma'am, damme, you '11 be sicker 
Ere you 'vc l)oen an hour on board. ' 
Thus arc screaming 
Men and women, 
Gcmmon, ladies, servants, Jacks ; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling, 
Stuck tog(!tli<ir (tloso as wax.— 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere wo reach the Lisb<in Packet. 



Thu« corrected l.y him.clf In r copy of the Mi«. •Unny-lho two Utt 
II being, originally, na Ibllowi ;— 

" Thniigh whoreio'ermy hnrk mny run, 
I love but Ihee, I lote but one.'* 



3. 

Now we 've reach'd her, lo I the captain, 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 
Passengers their berths are clapt in. 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
" Hey day ! call you that a cabin ? 

Why 't is hardly three iict square ; 
Not enough to stow Glueen Mab in — 
Who the deuce can harbour there ?" 
"Who, sir? plenty- 
Nobles twenty 
Did at once my vessel fill." — 
** Did they ? Jesus, 
How you squeeze us ! 
Would to God they did so still: 
Then I 'd scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 



Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob I where are you ? 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you 1 

Here 's a rope's end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 

As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
Vomits forth — and damns our souls 
" Here 's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help !" — '< a couplet?" — " No, a cup 
Of warm water — " 
" What 's the matter ?" 
" Zounds ! my liver 's coming up; 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 

5. 

Now at length we 're oflT for Turkey, 

Lotd knows when we shall come back ! 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest i.9. 

As philosophers allow, 
Still to laugh by far tlie best is. 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things, 
Groat and small things, 
Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
While we 're quaffing. 
Let 's have laughing — 
Who the devil cares for more? — 
Some good wine ! and who would lack if, 
Even on board the Lisbon Packet ? 



LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT 
ORCIIOMENUS. 

IN THIS HOOK A TUAVKI.LER HAO WRITTRN :— 

" Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace tliti birlh atnl nursery of art : 
Noble his objo«:t, glorious is his aim: 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his nnmo." 



bbnbath wniru i.oni) hvron insrrtrp tub foi.i.owino 

RKPt.Y : — 

TiiK mod.-Bt l)ard, like many a bard unknown, 
Rhyiufs on our nninrs, hut wiKfly hides his own ; 
Hul yrt whoe'rr hi< Ix-. to say n<t worso, 
Hi^ n:uiio woiil.l Kiiii.' moro rrrdit than his Trrsc. 



478 



POEMS. 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. 



A FARCICAL EPIGRAM. 



Good plays are scarce, 

So Moore writes farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle — 

We knew before 

That Little 's Moore 
But now 't is Moore that 's little 



Sept. 14, 1811. 



EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON, 

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO ! 
CHEERFUL AND TO " BANISH CARE." 

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811 
" Oh ! banish care" — such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights, 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
When present, past, and future lower, 
When all I loved is changed or gone, 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one. 
Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men revere, 
By all unto thy bosom dear, 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'T were long to tell, and vain to hear, 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
And there is little in that tale 
^^Tiich better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has sufFer'd more than well 
'T would suit philosophy to tell. 
I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore, 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore. 
When she and I in youth have smiled 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain, 
And / have acted well my part, 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return'd the freezing glance she gave. 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
Have kiss'd, as if without design. 
The babe which ought to have been mine. 
And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass — I '11 whine no more. 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
The world befits a busy brain, — 
I '11 hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year. 
When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
Thou hear' St of one, whose deepening crimes 
Suit with the sablest of the times, 
Of one, whom love nor pity sways. 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise. 
One, who in stern ambition's pride, 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside, 
One rank'd in some recording page 
With the worst anarchs of the age, 
Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause, 
Nor with the ^ect forget the cause. 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS. 

Mm/, 1813. 
1. 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 

(I hope I am not violent,) 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant, 

2. 
And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 
To conunon sense his thoughts could raise— 
"VSTiy would they let him print his lays ? 

3. 

* + ♦ + * 



To me, divine Apollo, grant — O ! 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
I 'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 

6. 

And thus to furnish decent lining, 

My own and others' bays I 'm twining- 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" I lay my branch of laurel down, 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown 
Let every other bring his own." 

Lord Thurlow's Lines to Mr. Rogart. 

1. 

^'^ Hay my branch of laurel down.'''' 
Thou *' lay thy branch o( laurel down !" 

Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow ; 
And, were it lawfully thine own, 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou 
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 

Or send it back to Doctor Donne — 
Were justice done to both, I trow, 

He 'd have but little, and thou — none. 

2. 
" Then thus io form Apollo^ a crotwi." 
A crown! why, twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town, 

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers. 
They '11 tell you Phcsbus gave his crown. 
Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 

3. 

" Let every ether bring his oum.'* 
When coals to Newcastle are carried. 

And owls sent to Athens as wonders, 
From his spouse when the Regent 's unmarried, 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrels, 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel. 

And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COMPANY 
WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN COLD BATH 
FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Totn Brown,— 



POEMS. 



479 



For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
Yom- duarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag ; 

♦ * + * + + * 

But now to my letter — to yours 't is an answer — 

To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 

All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 

(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 

Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 

May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 

I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some 

codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got. 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurray 
And you 'U be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
MOORE. 

June, 1814. 

1. 
" What say /.^" — not a syllable further in prose; 
I 'm your man *< of all measures," dear Tom, — so, here 

goes ! 
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 

flood. 
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap. 
And Southey's last Paean has pillow'd his sleep ; — 
That " Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea. 
Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza. 
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man 



The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, 
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,— 
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman,- 
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. 
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different graces, 
+ + ***♦ 



The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, 

But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 

And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 

-mcre breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey, 

Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 

With majesty's presence as those she invited. 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 

[(K thi« Blraiino, wild poem, which extciula to nhont two hiitidrcd Mid 
tifty lines, tlie oidy copy thnt I^orri Byron, I believe, ever wnitc, hi- 
presented to Lord I lolliind. Though with u good deal or vigour ami 
imagination, it ia, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanlin^ 
the point und coridensation ol thnte clever verirs of IVIr. (.'uleridKc 
which Lord Hyron, ndopliuu a notion long prevalent, ha*atti'iliiite>l to 
Professor Porson. There are, however, some of the slnnios of " The 
Devil's Drive'' well worth preHervlng.] — Moort, 



The Devil rcturn'd to ht^U by two, 

And ho staid at home till five ; 
When he dinod on some honniridt^s done in ragout, 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stow, 
And sausages made of a sclf-slain Jew, 
And bethought himself what next to do, 



" And," quoth he, " I '11 take a drive. 
I walk'd in the morning, I '11 ride to-night ; 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I '11 see how my favourites thrive. 

2. 
" And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer, then — 

*' If I foUow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men. 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 

3. 

I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour-place ; 
But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends 

By driving my favourite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their race. 

4. 
" So now for the earth to take my chance." 

Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He stepp d across the sea. 
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road. 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

5. 

But first as ho flew, I forgot to say. 
That he hover'd a moment upon his way 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, 

That it blushed like the waves of hell! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he : 
" Methinks tliey have here little need of me ."' 

* + ♦*♦♦ 

8. 
But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing ; 
And the sweetest slight was the icy tear, 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair: 
And she look'd to licaven with that frenzied air 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there! ■ 
And, stretcli'd by the wall of a rnin'd hut, 
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dyinjj: 
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done, 

And tlio fall of the vainly flying ! 

♦ ♦ + + ♦♦ 

10. 
But tho I")evil has reach'd our clifls so white, 

And what did ho there, I pray ? 
If his eyes were good, ho but saw by night 

What we so«> «»vory day ; 
But htMnailc a tour, und kept a journal 
or all the wonilrous sights nortnrnnl, 
And ho sold it in slinros io the 3/ruof the Row, 
Who bid pretty wt-ll— but they r/i»(i/ft/ him, thou^! 

11. 

The I Vvil first saw, as ho tlu)H>;iil, the Matl 

Its conchnmn nnti his coal ; 
So instead of a pistol ho cook'd his tail, 

Anil soi/.od hiu) by tlio throat : 
" Aha," <nioth ho, " wluil have wo horo? 
'"r is a now lianmolu ami an unoieilt poor! 



480 



POEMS. 



12. 

So he sat him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear. 
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein, 

His brothel, and his beer ; 
" Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 

I would rather see him here." 

+ + *♦*♦ 

17. 

The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd " to the room" of the Commons ; 
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there. 

That " the Lords" had received a summons ; 
And he thought as a " quondam aristocrat," 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were 

flat; 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our ovm, 
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 

18. 
He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 
And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size — 

And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes. 

Because the Catholics would not rise, 

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 
And he heard — which set Satan himself a staring — 
A certain chief justice say something like swearing. 
And the Devil was shock' d — and quoth he, "I must go. 
For I find we have much better manners below. 
If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 

December, 1813. 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

Lioeii composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent 
being seen standing between the coSins of Henry VIII. and Charles I, 
in Ibe royal vault at Windsor. 

March, 1814. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties. 
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king ; 

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
—In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, 
Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both — to mould a G — ge. 



ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO 
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

17. 
There was a day — there was an hour, 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
Wlien that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

18. 
But thou forsooth must be a king 

And don the purple vest, 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment ? where 

The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star — the string — the crest ? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 



19. 
Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 

To make man blush there was but one ! 

AprU, 1814. 



TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 

And say'st thou that I have not felt. 

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me ? 
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 

On one unbroken dream of thee ? 
But love like ours must never be, 

And I will learn to prize thee less ; 
As thou hast fied, so let me flee. 

And change the heart thou mayest not bless. 

They '11 tell thee, Clara ! I have seem'd, 

Of late, another's charms to woo. 
Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd 

That thou wert banish'd from my view 
Clara ! this struggle — to undo 

What thou hast done too well, for me 
This mask before the babbling crew — 

This treachery — was truth to thee ! 

I have not wept while thou wert gone, 

Nor worn one look of sullen wo ; 
But sought, in many, all that one 

(Ah ! need I name her ?) could bestow. 
It is a duty which I owe 

To thine — to thee — to man — to God, 
To crush, to quench this guilty glow, 

Ere yet the path of crime be trod. 

But since my breast is not so pure. 

Since still the vulture tears my heart, 
Let me this agony endure. 

Not thee — oh ! dearest as thou art ! 
In mercy, Clara ! let us part, 

And I will seek, yet know not how, 
To shun, in time, the threatening dart 

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 

But thou must aid me in the task. 

And nobly thus exert thy power ; 
Then spurn me hence — 't is all I ask — 

Ere time mature a guiltier hour ; 
Ere wTath's impending vials shower 

Remorse redoubled on my head ; 
Ere fires unquenchably devour 

A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 

Deceive no more thyself and me. 

Deceive not better hearts than mine ; 
Ah ! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, 

From wo like ours — from shame like thine ? 
And, if there be a wrath divine, 

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, 
E'en now all future hope resign. 

Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
1. 

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 



POEMS. 



491 



Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness cease ? 
We repent — we abjure — we will break from our chain, — 
We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 

3. 

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one !— forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it — whatever thou mayst. 

4. 
And stem to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet. 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet, 

6. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 

May, 1814. 

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 

THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 
Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain-land wlfich spum'd the Roman chain, 
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ? 
That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 
And England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free 
But now 't is only shed for fame and thee ! 
Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 
But give support — the world hath given him fame ! 
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath— 't is all their fate allows— 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze. 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song, 
The soft lament for him who tarries long— 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave . 
'T is Heaven — not man — must charm away the wo 
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ; 
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 
May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 

May, 1814. 



ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING 
THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF 
JERSEY, TO MRS. MEE. 
When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
Whom servile Rome obcy'd, and yet abhorr'd 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave or just ; 
3L 



What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
What spread from face to face that wondering air ? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth, — that absence fix'd 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
And more decreed his glory to endure. 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less ; 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits, 
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart, 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — 
A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
And night with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee ; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than f;iir! 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose. 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And these must wait till every charm is gone 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none, 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom^ s loveliness, and thine. 

July, 1814. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

1. 
Belshazzar ! from the banqtiet turn, 

Nor in thy sensual fiilnoss fall : 
Behold ! while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall. 
Many a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
But thou, tlio weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die ? 

Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe witli them ; 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 

More than thy very diiideni, 
Where thou hast tarnisli'il every gem : — 

Then throw the worthlesM bauble by, 
Winch, worn by iht'o, ev'n slaves contemn; 

And learn like bettor men to die 

9. 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd, 
And ever light of word and worth, 

Whose soul expired ore youth decay'd, 
And li-ft tlieo but a mass of earth. 



482 



POEMS. 



To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
But tears in Hope's averted eye 

Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 

In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day 
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey : 
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away. 

The song they demanded in vain — it lay still 
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill, 
They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill, 
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill. 

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree, 
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be, 
Our hands may be fettered, our tears still are free, 
For our God and our glory, and Sion ! for thee. 

October, 1814. 



They say that Hope is happiness. 

But genuine Love must prize the past ; 

And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless — 
They rose the first, they set the last. 

And all that Memory loves the most 

Was once our only hope to be ; 
And all that hope adored and lost 

Hath melted into memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all, 

The future cheats us from afar, 
Nor can we be what we recall. 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 

October, 1814. 



LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF 
" THE SIEGE OF CORINTH." 
In the year since Jesus died for men. 
Eighteen hundred years and ten. 
We were a gallant company. 
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
Oh ! but we went merrily ! 
We forded the river and clomb the high hill. 
Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed. 
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote. 
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. 
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 
As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope, 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who counted beads. 
Some of mosque, and some of church. 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither ; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search 

Nor find a mo^ier crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone. 
And some are scatter'd and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills * 



The last tidin?a recently heard of Dervish (one of the Amaouts who 
lollowed me) slate him to be in revolt upon the monntainB, at the head 
of some of the bands common in that country in times of trouble. 



That look along Epirus' valleys. 

Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood oppression's ills ; 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home ; 

But never more, oh ! never we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily, 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird, and a wanderer. 

'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 

And sit with me t>n Acro-Corinth's brow ? 

Decemher, 1815. 



EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM 
Could I remount the river of my years, 
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears 
I would not trace again the stream of hours 
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers. 
But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. 
****** 

What is this death ?— a quiet of the heart? 
The whole of that of which we are a part? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless,— or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget. 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may be both— but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
Or have they their own language? and a sense 
Of breathless being ?— darken'd and intense 
As midnight in her solitude ?— Oh Earth ! 
Where are the past?— and wherefore had they birth ? 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave. 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold. 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 
*♦*♦♦♦ 



October, 1816. 



TO AUGUSTA. 



Mt sister! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 



POEMS. 



483 



Gro where I will, to me thou art the same — 

A loved regret which I would not resign. 

There yet are two things in my destiny,— 
A world to roam through, and a home witii thee. 
II. 

The first were nothing — had I still the last, 

It were the haven of my happiness ; 

But other claims and other ties thou hast, 

And mine is not the wish to make them less. 

A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 

Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 

Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
III. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been 

In other elements, and on the rocks 

Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 

I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks. 

The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 

My errors with defensive paradox ; 

I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 
The careful pilot of my proper wo. 

IV. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray 5 
And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : 
But now I fain would for a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 

V. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 

I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 

And when 1 look on ihis the petty spray 

Of my own years of trouble, which have roU'd 

Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 

Something — I know not what — does still uphold 

A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain. 

Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain, 
vr. 
Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 

The chief companion of a calmer lot. 
vir. 
I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think 1 see 

Some living thing to love— but none like thee. 

VIII. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation;— to admire 
Is a brief fooling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 



• Admlrnl By.on wn» remi.rkablc lor iinvor inixkliiK a voynRo wlllimil ii 
UmiHJdt. He woi known to the nullorg liy llic facelious nuiiio ol I oul- 
weutlier Juck." 

" Hilt though It were lemiicst-toit, 

NlilUil. I.iirk coiil.l not be lout." 
He relnincd snfely IVoin llii- wreck of the Wr.Rer, (In Anion ■ »oyBKP.) 
kiKt mibieciucntly .ii..ir.inHvi,ul«cJ Ui« worl.l, many yuart ufl.i-, atcoin- 
mandei of i> «i tnilur e x |>«(lition . 



Oh that thou wert but with me I — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show ;- 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy. 
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

X. 

I did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
Ere thai or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

XI. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 

XII. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one : 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
The earliest — even the only paths for me— 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept ; 
/ had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

XIII. 

With false ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with love, and least of all with fame; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make — a nsime. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 

And for the fiiture, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my rare ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
My years have been no slumber, but Uie prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which miglit have fill'd a coiilury. 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

XV. 

And for the renuiant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the past I foci 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded siun 
Of struggles, happiness at timrs would stt-al, 
And for tho present I would not honnnib 
My ffflings farther. — Nor shall I conirul 
Tiiat with all this I still can look around 
And worship nature with a thought profound. 

XVI. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
Wo were and art!— I am, even as thou art— 
rji'ings wlio ne'er eaeii other can resign; 
It is llic same, together or apart, 
From lifo's conimencenient to ita slow dnclino 
We are «'nlwined— let ilealli come slow or fart, 
The tie which bound tlio first endures llio lost ! 

October, 1816. 



TIm l*k« ol N»«MMa Abbv 



4d4 



POEMS. 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. 

In this beloved marble view, 

Above tlie works and thoughts of man, 
What Nature could, but would not, do, 

And beauty and Canova can I 
Beyond imagination's power, 

Beyond the bard's defeated art, 
With immortality her dower, 

Behold the Hden of the heart ! 

November, 1816. 



FRAGMENT OF A POEM ON HEARING 
THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.— 1816. 

And thou wert sad — yet was I not with thee ; 

And thou wert sick — and yet I was not near. 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not, and pain and sorrow here. 
And is it thus 1 — ^It is as I foretold. 

And shall be more so : — &c. &c. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

1. 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here 's a double health to thee ! 

2. 
Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 

And a smile to those who hate ; 
And, whatever sky 's above me. 

Here 's a heart for every fate. 

3. 
Thou^ the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

4. 
Were 't the last drop in the well. 

As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

5. 

With that water as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

July, 1817. 



STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO. 

1. 
River, that rollest by the ancient walls. 

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 

A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 

2. 
What if thy deep and ample stream should be 

A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 

Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 

3. 

What do I say — a mirror of my heart? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 



Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not for ever; 

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, 

5. 

But left long wrecks behind, and now again. 

Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, 

And I — to loving one I should not love. 
6. 
The current I behold will sweep beneath 

*Her native walls and murmur at her feet ; 
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 

The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

7. 
She will look on thee, — I have look'd on thee. 

Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'er 
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see. 

Without the inseparable sigh for her ! 

8. 
Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, — 

Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now: 
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 

That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

9. 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more ; 

Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ?— 
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 

I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 
10. 
But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth} 
But the distraction of a various lot, 

As various as the climates of our birth. 

11. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land. 

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 
Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 

By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 
12. 
My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 

I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 
In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 

A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 

13. 

'T is vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
Live as 1 lived, and love as I have loved ; 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 

June, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE KEPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S 
FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless, 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise 

His offspring, who expired in other days 
To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
This is to be a monarch, and repress 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits. 
For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 

Were it not easy, sire ? and is 't not sweet 

To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, 
A despot thou, and yet thy people free. 

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

August, 1819. 

• The Countes« GuiceioU. 



POEMS. 



485 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 

TRANSLATION FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE, 
CANTO FIFTH. 

" The laaid where I was bom sits by the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends. 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 

But Caina waits for him our life who ended :" 
These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. 

Since first I listen'd to these souls offended, 
I bow'd my visage and so kept it till — 

(then >j 
" What think'st thou?" said the bard ; \ when J 
unbended. 

And recommenced : " Alas ! unto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies 
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" 

And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes. 
And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 

But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs. 
By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
So as his dim desires to recognise ?" 

Then she to me : " The greatest of all woes 



i recall to mind 
Isto ( 



remind us of ) our happy days 
i this i 

In misery, and ( that > thy teacher knows. 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sjTnpathy, 

i relate ) 
I will ( do* even > as lie who weeps and says. ■ 
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. 
Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
All o'er discolour'd by that reading were ; 

C overthrew > 
But one point only wholly \ us o'erthrew ; > 

( desired ) 
When we read the ( long-sighed for J smile of her, 

( a fervent ) 
To be thus kiss'd by such ( devoted 5 lover, 
He who from me can be divided ne'er 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! 

That day no further leaf we did uncover. 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 
And fell down even as a dead body falls." 

March, 1820. 



THE IRISH AVATAR.f 

1. 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, 
And her ashus still float to their homo o'er the tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, 
To the long-cherish' d isle which ho loved like his — 
bride. 



• In lome of Iheeiliiloiii, it ii " diro," iuolhcrg " foro-,"— anetienlUl 
difference Ijolweeii " ■uyii.K" ami " iloing," which I know not hOW to 
decide. A»k Foncolo. The d— d ediliont drlT« ma iu»u. 

t On the Kiug'i vitil lo Irelaod in 1821. 



True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause 

For the few little years, out of centuries won. 

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her 
cause. 



True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more, 

And the famine which dwelt on her freedoraless cragi 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

4. 

To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth , 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 

5. 

But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roU'd from the waves ! 
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, 

With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves ! 

6. 

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 

But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er ! 
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart ! 

7. 
Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, 

And a new spring of noble affections arise — 
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain. 

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. 

8. 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ! 
Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 

With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow- 
Such servile devotion might shame him away. 



Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 

Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 

10. 

Ever glorious Grattan I the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest I 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

11. 

Ere TuUy arose in the zenith of Rome, 

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — 
But Grattan sprung up like a God from tlie tomb 

Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one ! 

12. 

With the skill of an Orjiheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, [mind. 

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from iJio glance of his 

13. 

But back to our thrmc ! Back to dcspot.s and slaves ! 

Feasts furnish'd by Kojuinc ! rejoicinj,'8 by Pain ! 
True Freedom but wrtcomes, while slavery Jitill nitws, 

When a week's soUirnalia halli U>t»jiiird her chain. 

M. 
Let Uie poor squalid spU-mlour thy wreck con afford 

(As llie bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 
Gild over the palace. Lo! Krin. thy lord! 

Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blenings < 



486 



POEMS. 



15. 
Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 

With Tvdiat monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield 
their prey ? 

16. 
Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to rdgn^ — 
To rdgn ! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 
The cause of the curses aU annals contain, 
From Caesar the dreaded to George the despised 

17. 
Wear, Fingal, thy trappings ! O'CormclI, proclaim 
His accomplishments! His!! ! and thy country con- 
vince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, 

And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young. 
prince ! 

18. 
Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 

The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? 
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns ? 

19. 
Ay i " build him a dwelling !" let each give his mite ! 

Tin, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 

And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! 

20. 
Spread— spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast. 

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff*d to the gorge ! 
And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last 

The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd " George !" 

21. 
Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they groan like thy people, through ages of wo! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, 
Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has 
to flow. 

22. 
But let not his name be thine idol alone — 

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 
Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still be thine own ! 
A wretch, never named but with curses and jeers, 

23. 
Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, 

Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil. 
Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth. 

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile ! 

24. 
Without one single ray of her genius, without 

The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race— 
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt 

If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 

25. 
If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd. 

Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring 

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, 

Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 

26. 
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! On ! Erin, how low 

Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 

The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 

27. 
My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right. 

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free. 
This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy fight. 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for 
thee! 



Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, 
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons, 

And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. 

29. 
For happy are they now reposing afar, — 

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 
Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 

And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 

30. ■ 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! I 

Their shjides cannot start to thy shouts of to-day, — ' 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 

3L 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, 
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled 

There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 

32. 
Or, if aught in my bosom cSn quench for an hour 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon 
power, 
'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore. 

September im, 1821. 



STANZAS. 

TO HER WHO BEST CAN XTWDERSTAWD THEM. 

Be it so ! we part for ever ! 

Let the past as nothing be ; — 
Had I only loved thee, never 

Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 

Had I loved and thus been slighted, 
That I better could have borne ; — 

Love is quelled, when unrequited. 
By the rising pulse of scorn. 

Pride may cool what passion heated, 
Time will tame the wayward will ; 

But the heart in friendship cheated 

Throbs with wo's most maddening thrill. 

Had I loved, I now might hate thee. 

In that hatred solace seek, 
Might exult to execrate thee, 

And, in words, my vengeance wreak. » 

But there is a silent sorrow. 

Which can find no vent in speech, 

Which disdains relief to borrow 
From the heights that song can reach. 

Like a clankless chain enthralling, — 
Like the sleepless dreams that mock, — 

Like the frigid ice-drops falling 
From the surf-surrounded rock. 

Such the cold and sickening feeling 
Thou hast caused this heart to know. 

Stabbed the deeper by concealing 
From the world its bitter wo. 

Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee 
All that fancy's self could paint, 

Once it honoured and esteemed thee, 
As its idol and its saint ! 



POEMS.- 



487 



More than woman thou wast to me ; 

Not as man I looked on thee ; — 
Why like woman then undo me ! 

Why " heap man's worst curse on me." 

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 

Friendship's smile, and woman's art, 

And, in borrow'd beauty blooming, 
Trifling with a trusted heart ! 

By that eye which once could glisten 
With opposing glance to me ; 
By that ear which once could listen 
To each tale I told to thee ;— 

By that lip, its smile bestowing, 

Which could soften sorrow's gush ; — 

By that cheek, once brightly glowing 

With pure friendship's well-feigned blush; 

By all those false charms united, — 
Thou hast wrought thy wsoiton will. 

And, without compunction, blighted 
What *' thou wouldst not kindly kill." 

Yet I curse thee not in sadness, 
Still, I feel how dear thou wert ; 

Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness- 
Doom thee to thy just desert! 

Live ! and when my life is over. 

Should thine own be lengthened long, 

Thou may'st then, too late, discover 
By thy feelings, all my wrong. 

When thy beauties all are faded, — 
When thy flatterers fawn no more, — 

Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
Some regardless reptile's store,— 

Ere that hour, false syren, hear me ! 

Thou may'st feel what I do now, 
While my spirit, hovering near thee, 

Whispers friendship's broken vow. 

But — ^"tis useless to upbraid thee 
With thy past or present state ; 

What thou wast, my fancy made thee, 
What thou art, I know too late. 



STANZAS 

WBITTBM ON THB EOAD BBTWBEN PLOBBNOB AND PISA 

December, 1921. 

1. 
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

2. 
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? . , i i 

'T is but as a dead flower with May-dew boBprmkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? 

3. 
Oh Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to sec the bright eyes of thn iloar one discover 
She thought that I was not unwortliy to lovo hi-r. 



4. 
2%ere chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays Utat surround thee; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 



IMPROMPTU. 

ON LADY BLESSINGTON EXPRESSING HER INTENTION « 

TAKING THB VILLA CALLED "iL PABADISO," 

NEAR GENOA. 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 

The reclaim'd Paradise 
Should be fi-ee as the former from evil ; 

But if the new Eve 

For an apple should grieve. 
What mortal would not play the Devil ?* 

April, 1823. 



TO THE COUNTESS OP BLESSINGTON. 

1. 

You have ask'd for a verse : — the request 
In a rhymer 't were strange to deny ; 

But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

2. 
Were I now as I was, I had sung 

WTiat Lawrence has painted so well ; 
But the strain would expire on my tongue, 

And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

3. 

I am ashes where once I was fire, 
And the bard in my bosom is dead; 

What I loved I now merely admire, 
And my heart is as gray as my head. 
4. 

My life is not dated by years- 
There are moments which act as a plough. 

And there is not a furrow appears 
But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

6. 

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 

To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 
For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain. 

April, 1823. 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR. 

MlMolooghi, Jan. n,18M. 
1. 
'T 18 time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move! 
Yet, though I cannot bo beloved, 
Still let me lovo ! 



My days are in the yellow loaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
Tho worm, thn canker, and the griof 
Aro mine alone ! 



• The Ocnn«M win had »lr»«dy «npll»»t thli thrt.dhjrt »♦« to Wm 
.elf Taking ll Into llwlr h»»di that thU »ill« had b»#n flajd oo ** 6* 
o«m reildcnc., they aaM, " II Dlarolo « ancora tntralo In rw*«M 



488 



POEMS. 



S. 
The fire that on my bosom preys 
Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze— 
A funeral pile ! 

4. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 

And power of love, I carmot share, 

But wear the chain. 



But 't is not thus — and 't is not 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor i 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

6. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shieki, 
Was not more fi-ee. 



Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 
Awake, my spirit ! Think through 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

8. 
Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood I — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

9. 

If thou regret st thy youth, why live ? 

The land of honourable death 

Is here : — up to the field, and give 

Away thy breath ! 

10. 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
And take thy rest. 



DON JUAN. 



Difficile est proprie communia dicere. 

HOR. Epi^l. ad. Pison. 
Dost thou think, becaufe thou art virtuous, there shall be no more 
Cakes and Ale?— Yes, by St. Anne ; and Ginger shall be hot i' the 
mo\iih, loo.— Twelfth Nig/it ; en- What you— Will.— 

SHAKSPEARE. 



CANTO I. 



I WANT a hero : — an uncommon want, 

When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers he is not the true one ; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan; 
We all have se-en him in the pantomime 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

11. 
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 

Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, 
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, 

And fiU'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now ; 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 

Followers of fame, " nine farrow" of that sow ; 
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 

III. 
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 

Petion, Clootz, Danton^ Marat, La Fayette, 
Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 

And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, De.ssaix, Moreau, 

With many of the military set, 
Exceedingly remarkable at times, 
But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war. 
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 

There 's no more to be said of 'I'rafalgar, 
'T is with our hero quieily inurn'd; 

Because the army 's grown more popular, 
At which the naval |)e<)plo are conci'rn'd : 

Besides, the prince is all f )r tlio land-scrvico, 

Forgetting Duncan, NijIsoii, Ilowe, ami Jcrvis. 

v. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon, ' 

And since, excoeditig valorous and Ka;.;i-, 
A good deal like him loo, lli(>u<;li i\u'\\c the same nonf, 

But then they shoni! not on (lie poet's page, 
And 80 have boon forgotten : — I condemn iiont), 

But can't find any in tho present age 
Fit for my poem, (that is, for my new one ;) 
So, as I said, I 'II take my tritiud Ddu Juan. 
3 M 



Most epic poets plunge in " medias res," 

(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road,) 

And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
What went before — by way of episode, 

While seated after dinner at his ease, 
Beside his mistress in some soft abode. 

Palace or garden, paradise or cavern, 

Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 

VII. 

That is the usual method, but not mine — 
My way is to begin with the beginning ; 

The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning. 

And therefore I shall open witli a line, 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning,) 

Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 

And also of his mother, if you 'd rather. 

VIII. 

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 

Famous for oranges and women — he 
Who has not seen it will be much to pity. 

So says the proverb — and I quite a^ee ; 
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 

Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see : — 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
A noble stream, and call'd tlie Guadalquivir. 

- IX. 

His father's name was Jose — Don, of course 

A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, ho traced his source 

Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain ; 
A bettor cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 

Or, being mounted, o'er got down again. 
Than Jose, who i)egot our hero, who 
Begot — but that 's to come — Well, to renew : 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, faniod 

For every briuich of every science known — 

In every Christian Uuignago ever namod, 
With virtues e(|uallcd by lu'r wit alone, 

She made the cleverest people i|uito usluimed. 
And oven the good with inward envy groan, 

Findnig themselves so very n»u<-h exceeded 

In their own way by all (he things thai .she did. 

XI. 

Her memory was a mnie ; s\\o kni'W by heait 
All (y'aldoron an<l groaler part of L(»|h'', 

So tliul if any at:lor niiss'il his part, 

She could huvfi served him for the proiuptfr'ii copy; 

For her Feinagle'H were an iwele.ss ail. 
And ho hintself obliged lo shut up »hof>— h« 

t Miuld nev(<r nuUto u meniorv no line oj* 

That which adorn'd the braui of IJonna Inox. 



490 



DOJN' JUAN. 



Her favourite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 

Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; 

In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, 

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 

And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, " the Lord's prayer," 
And Greek, the alphabet, I 'm nearly sure ; 

She read some French romances here and there. 
Although her mode of speaJiing was not pure : 

For native Spanish she had no great care, 
At least her conversation was obscure ; 

Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem. 

As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 

XIV. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 
And said there was analogy between 'em ; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 

But I must leave the proofs to those who've seen 'em ; 

But this I 've heard her say, and can't be wrong. 

And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em, 

" 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means ' I am,' 

The English always use to govern d — ^n." 



XV. 

♦ + 



In short, she was a walking calculation, 

Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, 
Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, 

Or " Coeleb's Wife" set out in quest of lovers, 
Morality's prim personification, 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
To others' share let '* female errors fall," 
For she had not even one—the worst of all. 

XVII. 

Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
Of any modern female saint's comparison; 

So far above the cunning powers of hell. 
Her guardicui angel had given up his garrison ; 

Even her minutest motions went as well 

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison 

In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her. 

Save thine ** incomparable oil," Macassar ! ^ 

XVIII. 

Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours. 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours,) 
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind. 
With no great love for learning, or the learn'd. 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'ertum'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two, 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 



Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 
And such indeed she was in her moralities ; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit. 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities. 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 
Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can. 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

That you might " brain them with their lady's fan ;*' 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard. 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 

And why and wherefore no one understands, 

XXII. 

'T is pity learned virgins ever wed 
With persons of no sort of education, 

Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred, 
Grow tired of scientific conversation : 

I do n't choose to say much upon this head, 
I 'ra a plain man, and in a single station. 

But — oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual. 

Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all? 

XXIIt. 

Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why 

Not any of the many could divine, 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
J loathe that low vice curiosity ; 

But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
"■T is in arranging all my friend's affairs. 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 
Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 

I think the foolish people were possess'd. 
For neither of them could I ever find. 

Although their porter afterwards confessed — 
But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind. 

For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing. 

And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 

His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 

Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth 

To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 

To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXVI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life. 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
They lived respectably as man and wife. 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only bad; 

Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had. 

Save that her duty both to man and God 

Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 



DON JUAN. 



491 



She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 

All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors, 

Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted ;) 
The hearers of her case became repeaters. 

Then suivocates, inquisitors, and judges, 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes, 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 

Who saw their spouses kiU'd, and nobly chose 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 

And saw his agonies with such sublimity, 

That all the world exclaim'd, " What magnanimity !" 

XXX. 

No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us, 

Is philosophic in our former friends ; 
'T is also pleasant to be deemed magnanimous, 

The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyers call a " malus animus,^'' 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends ; 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue. 
But then 't is not my fault if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

/ 'yn not to blame, aa you well know, no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional ; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 

By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all ; 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends had tried at reconciliation, 

Then their relations, who made matters worse ; 

('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't say much for friend or yet relation :) 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a foe was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 

He died: and most unluckily, because. 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned in those kinds of laws, 

(Although their talk's obscure and circumspect,) 
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 

A thousand pities also with respect 
To public feeling, which on this occasion 
Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 

His hoaso was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say : 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an hono\jrablc man, 

That I must say, who knew him very well ; 

Therefore his frailties I '11 no further scan, 
Indeed there were not many more to toll ; 

And if his passions now and then outran 
Discretion, and were not so pcaceabi*! 

As Numa's, (who was also nanifd I'onipilius,) 

lie had been ill brought up, and was bom bilioua. 



XXXVI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow ! he had many tilings to wound him, 

Let 's own, since it can do no good on earth ; 
It was a trying moment that which found him. 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 

Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him ; 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 

xxxvii. 
Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery-suit, and messuages, and lands, 
Which, with a long minority and care, 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 

And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 
An only son left with an only mother 
Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest of women, even of widows, she 

Resolved tliat Juan should be quite a paragon, 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree, 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon:) 

Then for accoraplislimcnls of chivalry, 

In case our lord the king should go to war again, 

He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 

And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donwi Inez nK>st desired. 
And saw into herself each day before all 

The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 
Was that his breeding should be strictly moral '-, 

Much into all his studies she inquired. 

And so they were submitted first to her, all, 

Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 

To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead. 

The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use. 

In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
But not a page of any thing that 's loose, 

Or hints continuation of the species. 

Was ever suftered, lest ho should grow vicious. 

XLI. 

His classic studies made a little puzzle, 

Because of filthy loves of ^xls and gtxldcsses, 

Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 
But never put on pantaloons or boddices ; 

His reverend tutors had at timos a Uissle, 
And for their .<Eneida, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 

For Donna Inez dreaded the mytliology. 

XLII. 

Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses sliow him ; 

Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample ; 
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem ; 

I do n't think Sappho's Odo a good example, 
Although ' I.onginus tells us there is no hymn 

Whore the sublime soars forth on win^s more ample ; 
But Virgil's songs are pure, except lliat horrid ono 
Beginning with '• fhrmosuvi pantor Con^don.^* 

XMM. 

liUrrolius' irreli;;iiMi is too strong 

For earlv stomaohs, to prove wholctome food, 
I can't help thinkiu.<r Juvinal wiw wron;», 

Although no duubi hi-s real intent waa good, 
For speakin^' out so plainly in his s««i){. 

So much iiuUed as to be downrij{hl rudo ; 
And then what proper pnn.»n can be partial 
To all those nauseous ejii^rauis of Martial? 



492 



DON JUAN. 



Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
Expurgated by learned men, who place, 

Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision. 
The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 

Too much their modest bard by this omission. 
And pitying sore his mutilated case, 

They only add them all in an appendix,'^ 

Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 

For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them back into their separate cages. 

Instead of standing staring altogether. 

Like garden gods — and not so decent, either. 

XLVI. 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they ' 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 

Could turn their optics to the text and pray 
Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself; and gave her son another. 

XL VII. 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 

He did not take such studies for restraints ; 

But how faith is acquired, and then insured. 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 

Which make the reader envy his transgressions. 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right, 

If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; - 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one 

You might be sure she was a perfect fright ; 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 

Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace; 

At six a charming child, and at eleven 
With all the promise of as fine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 
He studied steadily and grew apace, 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven : 
For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said he was a charming child. 
At twelve, he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a litde wild. 

They tamed him down among them : to destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, 
At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

I.I. 
I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 

But what I say is neither here nor there ; 
I knew his father well, and have some skill 

In character— but it would not be fair 
From sire to son to augur good or ill : 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 
But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 
Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 



For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
This I will say — my reasons are my own — 

That if I had an only son to put 
To school (as God be praised that I have none) 

'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Him up to leam his catechism alone ; 

No — no — I 'd send him out betimes to college. 

For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 

LIII. 

For there one learns — 't is not for me to boast, 
Though I acquired — but I pass over that, 

As well as all the Greek I since have lost : •■ 

I say that there 's the place — but " Verbum sat J* 

I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most. 

Knowledge of matters — but, no matter what — 

I never married — ^but I think, I know, 

That sons should not be educated so. 

LIV. 

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age. 

Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit ; he seem'd 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
And every body but his mother deem'd 

Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage, 

And bit her Ups (for else she might have scream'd) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Among her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion. 
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
Of many charms, in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, 
(But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 

LVI. 

The darkness of her oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin: 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain. 

Lvrr. 

She married (I forget the pedigree) 
With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 

His blood less noble than such blood should be ; 
At such alliances his sires would frown, 

In that point so precise in each degree 

That they bred in and in, as might be shovm, 

Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts and nieces, 

Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 

For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 

The sons no moie were short, the daughters plain : 
But tliere 's a rumour which I fain would hush — - 

'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it center'd in an only son, 

Who left an only daughter ; my narration 

May have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Julia, (whom on this occasion 

I shall have much to speak about,) and she 

Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 



DON JUAN. 



498 



Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 

Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 

And love than either ; and there would arise ** 

A something in them which was not desire, 

But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 

Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole. 

LXX. 

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 

Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow. 
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 

Mounting at times to a transparent glow. 
As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 

Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

LXII. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one, 

'T were better to have two of five- and- twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun : 

And now I think on 't, " mi vien in mente," 

Ladies, even of the most uneasy virtue. 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 

LXIII. 

'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 

And all the fault of that indecent sun 
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 

But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 
That, howsoever people fast and pray. 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, 
Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral north ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth, 

('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason ;) 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price. 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

LXV. 

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
They lived together as most people do, 

Suffering each others' foibles by accord. 
And not exactly either one or two ; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it. 

For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXVI. 

Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend ; 

Between their tastes their was small sympathy, 
For not a line had Julia ever pciin'd : 

Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, 
For malice still imputes some private end) 

That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 

Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And that, still keeping up the old connexion, 

Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, 

She took his lady also in atfoclion, 

And certainly this course was much the best : 

She flattor'd Julia with her sage prott'clion, 
And coinplimentod Don Alfonso's taste •, 

And if she could not (who can?) sllfucc scandal, 

At least she loft it a more slender liandlc. 



J-xviir. 

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
With other people's eyes, or if her own 

Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care. 
Indifferent from the first or callous grown : 

I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, 

She kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
Caress'd him often, such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled 
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three: 

These few short years make wondrous alterations, 

Particularly among sun-burnt nations. 

LXX. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 

Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb. 
And much embarrassment in- either eye ; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 

And tremulously gentle her small hand 
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 

A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 

T' was but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 
Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

Lxxir. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile. 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish'd more the while, 

For that compression in its burning core ; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile. 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth. 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye. 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 't is still the same hyjiocrisy ; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate. 

Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 

And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft. 
And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 

Tremblings when met, and restlessness when IcA : 
All these are little preludes to possession, 

Of which young passion cannot be bereO, 
And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
!''nibarrass'd at first starling with a novice. 

I. XXV. 
Poor Julia's heart was in an awkwnnl state 

She n^lt it going, and re>:oIvcti to make 
Th(> noblest fllorls for herself and mate, 

l''or honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's soke: 
Hit resolutions were most truly great, 

And almost might havf made a Tnrquin quake— 
Sli.> pray'd the Vir.;iu M.u v for her grace, 
As being the lu'st jud^.- of a lady's cose. 



494 



DON JUAN. 



LXXVI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
And next day paid a visit to his mother, 

And look'd extremely at the opening door. 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

*T is surely Juan now — No 1 I 'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation ; 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation, 

That is to say a thought, beyond the common 
Preference that we must feel upon occasion 

For people who are pleasanter than others, 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil 's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be tho better when they 're over, 
And, if the man should ask, 't is but denial. 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine, 
Briglit and immaculate, unmix'd and pure. 

Such as the angels think so very fine, 

And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine ;" 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure. 

And so I 'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger ; 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd ; 
For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger. 

But hear these freedoms for the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger : 

If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime. 

But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXXl. 

Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Ethcrial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be taught, by love and her together — 
I really do n't know what, nor Julia either. 

LXXXH. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 

In mail of proof— her purity of soul. 
She, for the future, of her strength convinced. 

And that her honour was a rock, or mole, 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control. 
But whether Julia to the task was equal 
Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 

And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable ; 

Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 
Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable — 

A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 
Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded 
That all tlie apostles would have done as they did. 



LXXXIV. 

And if, in the mean time, her husband died, 
But heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 

Her brain, though in a dream, (and then she sigh'd!) 
Never could she survive that common loss ; 

But just suppose that moment should betide, 
1 only say suppose it — inter nos 

(This should be enire nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) 

LXXXV. 

I only say suppose this supposition : 

Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, 

Would fully suit a widow of condition ; 

Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 

For he would learn the rudiments of love, 

I mean the seraph way of those above. 

L XXXVI. 

So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
He puzzled over what he found a new one. 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow. 
His home deserted for the lonely wood. 

Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude. 

I 'm fond myself of solitude or so. 
But then I beg it may be understood 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 

LXXXVIII. 

" Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,* 
With the exception of the second line, 

For that same twining " transport and security" 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXXX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind, 

The very thing which every body feels. 
As all have found on trial, or may find. 

That no one likes to be disturbed at. meals 
Or love : — I won't say more about " entwined" 

Or " transport," as we know all that before. 

But beg " security" will bolt the door. 

xc. 
Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 

Thinking unutterable things : he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 
There poets find materials for their books. 

And every now and then we read them through, 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 

xci. 
He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth,) so pursued 

His self-communion with his own high soul, 
Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 

Had mitigated part, though not the whole 
Of its disease ; he did the best he could 

With things not very subject to control. 
And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 
Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 



DON JUAN. 



495 



He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 

And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars. 

How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 

To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; 

And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIII. 

In thoughts lilte these true wisdom may discern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 

Which some are born with, but the most part learn 
To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 

'T was strange that one so young should thus concern 
His brain about the action of the sky ; 

Kyou think 'twas philosophy that this did, 

I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

xciv. 
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 

And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 

And how the goddesses came down to men : 
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 

And, when he looked upon his watch again, 
He found how much old Time had been a winner — 
He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

< xcv. 

Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 

Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 
Even as the page is rustled while we look. 

So by the poesy of his own mind 
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 

As if 't were one whereon magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
According to some good old woman's tale. 

xcvr. 
Thus would he while his lonely hours away 

Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted ; 
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, — 
A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 

And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, 
With — several other thmgs, which I forget, 
Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XCVII. 

Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries 
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 

She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 

But that which chiefly may and must surprise. 

Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
Her only son with question or surmise ; 

Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 

Or, like all very clever people, could not . 

xcviir. 
This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common ; 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 

And break the — which commandment is 't tlioy brcnk 
(1 have forgot the number, and think no man 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
I say, when these same gcntli'men are jealous, 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 

XCIX. 

A real husband always is suspicious. 

But still no less suspects in the wron;j place, 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
Or pandering blindly to his own disj^racc, 

By harbouring some -dear fricrul cxtremrly vicious ; 
The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 

And when the spouse and friend are gone oflT wholly, 

Ho wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 



Thus parents also are at limes shortsighted ; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, 
The while the wicked world beholds, delighted, 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think on this occasion. 

She had some other motive much more near 
For leaving Juan to this new temptation ; 

But what that motive was, I shan't say here ; 
Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 

Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 

In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 

oil. 

It was upon a day, a summer's day ; 

Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season, 
And so is spring about the end of May; 

The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 

And stand convicted of more truth than treason. 
That there are months which nature grows more merry in— 
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 

CHI. 

T was on a summer's day — the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates, 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 

They are a sort of posthouse, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune. 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
E.\cepting the post-obits of theology. 

CIV. 

'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven, 

When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
As ere held houri in that heathenish heaven 

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 

With all the trophies of triumphant song — 

He won tliem well, and may he wear them long. 

cv. 

She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
How tliis same interview had taken place, 

And even if I knew, I should not loll — 

People should hold their tongiios in any case ; 

No matter how or why the thing befell. 

But there were she and Juan taco to face — 

Wiicn two such faces arc so, 't would be wise, 

B'ti very diflJcult, to shut their eyes. 

cvi. 

How beautiful she looked ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her check, and yet she felt no wrong: 

Oh love ! how perfect is thy mystic art, 

Streu^jthening the weak and trampling on the strong, 

How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along: 

The precipice she hXchhI on was immense — 

8t) was her creed in her own iunoc«'noo. 



She ihniight of her own stren^jth, and Juan's vnnih, 
And of ihe folly <ti* all prudish fear<, 

Victorious virtue, anddomeslir Irulli, 
An<l iht-n of n«>n Alfonso's i\\\v year* ; 

I wish lh^•■ieln^^t had noi orrurr'il, in sootJi, 
Because lh.1t number rarely nuieli endears, 

And lhroti^;l» all climes, the snowy tithi the sunny, 

Sounds ill in love, whntoVr it may in money. 



496 



DON JUAN, 



When people say, "I 've told you Jifly times," 
They mean to scold, arid very often do ; 

When poets say, " I 've written 7?fft/ rhymes," 

They make you dread that they '11 recite them too ; 

In gangs oi fifty., thieves commit their crimes ; 
Ax fifty i love for love is rare, 't is true ; 

But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 

A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. 

cix. 
Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love 

For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore. 
By all the vows below to powers above, 

She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove : 

And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 
Cluite by mistake — she thought it was her own ; 

ex. 
Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 

Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 
And to contend with thoughts she could not smother. 

She seem'd, by the distraction of her air 
'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother 

To leave together this imprudent pair. 
She who for many years had watch'd her son so — 
I 'm very certain mine would not have done so. 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably, confirm'd its grasp. 

As if it said " detain me, if you please ;" 
Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze : 
She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp. 

Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 

A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 

cxii. 
I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 

But what he did is much what you would do ; 
His young lip thank'd it with a gratefijl kiss. 

And then, abash'd at his own joy, withdrew 
In deep despair, lest he had done amiss. 

Love is so very timid when 't is new : 
She blush'd and fi-own'd not, but she strove to speak 
And held her tongue, her voice was grovra so weak. 

CXIII. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon . 

The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they 
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 

Their nomenclature : there is not a day, 
The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 

Sees half the business in a wicked way 
On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 
And then she looks so modest all the while. 

cxiv. 
There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 

A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 
To open all itself, without the power 

Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower 

Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole. 
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
A loving languor, which is not repose. 

cxv. 
And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, 

And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed : 

Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 
Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist ; 

But then the situation had its charm, 

And then God knows what next — I can't go on ; 

1 'ra almost sorry that I e'er begun. 



Oh, Plato ! Plato! you have paved the way, 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 

Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers : — You 're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 

At best, no better than a go-between. 

cxvii. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 

Until too late for useful conversation ; 
The tears were gushing from her gende eyes, 

I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion ; 
But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 

Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 
A little still she strove, and much repented. 
And whispering " I will ne'er consent." — consented. 

CXVIII. 

'T is said that Xerxes ofFer'd a reward 

To those who could invent him a new pleasure ; 

Methinks the requisition 's rather hard. 

And must have cost his majesty a treasure : 

For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard. 
Fond of a little love, (which I call leisure ;) 

I care not for new pleasures, as the old 

Are quite enough for me, so they but hold, 

cxix. 
Oh Pleasure ! you 're indeed a pleasant thing, 

Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt ; 
I make a resolution every spring 

Of reformation ere the year run out. 
But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 

Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 
I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed. 
And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

cxx. 
Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 

Start not ! still chaster reader, — she '11 be nice hence- 
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 

This liberty is a poetic license 
Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a high sense 
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit 
To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

cxxi. 
This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth, (the fatal day, 
Without whose epoch my poetic skill. 

For want of facts, would all be thrown away,) 
But keeping JuUa and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several month's have pass'd ; we '11 say 
'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure 
About the day — the era 's more obscure. 

CXXII. 

We '11 talk of that anon. — 'T is sweet to hear. 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep. 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 

T is sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 

CXXIII. 

T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 

T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 

T is sweet to be awaken'd by die lark. 

Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
Of bees, the voice of girls, the scjng of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 



DON JUAN. 



497 



CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth ; 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

cxxv. 
Sweet is a legacy ; and passing sweet 

The unexpected death of some old lady 
Or gentleman of seventy years complete. 

Who 've made " us youth " wait too — too long already 
For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
Next owner, for their double-damn'd post-obits. 

cxxvi. 
'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 

By blood or ink ; 't is sweet to put an end 
To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 

Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 

JDear is the helpless creature we defend 
Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

cxxvu. 
But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 

Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 
Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 

The tree of knowledge has been pluck' d — all 's known — 
And life yields nothing further to recall 

Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, 
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 

cxxviir. 
Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use 

Of his own nature and the various arts, 
And likes particularly to produce 

Some new experiment to show his parts : 
This is the age of oddities let loose. 

Where different talents find their different marts ; 
You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 'vc lost your 
Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture. 

cxxix. 
What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets :) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets ; 
But vaccination certainly has been 
A kind antithesis to Congrcve's rockets, 

***** 
****>!< 

cxxx. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, 
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning. 

But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
Of the Humane Society's beginning, 

By which men are unsuffocated gratis ; — 

What wondrous new machines have late been spinning 
♦ * * ♦ ♦ 

A ♦ * ♦ * 



cxxxi. 



3 N 



CXXXII. 

This is the patent age of new inventions 

For killing bodies and for saving souls, 
All propagated with the best intentions: 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions ; 

Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles 
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true. 
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

cxxxnr. 
Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what. 

And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure ; 
'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that 

Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure ; 
Few mortals know what end they would be at. 

But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 
The path is through perplexing ways, and when 
The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then- 

cxxxiv. 
What then? — I do not know, no more do you — 

And so good night. — Return we to our story : 
'T was in November, when fine days are few, 

And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue ; 

And the sea dashes round the promontory, 
And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 
And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

cxxxv. 
'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night , 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and many a sparkling hcartli was bright 

With the piled wood, rovnid which the family crowd ; 
There 's something cheerful in that sort of light, 

Even as a summer sky 's witiiout a cloud : 
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 

cxxxvi. 
'T was midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 

Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 

If they had never been awoke before — 
And that they have been so we all liave read, 

And are to be so, at the least, once more — 
The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist, 
First knocks were heard, then " Madam— Ma^'am — hist: 

cxxxvii. 
" For God's sake, Madam, — Madam — here 's my master 

With more than half the city at his back — 
VNas ever heard of such a cursed disaster? 

'T is not my fault — I kej)! good watch — ^Alack ! 
Do, pray, undo (he bolt a little fiister — 

They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
Will all be here; perhaps he yet may tly — 
Surely the window 's not so very high !" 

cxxxviir. 
By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 

With torches, frieiuis, and sonants in great number, 
The major part of them l»ad Umg been wivod, 

And lIuTofore paused not to disturb llio slumber 
Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth hor husband's temples to encmnbcr : 
Examples of this kind are so eontajiioiis, 
Were one not [umished, (ill would bo outrageous. 

rxxxix. 
I can't toll iiow, or why, or what suspicion 

Could filter into Don Alfonso's hoail, 
But for a cavalier of his c»>r»dition 

It surtrly was exceedingly ill-l)rod, 
Without a word of previous admonition, 

To holil a h'veo rouml his ludy's lu'd, 
And suuunon lackrys, arin'd witji tJr«^ oiul Hwonl, 
To prove himself the linng ho most abliurr'd. 



498 



DON JUAN. 



Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep, 

(Mind— that I do not say— she had not slept,) 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep; 
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 

Contrived to fling the bedclothes in a heap, 
As if she had just now from out them crept : 

T can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 

Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid. 

Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two. 

And therefore side by side were gently laid, 
Until the hours of absence should run through, 

And truant husband should return, and say, 

"My dear, I was the first who came away." 

CXLII. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 
" In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean ' 

Has m.adness seized you ? would that I had died 
Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 

'What may this midnight violence betide, 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 

Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill ? 

Search, then, the room !"— Alfonso said, " I will." 

CXLIII. 

He search'd, they search'd, and rumaged every where 
Closet and clothes'-press, chest and window-seat, 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 

With other articles of ladies fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat; 

Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, 

And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found- 
No matter what— it was not that they sought, 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground*' 
Had signs or foot-marks, but the earth said naught : 

And then they stared each other's faces round ; 
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. 

During this inquisition Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep—" Yes, search and search," she cried, 
" Insult on msult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 
^ It was for this that I became a bride! 
For this in silence I have suffer'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ^ 
But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 
If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain. 

CXLVI. 

" Yes, Don Alfonso, husband now no more, 

If ever you indeed deserved the name. 
Is 't worthy of your years?— you have threescore, 

Fifty, or sixty — it ia all the same- 
Is 't wise or fitting causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso !* 
How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 

CXLVII. 

•' Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 

The common privileges of my sex? 
That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
And never once he has had cause to scold, 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married — 
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried I 



CXLVIII. 

" Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 
I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville 7 

Is it for this I scarce went any where. 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel ? 

Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 
I favour'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 

Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 

Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely ?6 

CXLIX. 

" Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 

. Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? 

Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 

Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? 
Were there not also Russians, English, many? 

The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 
And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 
Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 

'' Have I not had two bishops at my feet, 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez ? 

And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 
I ^yonder in what quarter now the moon is : 

I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
Me also, since the time so opportune is — 

Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger. 

Now, tell me, do n't you cut a pretty figure? 

CLI. 

" Was it for this you took your sudden journey^ 
Under pretence of business indispensable. 

With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 

Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 

Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 
Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible. 

Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee, 

And not for any love to you or me. 

cm. 
" If he comes here to take a deposition. 

By all means let the gentleman proceed; 
You 've made the apartment in a fit condition: 

There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need 

Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 
But, as my maid 's undress'd, pray turn your spies out." 
" Oh !" sobb'd Antonia, " I could tear their eyes out." 

CI.III. 

" There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The antechamber— search them under, over : 

There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair. 
The chimney— which would really hold a lover. 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure— 

And, when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 

CLIV. 

<' And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 

Doubt upon me, confusion over all, 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

Who is the maft you search for ? how d' ye call 
Him ? what 's his lineage ? let him but be shown— 

I hope he 's young and handsome— is he tall ? 
Tell me— and be assured, that since you stain 
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 



" At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years — 
At that age he would be loo old for slaughter 

Or for so young a husband's jealous fears, 

(Antonia! let me have a glass of water.) 

I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 
They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 

My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 

That I should fall into a monster's power. 



DON JUAN. 



499 



<' Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous, 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side 

When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 
Look where you please — we 've nothing, sir, to hide : 

Only another time, I trust, you '11 tell us. 
Or for the sake of decency abide 

A moment at the door, that we may be 

Dress'd to receive so much good company. 

CI. VII. 

" And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

'T will one day ask you ivhy you used me so ? 
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
Antonia ! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?" 

CLVIII. 

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 

She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears. 

Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil 

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 

Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 
To hide the glossy shoulder which uproars 

Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart, 

And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 

CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 

CLX. 

With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Following Antonia's motions here and there, 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputation he had little care : 

So that a suit or action were made good. 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believM in negatives, till these 

Were proved by competent false witnesses. 

CLXI, 

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks, 
And treating a young wife with so much rigour, 

He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes, 
Added to tliose his lady with such vigour 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour. 

Quick, thick, and heavy— as a thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse, 

To which the sole reply were tears and sobs. 

And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prologue is always cnrlain throes and throbs, 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners dioosc: — 
Alfonso saw his wife, and Ihouglit of Job's ; 

He saw, too, in |)crsp(!clive, her relations, 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXIII. 

Ho stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 
The anvil of his speech reetived the hammer, 

With "Pray, sir, leave llie room, and say no more, 
Or madam dies."— Alfonso muller'd " D— n her " 

But nothing else, iho time of words was o'er ; 
He cast a rueful look or two, and <iid, 
He know not whereforo, that which In- vNa-* 1>"'' 



CI.XIV. 

With him retir'd his "posse comi lulus, ^^ 

The att^orney last, who linger'd near the door, 

Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late sh 
Antonia let him — not a little sore 

At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatm^^ 
In Don Alfonso's facts, wliich just now wore 

An awkward look ; as he revolved the case. 

The door was fasten'd in his legal face, 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame '. 

Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind I 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
With much heart- felt reluctance be it said. 
Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed. 

CLXVI. 

He had been hid — I do n't pretend to say 
How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 

Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay. 
No doubt, in little comi)ass, round or square ; 

But pity him I neither must nor may 
His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 

'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut, 

With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, — 

At least 't was rather early to begin ; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
And find a deuced balance with the devil. 

CLXVIII. 

Of his position I can give no notion : 
'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 

How the physicians, leaving pill and potion. 
Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle. 

When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 
And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 

Perhaps 't was in a different way applied. 

For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 

What 's to be done ? Alfonso will bo back 
The moment he has sout his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put u[)on the rack. 

Rut no drvice could bo brought into play — 

And how to ])arry the n^u'w'd attack ? 
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: 

Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak, 

But prcss'd her bloodless lip to Juan's check. 

CLXX. 

Ho turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 

Kvcn lljen u.eir love they could not all conunand, 
And half forgot their d.uiger and despair: 

Antonia's patience now was at a sland — 

" Come, conje, 'l is no time now for fiH»ling thoro," 

She whisper'd in great wrath—" I must .leposit 

This pretty gentleman within the closet: 

CLXXI. 

" Pray keejt your nonsense for some luckier ni){hl— 
Jilt" can have put my master in this m<»<>«r.' 

What will lM((.me on 't ?— I 'm in sueh u liight .' 
The d.-vil 's in the urchin, and no jukmI — 

Is this a time for giggling •' «•"« n plight •' 

Why, don't you know that it may end in blooin 

You 'II lose your life, and I wlinll lose my pincc, 

My mistress all, for tlmt Imlf-giiliKh face. 



500 



DON JUAN. 



" Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 

But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 

(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 
There, for the present at the least he 's fast, 

And, if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel — (Juan, mind you must not sleep.)" 

CLXXiri. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 

She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 

However, present remedy was none, 

And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd: 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view. 

She snufTd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 

Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 

He would not justify what he had done. 

To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding: 

But there v/ere ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call "rigmarole.''^ 

CLXXV. 

Julia said naught ; though all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows. 
By a few timely words to turn the tables. 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, 
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; 

'T is to retort with firnmess, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 

CLXXVI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 

Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 

But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds — 
But that can't be, as has been often shown ; 

A lady with apologies abounds : 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXVII. 

There might be one more motive, which makes two : 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
Conceal'd among his premises ; 't is true. 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded ; 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
(That modem phrase appears to me sad stuff, 

But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, 

A lady always distant from the fact — 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
There 's nothing so becoming to the face. 

CLXXIX. 

They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 
Have always done so ; 't is of no great use, 

In any case, attempting a reply, 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 

And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh. 
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 

A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 

And then — and then — and then — sit down and sup. 



CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon. 
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, 

And laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
Denying several little things he wanted : 

He stood, like Adam, lingering near his garden. 
With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, 

Beseeching she no further would refuse, 

When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A pair of shoes! — what then ? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 

(No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
Were masculine : to see them and to seize 

Was but a moment's act. — ^Ah ! well-a-day ! 
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 

And then flew out into another passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 

And Julia instant to the closet flew ; 
" Fly, Juan, fly ! for Heaven's sake — not a word — 

The door is open — you may yet slip through 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — fly — fly — adieu ! 
Haste — ^haste ! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there 's no one in the street." 

CLXXXIII. 

None can say that this was not good advice, 
The only mischief was, it came too late ; 

Of all experience 't is the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice. 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown. 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down, 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire was the scufile, and out went the light, 
Antonia cried out " Rape !" and Julia " Fire !" 

But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 
Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire. 

Swore lustily he 'd be revenged tliis night ; 
And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher ; 

His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tartar, 

And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 
And they continued battling hand to hand. 

For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not being under great command, 

If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
Alfonso's days had not been in the land 

Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives, 

And how you may be doubly widows — wives ! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 

And Juan throttled him to get away, 
And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow ; 

At last, as they more faintly wTCstling lay, 
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, 

And then his only garment quite gave way ; 
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it — but there, 
1 doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 

cLXxxvir. 

Lights came at length, and men and maids, who found 
An awkward spectacle their eyes before ; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 

Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground. 
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more ; 

Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 

And, liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 



DON JUAN. 



501 



CLXXXVIII. 

Here ends this canto. — Need 1 sing or say, 
How Juan, naked, favour'd by the night, 

(Who favours what she should not,) found his way, 
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight ? 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 

The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, 

And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

clxxxix. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 
The depositions, and the cause at full. 

The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
Of counsel to nonsuit or to annul, 

There 's more than one edition, and the readings 
Are various, but they none of them are dull. 

The best is that in shorthand, ta'en by Gurney, 

Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

cxc. 
But Donna Inez, to divert the train 

Of one of the most circulating scandals 
That had for centuries been known in Spain, 

At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 

To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 
And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 
She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

cxci. 
She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes by land or sea, 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 

Especially in France and Italy, 
(At least this is the thing most people do.) 

Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
Grieved, but perhaps, her feelings may be better 
Shown in the following copy of her letter : 

CXCII. 

" They tell me 't is decided, you depart : 
'T is wise — 't is well, but not the less a pain : 

I have no further claim on your young heart, 
Mine is the victim, and would be again : 

To love too much has been the only art 
I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 

Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears — 

My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

CXCIII. 

" I loved, I love you ; for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost, 

So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
• Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, — 

None can deem harshlicr of mc than I deem : 
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I 've nothing to reproach or to request. 

cxciv. 
'• Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 

'T is woman's whole existence ; man may range 
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; 

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
Pride, fanx;, ambition, to fill up his heart, 

And few there are whom tht^se cannot estrange : 
Men have all these resources, wo but one — 
To love again, and be again undone. 

cxcv. 
"You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, 

Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
For mc on earth, except some years to hide 

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core : 
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
. The passion, whieh still rages as before, 
And so farewell — forgive mo, love mo — N<>, 
That word is idle now — but let if go. 



cxcvi. 

" My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 

But still, I think, I can collect my mind ; 
My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, 

As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind : 
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 

CXCVII. 

"I have no more to say, but linger still, 
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 

And yet I may as well the task fulfil. 

My misery can scarce be more complete : 

I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meeL 

And I must even survive this last adieu, 

And bear with life, to love and pray for you !" 

CXCVIII. 

This note was written upon gilt-edged-paper, 
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new : 

Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 
It trembled as magnetic needles do. 

And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 
The seal a sunflower ; " Elle vous suit partout,''^ 

The motto cut upon a white cornelian, 

The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

cxcix. 
This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 

I shall proceed with his adventure is 
Dependent on the public altogether : 

We '11 see, however, what they say to tliis, 
(Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather. 

And no great mischief 's done by their caprice ;) 
And, if their approbation we experience, 
Perhaps they '11 have some more about a year hence. 

CO. 

My poem's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 

With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 

New characters ; the episodes are three: 
A panorama view of hell 's in training, 

After the stylo of Virgil and of Homer, 

So that my name of epic 's no misnomer. 

cci. 

All these things will be specified in time, 

With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 
The vadc mcaim. of the true sublime, 

Which makes so many poets and some fools ; 
Prose poets like blank-verse — I 'ui fond of rhy 

Good workmen never (juarrcl with their tools 
I 've got now mythological niachinery, 
And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

ecu. 

There 's only one slight dillerenrc between 

Me and my epic brethren gone hcfure, 
And here the advantage is tny own, I woen, 

(Not that I have not several merits more ;) 
l^ut this will more peculiarly bo seen; 

They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 
Tiioir labyrinth of fables to thread tlirough, 
Whereas tliis story 's actually true. 

ICIII. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To bislitry, tradilion, and to fuels. 
To newspapi-rs, whose truth all know an.l fool, 

T«» plays in Ihe, and operas in three acts ; 
All lliese eonl'irni my statement a gtHnl donl, 

But that whi( h more eompletely faith exactH 
Is, tliat myself, and severtil now in Sevillo, 
Saw Juan's last elopement willi the devil. 



502 



DON JUAN. 



CCIT. 

If ever I should condescend to prose, 
I '11 write poetical commandments, which 

Shall supersede beyond all doubt all tiiose 
That went before ; in these I shall enrich 

My tejtt with many things that no one knows, 
And carry precept to the highest pitch : 

I '11 call the work " Longinus o'ei a Bottle, 

Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 

ccv. 
Thou shall believe in Mihon, Dryden, Pope: 

Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey ; 
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. 

The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey : 
Witli Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
Commit — flirtation with tlie muse of Moore. 

CO VI. 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 

His Pegasus, nor any thing that 's his : 
Thou shalt not bear false witness, like '' the Blues," 

(There 's one, at least, is very fond of this :) 
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 

This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
Exactly as you please, or not — the rod. 
But if you don't, I '11 lay it on, by G — d ! 

CCVII. 

If any person should presume to assert 

The story is not moral, first, I pray 
That they will not cty out before they 're hurt ; 

Then that they '11 read it o'er again, and say 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 

That tliis is not a moral tale, though gay; 
Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go. 

CCVIII. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise. 

Led by some tortuosity of mind, 

Not to believe my verse and their outi eyes. 

And cry that they " the moral cannot find," 
I tell him, if a clerg}"man, he lies — 

Should captains tlie remark, or critics, make. 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

ccix. 
The public approbation I expect. 

And beg they '11 take my word about the moral, 
Which I with their amusement will connect, 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral ;) 
Meantime, they '11 doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
For fear some prudish reader should grow skittish, 
I've bribed rav grandmother's review — the British. 



I sent it in a letter to the editor, 

AVho thank'd me duly by return of post — 

I 'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost, 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All I can say is — that he had the money. 

ccxi. 
I think that with this holy new alliance 

I may insure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science. 

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly ; I 
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 

Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author verv martvrlv. 



ccxii. 

'' JVon ego hocferrem calida juveivt-a 

Consule Planco,^^ Horace said, and so 
Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 

Hint that some six or se\en good years aofo, 
(Long ere I dreamt of dating fi-om the Brenta,) 

I was most ready to reUirn a blow, 
And would not brook at all this sort of thing 
In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 

CCXIII. 

But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray, — 

(I v.onder what it will be like at forty ? 
I thought of a peruke the other day,) 

My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
Have squander'd my whole summer wliile 't was May 

And fee! no more the spirit to retort ; I 
Have spent my life, both interest and principal. 
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 

ccxiv. 
No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 

The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
Which out of all the lovely things we see 

Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 

Think'st thou tlie honey with those objects grew '* 
Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy power. 
To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

ccxv. 
No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 

Canst thou be my sole world, my tmiverse ! 
Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art 

Insensible, I trust, but none the worse ; 
And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, 
Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 

ccxvi. 
My days of love are over — me no more " 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 
Can make the fool of which they made before — 

In short, I must not lead the life I did do : 
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er ; i 

The copious use of claret is forbid, too ; 
So, for a good old gentlemanly vice, . 

I thmk I must take up with avarice. ' 

ccxvii. 
Ambition was my idol, which was broken > 

Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure ; 
And the two last have left me many a token 

O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken, 

'' Time is, time was, time 's past," a chymic treasure 
Is glittering youtli, which I have spent betimes — 
My heart in passion, and my liead on rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

"VYhat is the end of fame? 't is but to fiU 

A certain portion of uncertain paper ; 
Some lil^en it to climbing up a hill, 

AVhose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour, 
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill ; 

And bards burn what they call their " midnight taper," 
To have, when the original is dust, 
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 

CXXIX. 

What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's king, 

Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
And largest, diinldng it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mimimy hid ; 
But somebody or other, rummaging, . 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid ; 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 



DON JUAN. 



503 



ccxx. 
But I, being fond of true philosophy, 

Say very often to myself, " Alas I 
All things that h»ve been born were bom to die, 

And iiesh (which death mows down to hay) is grass ; 
You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 

And if you had it o'er again — 't would pass — 
So thanli your stars that matters are no worse, 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 

ccxxi. 
But for the present, gentle reader! and 

Still gentler purchaser ! the bard — that 's I — 
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, 

And so your humble servant, and good bye ! 
We meet again, if we should understand 

Each other ; and if not, I shall not try 
Your patience further than by this short sample — 
'T were well if otliers foUow'd my example. 

CCXXII. 

" Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good. 

The world will find thee after many days." 
When Southey 's read, and Wordsworth understood, 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line : 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 



CANTO II. 



Oh ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 

It mends their morals ; never mind the pain : 

The best of mothers and of educations, 
In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain, 

Since in a way, that 's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 

Had he but been placed at a public school. 

In the third form, or even in the fourth. 
His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 

At least had he been nurtured in the north ; 
Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 

But then exceptions always prove its wortli — 
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 

III. 
I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 

If all things bo consider'd : first, there was 
His lady mother, mathematical, 

A , never mind ; his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman, — (that 's (juito natural, 

Or else the thing liad hardly come to pass;) 
A husband rather old, not much in unity 
With his young wife— a lime, and opportunity. 

IV. 

•yYell — well, the world must turn upon its axis, 
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 

And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, 
And as the veering wind shifis, sliifi our sails ; 

The king commands us, ami the doctor (juacks uh, 
The priest instructs, and so our lif<' exhales. 

A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 

Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. 




I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is, 

(Or was, before Peru leam'd to rebel ;) 
And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful ladies, 

Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 

VI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, 
No — none of these will do ; — and then their garb ! 

Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
Upon such things would very near absorb 

A canto — then their feet and ancles ! — well. 
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready, 
(And so, my sober Muse — come let 's be steady — 

VIT. 

Chaste Muse ! — well, if you must, you must) — the veil 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing iiand, 

While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale. 
Flashes into the heart : — all sunny land 

Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 

To say my prayers — but never was tliere plann'd 

A dress through which the eyes give such a volley 

Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 

VIII. 

But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 

But why? — we leave the reader in the daik — 
'T was for a voyage tliat the young man was meai 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from the wickedness of cartli 
And send him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lecture and some money : for four springs 

He was to travel ; and, though Inez grieved, 
(As every kind of parting has its stings,) 

She ho[)ed he would improve — perhaps believed : 
A letter, too, slie gave (he never read it) 
Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 

X. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
Brave Inez now set up a Sumlay-school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool ; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education 

Spurr'd lier to teach anotlier generation. 

XI. 

Juan embark'd — the ship g(U under weigh, 
The wind was fiir, the water passing rough; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 

As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough : 

And, standing u|»on deck, the dashing spray 

Flies in one's face, ami makes it weather-tmigh ; 

And there he stooil to take, autl lake again, 

His first — perhaps ids last— farewell of Spain. 

XII. 

I can't but say it is an awkward sight 

To 800 one's native land receding through 

The growing waters — it unmans one quite ; 
Especially when life is rather new : 

I reeolleet tJreat Hritain's coast I.H.ks wliile, 
But alnuist every other country's blue, 

When, gazing on lhen>, mystifit-«l by distance, 

Wo ontrr •>•» our nautical existenre , 



604 



DON JUAN. 



So Juan stood bewilder'd on the decli : 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore, 
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 

From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against seasickness ; try it, sir, before 
You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 

XIV. 

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stem, 

Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 

Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 
There is a sort of unexpress'd concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 
At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave — 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife. 

So that he had much better cause to grieve 
Than many persons more advanced in life ; 

And, if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife. 

No doubt we weep for those die heart endears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 

I 'd weep, but mine is not a weeping muse. 
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 

TIfemselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau. 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 
While his salt tears dropt into the salt sea, 

■^ Sweets to the sweet;" (Hike so much to quote: 
You must excuse this extract, 't is where she. 

The Q,ueen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he 

Reflected on his present situation, 

And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 

" Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell !" he cried, 

" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 

Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er. 
Farewell, too, dearest Julia !"— (here he drew 
Her letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX. 

" And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear- 
But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea. 

Than I resign thine image, oh ! my fair I 
Or think of any thing, excepting thee ; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physic" — 

(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew seasick.) 

XX. 

" Sooner shall heaven kiss earth— (here he fell sicker) 

Oh, Julia! what is every other wo! — 
(For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor — 

Pedro I Battista ! help me down below.) 
Julia, my love!— (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) 

Oh, Julia! — (this cursed vessel pitches so) — 
Beloved Julia ! hear me still beseeching" — 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 



He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art. 

The loss of love, the treachery of friends. 

Or death of those we doat on, when a part 
Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends: 

No doubt he would have been much more pathetic. 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 

Love 's a capricious power ; 1 've linovvn it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat. 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold. 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat; 

Against all noble maladies he 's bold. 
But vulgar illnesses do n't like to meet. 

Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh ; 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 

About the lower region of the bowels ; 
Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign. 

Seasickness death : his love was perfect, how else 
Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 

XXIV. 

The ship, called the most holy " Trinidada," 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada- 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was bom : ' 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the morn 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His headach being increased by every billow ; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His birth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'T was not without some reason, for the wind 

Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
And though 't was not much to a naval mind, 

Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale. 
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 

At sunset they began to take in sail, 
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow 
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trougli of the sea, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 

Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her presentjeopardy, 

The rudder tore away: 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 

XXVIII. 

One gang of people instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
To get up part of the cargo, and what not, 

But they could not come at the leak as yet; 
At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet : 
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling. 
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, 



DON JUAN. 



606 



XXIX. 

Into the opening ; but all such ingredients 

Would have been vain, and they must have gone down, 
Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 

But for the pumps : I 'm glad to malce them known 
To all the brother-tars who may have need hence, 

For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
By them per hour, and they had all been undone 
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce. 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 

A squall came on, and, while some guns broke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 

XXXI. 

There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset : 
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 

And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 
For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 

Or any other thing that brings regret, 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks : 

Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers 

And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away. 

Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went, 

The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last, (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted,) 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXIII. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 

Was going on, some people were unquiet; 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seamen, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot. 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 

XXXIV. 

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 

As rum and true religion ; thus it was, 
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms. 

The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright cured the qualms 

Of all the luckless landsmen's seasick maws : 
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 

XXXV. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, 

Kept still aloof the crow, who, ero thoy sunk, 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 

" Give U8 more grog," thoy cried, " for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ! 

'T is true that death awaits both you and me, 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes:" — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pcdrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

.3 • 



XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 
And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 

Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 
To quit his academic occupation, 

In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 

To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind luU'd : the masts were gone, 
The leak increased : shoals roimd her, but no shore, 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail. 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 

And for the moment it had some effect ; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast 

Nor rag of canvass, what could they expect? 
But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 

'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd: 
And though 't is true that man can only die once, 
'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence, 
Without their will, they carried them away; 

For they were forced with steering to dispense, 
And never had as yet a quiet day 

On which they might repose, or even commence 
A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 

The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, 

Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 



The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less. 
But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out much longer ; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appcar'd in sight, 

Naught but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XLII. 

Again the weather threatcn'd, — again blew 
A gale, and in the fore and after hold 

Water appcar'd; yet, though the people knew 
All this, the most wore patient, and some bold, 

Until the chains and leathers wore worn through 
Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roll'd. 

At mercy of tlic waves, who'se mercies are 

Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain ho 

Could do no more ; he wa!< a man in years, 

And long had voyaged through many R stormy sei 

And if ho wept at length , they woro not fears 
That made hi!« eyolids as n woman's be, 

But ho, poor follow, hail a wife and children, 

Two things for .lying poopio quito bewildering. 

Xf.TV. 

The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head ; and. all di:iiinrtion gone, 

Somo went to prayers ajjain, and made a vow 
Of candles to thoir saints— but thore^ were none 

To pay thorn with ; and some l>»>>k'd o'er the bow 
Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 

That beci'.'d Pedrillo for an absolviti.Mi, 

Who told him to be dumn'd— in his confusion. 



506 



DON JUAN. 



Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 

Their best clothes as if going to a fair ; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 

And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair ; 
And others went on, as they had begun. 

Getting the boats out, being well aware 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVI, 

The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

*T was difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suffering less : 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition; 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 

Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 

Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 

A portion of their beef up from below. 
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 

But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 

And the long-boat's condition was but bad^ 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored. 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX, 

'T was twilight, for the sunless day went dowry 

Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 

Of one whose hate is masked but to assail ; 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 

And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
And the dim desolate deep — twelve days had Fear 
Been their familiar, and now Death was here^ 



Some trial had been making at a raft,. 

With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
A sort of thing at which one woukl have laugh'd,. 

If any laughter at such times could be, 
Unless with people who too much have quaff *d, 

And have a kind of wild and horrid glee 
Half epileptical, and half hysterical : 
Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose. 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII, 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell ! 

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the bravo j 
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell. 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 



And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd. 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows 5 but at intervals there gush'd. 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV, 

The boats, as stated, had got off before, 

And in them crowded several of the crew ; 
And yet their present hope was hardly more 

Than what it had been, for so strong it blew. 
There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; 

And then they were too many, though so few- 
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 
Were counted in them when they got afloat. 

LV. 

All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and, what 's worse, alas I 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls. 

They must wait several weeks, before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 

Because, till people know what 's come to pass^ 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. 

LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case -y 

Battista (though a name call'd shortly Tita) 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss. 
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave. 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 

They could not rescue him, although so close^ 
Because the sea ran higher every minute. 
And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

iVIII. 

A small oU spaniel^ — which had been. Don Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think^ 

For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness, — stood howling on the brink. 

Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !.) 
No doubt the vessel was about to sink ; 

And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 

Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 

He also stuff'd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 

Who let him do, in feet, whate'er he would, 
Not Imowing what himself to say or do. 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get through. 

And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 

Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 

'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set. 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze ; 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
And made them bale without a moment's ease, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd. 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 



DON JUAN. 



HOI 



Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 

Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 
And present peril all before surpass'd. 

They griev'd for those who perish'd with the cutter, 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 

LXII. 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 

Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 

Was all that for the present could be done : 
A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 

Was served out to the people, who begun 
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
And most of them had little clothes but rags- 

LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : 

They did their best to modify their case, 

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion, 

While t' other half were laid down in their place, 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, 

With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 

LXIV. 

'T is very certain the desire of life 

Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions, 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 

'T is said that persons living on annuities 

Are longer lived than others, — God knows why, 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is 
That some, I really think, do never die 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is. 

And Uiat 's their mode of furnishing supply : 

In my young days they lent me cash that way,- 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 

'T is thus with people in an open boat, 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be believed, or even thought. 

And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear ; 

And hardships still has been the sailor's lot, 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there — 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

LXVI I. 

But man is a carnivorous production, 
And must have meals, at least one meal a day ; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey: 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, 

Your labouring people think, beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVIII, 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might renew, 

And, lying on their weariness like halm, 
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they fi-lt a qualm 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hording it with duo precision. 



LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 

They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men ! 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, 

But, as they had but one oar, and that brittle. 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
And ocean slumber'd like an unwean^d child : 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating tiiere, 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild— 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild : 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 

Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died, 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws. 

With some remorse received, (though first denied,) 
As a great favour, one of the fore-paws, 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

Lxxri. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning s\iii 
Blister'd and scorch'd ; and stagnant on the sea, 

They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 
Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 

They glared upon each other — all was done, 
Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish «ye». 

LXXIII. 

At length one whisper'd his comjKinion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew. 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 

And when his comrade's thoughts each sufl^erer knew, 
'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found: 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 

And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes; 

And then they look'd around lliem, and despair'd, 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose ; 

At length tlie lots were torn up and prepared, 
But of materials that must shock the muso— 

Having no paper, for the want of better, 

They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
None in particular had sought or i)lann'*l it, 

'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
By which none were permitted to bo noutcr — 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He but requested to be bled to death : 
The surgeon had his instruments and bled 

Peilrillo, and so gently ebh'd his breath, 

You hardly could perceive when ho was dead. 

'He (lied as born, n Catholir in faith, 

Like most in the belirf in which they're bred, 

And first a little rrueifix he kisa'd, 

And then held out his jugular and wrial. • 



509 



DON JUAN. 



LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 

Had his first choice of morsels for his pains ; 

But being thirstiest at the moment, he 

Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins : 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 

And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow — 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXVIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increased much more ; 
'T was not to be expected that he should, 

Even in extremity of their disaster. 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 

'T was better that he did not; for, in fact, 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act, 
Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! 

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, 
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream. 

Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, 

And, with hyaena laughter, died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction. 
And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows ; 

And some of them had lost their recollection, 

Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 

But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 

Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 

For having used their appetites so sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate. 
As fattest ; but he saved himself, because, 

Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
There were some other reasons : the first was, 

He had been rather indisposed of late. 

And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd. 
But it was used sparingly, — some were afraid, 

And others still their appetites constrain'd, 
Or but at times a little supper made ; 

AH except Juan, who throughout abstain'd. 
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead: 

At length they caught two boobies and a noddy 

And then they left off eating the dead body. 

LXXXIII. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino condescends 
To eat the head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends. 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain. 

For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 

When dried to summer dust ; (ill taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water 's worth ; 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your birth, 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell. 

You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 



LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet. 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 

They wrung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 
Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet 

As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 

They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 

xxxxvi. 
And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, . 

Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd; 
Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black, 

As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd, 
To beg the beggar, who could not, rain back 

A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 
To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed. 
Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXVII. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
But he died early ; and when he was gone. 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 

One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done! 

I can do nothing !" and he saw him thrown 

Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII, 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit, held aloof his fate ; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled. 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 
And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come. 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain, 

xc. 
The boy expired — the father held the clay, 

And look'd upon it long, and when at last 
Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 

Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past. 
He watched it wistfully, until away 

'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast; 
Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering. 
And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. 

xci. 
Now over-head a rainbow, bursting through 

The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea. 
Resting its bright base on the quivering blue : 

And all within its arch appear'd to be 
Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 

Wax'd broad and waving like a banner free, 
Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 
Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men, 

XCII. 

It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon, 

The airy child of vapour and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 

Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun. 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion. 

And blending every colour into one. 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle, 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) 



I 



DON JUAN. 



600 



XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen — 

It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope— 
duite a celestial kaleidoscope. 

xciv. 
About this time, a beautiful white bird, 

Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size 
And plumage, (probably it might have err'd 

Upon its course,) pass'd oft before their eyes, 
And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 

The men within the boat, and in this guise 
It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 
Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 

xcv. 
But in this case I also must remark, 

'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, 
Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 

Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 

Returning there from her successful search, 
Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 
They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

xcvi. 
With tvyilight it again came on to blow, 

But not with violence ; the stars shone out. 
The boat made way ; yet now they were so low. 

They knew not where nor what they were about ; 
Some fancied they saw land, and some said *' No!" 

The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt — 
Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns. 
And all mistook about the latter once . 

xcvii. 
As morning broke, the light wind died away, 

When he who had the watch sung out, and swore 
If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray 

He wish'd that land he never might see more: 
And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay. 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore ; 
For shore it was, and gradually grew 
Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 

XCVIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears, 

And others, looking with a stupid stare. 
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears. 

And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
While a few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 

And at the bottom of the boat three were 
Asleep-, they shook them by the hand and head, 
And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

xcix. 
The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 

They found a turtle of the hawks-bill kind. 
And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 

Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 

Because it left encouragement behind: 
They thought that in such perils, more than chanco 
Had sent them this for ihcir deliverance. 



The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast. 
And higher grow the mountains as ihoy drew, 

Set by a current, toward it: they were lost 
In various coniocfurcs, for none knew 

To what part of the earth thoy had been (oss'd, 
So changeable had been the winds that blow ; 

Some thought it was Mount j^tna, some the highlands 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 



Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 
Their living freight wels now reduced to four; 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before. 

Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 

The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

oil. 
Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 

Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 
Such things, a mother had not known her son 

Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 

They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, 
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

cm. 
As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen, 

Unequal in its aspect here and there. 
They felt the freshness of its growing green. 

That waved in forest tops, and smooih'd the air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes as a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare- 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 

The shore look'd wild, without the trace of man, 
And girt by formidable waves ; but they 

Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran. 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay: 

A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, 

But, finding no place for their landing better, 

They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. 

cv. 
But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 

Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 
And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river. 

Had often turn'd the art to some account. 
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 

He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 
As once, (a feat on which ourselves we prided,) 
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

cvi. 
So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 

He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark 

The beach which lay before him, high and dry: 
Tlic greatest danger here was from a shark. 

That carried off his neighbour by the thigh; 
As for the other two, they could not swim, 
So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

cm. 
Nor yet had he arrived but f )r the oar, 

AVhieh, providentially for him, was wash'd 
Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. 

And the hard wave o'orwli«hn\l him as 't was daah'd 
Within his grasp; he rlun^ to it, and sore 

The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 
At last, with swimmiiiiT. wading, scrambling, he 
Roll'don the beach, half sensrliss. from the sea: 

CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails ho clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the relurnini; wiivr, 

From whoso reluotant roar his life he wrung 
Should suck him back to her insatiate jfrave : 

And there he lay. full-length, where ho was flung, 
Before the entrance of a clifl'-worn cavt^ 

With juBt enough of life to fori iu pnin, 

And deem that it was snvod. perhaps in rain. 



610 



DON JUAN. 



With slow and staggering effort he arose, 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 

And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 

But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three, 

Who died two days before, and now had found 

An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 

ex. 

And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast. 
And down he sunk, and, as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 

Droop'd dripping on the oar, (their jury-mast,) 
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 

And time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood, and senses dim : 

And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
He Imew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life. 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retir'd with strife. 

CXII. 

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
For all was doubt and dizziness : he thought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed. 
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposed; 

And then once more his feelings back were brought, 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 

'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death : 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to sooth 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To tliese kind efforts made a low reply. 

CXIV. 

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
' Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 
Rais'd higher the faint head which o'er it hung; 
' And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm; 
And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave. 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 

Young yet lier elder, and of brow less grave, 
And more robust of figure, — then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 

Light to the rocks that roof 'd them, which the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatso'er 

She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 

Her clustering hair, whose lonser locks were roll'd 
In braids behind, and, though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould, 

They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 



CXVII. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction, for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 

'T is as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 

Short upper lip — sweet lips 1 that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 

Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors, when all 's done 

I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.) 

cxix. 

I '11 tell you why I say so, for 't is just 

One should not rail without a decent cause : 

There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

cxx. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 

Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 

Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave ; 

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

cxxi. 

But with our damsel this was not the case: 
Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun ; 

Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 

But through them gold and gems profusely shone ; 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking. 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

CXXII. 

The other female's dress was not unlike. 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike : 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less fre? , 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size, 

CXXIII. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 

With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, 
Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 

And have ten thousand delicate inventions ; 
They made a most superior mess of broth, 

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 
But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's 
Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

cxxiv. 
I '11 tell you who they were, this female pair. 

Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 
Besides I hate all mystery, and that air 

Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize ; 
And so, in short, the girls they really were 

They shall appear before your curious eyes, 
Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 
Of^an old man who lived upon the water. 



DON JUAN. 



511 



cxxv. 
A fisherman he had been in his youth, 

And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 
But other speculations were, in sooth, 

Added to his connexion with the sea, 
Perhaps, not so respectable, in truth : 

A little smuggling, and some piracy, 
Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

cxxvi. 
A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men, 

Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 
For wandering merchant vessels, now and then, 

And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

CXXVII, 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt. 
And there he lived exceedingly at case ; 

Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please. 

But this I know, it was a spacious building. 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIII. 

He had an only daughter call'd Haidee, 
The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles; 

Besides so very beautiful was she. 

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: 

Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 

She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a better in his turn. 

cxxix. 
And walking out upon the beach below 

The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 
Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 

Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 
But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 

Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 
As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 
A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 

cxxx. 
But taking him into her father's house 

Was not exactly the best way to save, 
But like conveying to the cat the mouse. 

Or people in a trance into their grave ; 
Because the good old man had so much " vouj," 

Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 
He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 
And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

cxxxi. 
And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest : 

And when, at last, ho open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guosl: 

And their compassion grew to such a size, 
It open'd half the turnpike gates to heaven — 
(Saint Paul says 't is the toll which must bo given. 

CXXXII. 

They made a fire, but such a fire as they 
Upon the moment could contrive w illi such 

Materials as were cast ti|) round the bay, 

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch 

Were nearly tinder, since so long thoy lay, 
A mast was almost crumbled to a rrut<;h ; 

But, by God's grace, here wr(!cks were in such plenty, 

That lh( re was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 



CXXXIII. 

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse, 

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 

His couch ; and that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake 

They also gave a petticoat apiece, 

She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak 

To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish, 

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

CXXXIV 

And thus they left him to iiis lone repose 

Juan slept like a top, or like the dead. 
Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) 

Just for the present, and in his lull'd head 
Not even a vision of his former woes 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread 
Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

cxxxv. 
Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid 

Who smoolh'd his pillow, as she left the den, 
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 

And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 
He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said, 

(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen,) 
He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 
That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

cxxxvr. 
And pensive to her father's house she went, 

Enjoining silence strict to Zot^, who 
Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two; 
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 

And Zoe spent hers as most women do. 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in nature's good old college. 

cxxxvii. 
The mom broke, and found Juan slumbering still 

P^ast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
His rest ; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, 

And the young beams of the excluded sun, 
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 

And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
Had sufier'd more — his hardships were comparative 
To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 

CXXXVIII. 

Not so Haidee ; she sadly toss'd and timiblcd, 
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 

Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled. 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon tlie shore ; 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — 

They knew not what to think of such a freak. 

CXXXIX. 

But up she got, and up she made them get, 

With some pretence about the sun, llml makes 
Sweet skies just wden he rises, or is set ; 

And 'l is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 
Bright Pluiibus, while the mountains still are wet 

With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 
And niglit is Hung olF like a mourning suit 
Worn for a husband, or some other briile. 

CXL. 
I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 

I 've seen him rise full oft, indeoil of lato 
I have set upon purpose nil lh<> nii;lil, 

Which hitstens, us phv 'uo's fate ; 

And so all y«^ who won 'I 

In ln-alth anil jturse, h ^■-. i\ to date 

I'Vom tiay-break, and when roiUnd at four»cor«, 
luigrave upon tl>o plate, you ro«e at four. 



512 



DON JUAN. 



CXLI. 

And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush. 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread, 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 

CXLII. 

And down the cliff the island virgin came, 

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew. 

While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her for a sister ; just the same 
Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 

Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 

Had all the advantage too of not being air. 

CXLIII, 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd, 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept: 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
(For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death, 
Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn breath. 

CXLIV. 

And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 

All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying. 
As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air : 

But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, 
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 

Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it. 

She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLT, 

She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 

Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea ; 

And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
I can't say that she gave them any tea. 

But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 

With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 

CXLVI. 

And Zee, when the eggs were ready, and 

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand. 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 

And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep whfch seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 

CXLVII. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek, 

A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 
On the snow tops of distant hills ; the streak 

Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay. 
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak ; 

And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 
Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 

CXLVIII. 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest. 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath. 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 

In short, he was a very pretty fellow. 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 



cxr,ix. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
But the fair face which met his eyes, forbade 

Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 

For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
For Juan, so that even when he pray'd. 

He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 

To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mar}'. 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose, 

And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose. 
Although she told him in good modern Greek 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet. 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 

CLI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word, 
Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 

And her voice was the warble of a bird. 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 

Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 

Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 

CLII. 

And Juan gazed, as one who is awoke 

By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 

By the watchman, or some such reality. 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 

At least it is a heavy sound to me. 
Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream. 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 

A most prodigious appetite : the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 

Of the new fire which Zoe kept up, kneeling 

To stir her viands, made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 

CLIV. 

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; 

Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton,. 
And when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits diey put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on, 
Others are fair and fertile, among which. 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLV. 

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 

That the old fable of the Minotaur — 
From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, 

Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 

The allegory) a mere type, no more. 
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle. 
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef— I won't say much of beer. 

Because 't is liquor only, and being far 

From this my subject, has no business here : — 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

That beef and battles both were owing to her. 



DON JUAN. 



513 



CLVII. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 

His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 

As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 
Three or four things for which the Lord he praised, 

And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 
He fell upon whate'er was ofTer'd, like 
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 

He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she. 

Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 

But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 
Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nursed. 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state. 

Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The seashore at this hour, must leave his plate. 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel. 

Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 

CLX. 

Next they — ^he being naked, save a tatter'd 
Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work, 

And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, 
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek— that is, although it not much matter'd, 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 

But not a word could Juan comprehend. 
Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 

Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end ; 
And, as he interrupted not, went eking 

Her speech out to her protege and friend, 
Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 
She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw express'd 

A world of words, and things at which see guess'd. 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 

And words repeated after her, he took 
A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 

No doubt, less of her language than her look : 
As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oflcner to the stars than to his book, 
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta bettor 
From Haidce's glance than any graven letter. 

CI.XIV. 

'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tonguo 
By femalo^lips and eyes— that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and tl»o taught are young, 
As was the case, at least where 1 have be.-n ; 

They smile so when one 's right, and when one s wrong 
They smile still more, and then there mlcrvcno 

Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ;— 

I learn'd the little that I know by this : 
3 P 



CLXV. 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers. 
Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 

Learning that language chiefly from its preacherg, 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I hate your poets, so read none of those. 

CLXVI. 

As for the ladies, I have naught to say, 

A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 
Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 

Like other men, too, may have had my passion- 
But that, like other things, has pass'd away: 

And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on, 
Foes, friends, men, women, now are naught to mo 
But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLXVII. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 

To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun, 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love — as you would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress, — so was she 

Just in the way we very often see. 

CLXVIII. 

And every day by daybreak — rather early 

For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest- 
She came into the cave, but it was merely 

To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 
And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 

Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest. 
Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouthy 
As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

And every morn his colour freshlier came. 
And every day help'd on his convalescence, 

'Twas well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 

Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 



While Venus fills the heart, (without heart really 
Love, though good ahvays, is not quite so good,) 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, 

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood.— 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
Eggs, oysters too, arc amatory food ; 

But who is their purveyor from above 

Heaven knows, — it may bo Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CI.XXI. 

When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 

That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size; 

But I have spoken of all this already — 
And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 

■\Vell — Juan, afler bathing in the sea, 

Came always back to collVo and Haidee. 

CI.XXII, 

Both were so young, and one so innocent, 
That batluns pass'd for nolhinR ; Juan socm'd 

To lur, as 'l woro iho kind of being sint, ^ 

Of whom these two years she had nightly dream d. 

A something to bo lov.'d, a er.-nturo moanl 
To bo her happiness, and wliom she deemd 

To render happy ; all who joy w.Hiki win 

Must share il,— liappiaowi wai born a twin. ^ 



514 



DON JUAN. 



CLXXIII. 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 

Enlargement of existence to partake 
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 

To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake. 
To live with him for ever were too much ; 

But then the thought of parting made her quake r 
He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast 
Like a rich wreck — her first love and her last, 

CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook ; 
At last her father's prows put out to sea, 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Not as of yore to carry off an lo, 
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such other 

Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 

Without even the encumbrance of a brother, 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass : 

I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 

Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk, 

(For they must talk,) and he had learnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wander'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, 
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXxvir. 
It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 

With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 
Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, 

With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 
A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 
Save on the dead long summer days, which maJso 
The outstretched ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXXTIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, 

When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
That springdew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! 

Few things surpass old wine ; and they may preach 
Who please, — the more because they preach invain,- 

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter. 

Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 

The best of life is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 

Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion 
But to return, — get very dmnk ; and when 
You wake with headach, you shall see what then. 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet — ^bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you '11 know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 
For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow 

Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring, 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow 

After long travel, ermui, love, or slaughter, 

"Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 



CLXXXI, 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 

Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast- 
Lay at this period quiet as the sky. 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untoss^d, 
And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 

And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd 
By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 
Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none. 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun, 

Though daily service was her only mission, 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses. 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinlcs down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded. 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still. 

With the far mountain-crescent, half surrounded 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye- 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand. 

Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, 

And in the worn and wild receptacles 
Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd. 

In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells. 
They turn'd to rest; and, each clasped by an arm, 
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea betow, 

Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 

They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low. 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this. 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love. 

And beauty, all concentrating, like rays 
Into one focus kindled firom above ; 

Such kisses as belong to early days, 
"Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert movff. 

And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 
Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 
I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 

By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 

Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never reckon'd ; 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second: 
They had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 

As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung — 
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. 

CLXXXVIII. 

They were alone, yet not alone as they 

Who, shut in chambers, think it loneliness ; 

The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 
The twiUght glow, which momently grew less, 

The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
Around them, made them to each otlier press, 

As if there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 



DON JUAN. 



515 



CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

AH in all to each other : though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language there, — 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle — first love, — that U 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 



Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 

Nor offer'd any ; she had never heard 
Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 

Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 
She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
Had not one word to say of constancy. 

cxci. 
She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 

And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 
Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 

If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion, — 
But by degrees their senses were restored. 

Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on ; 
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 
Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

cxcii. " 
Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, 

So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
Was that in which the heart is aUvays full. 

And, having o'er itself no further power, 
Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul. 

But pays off moments in an endless shower 
Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 
Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXCIII. 

Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were 

So loving and so lovftly — till then never. 
Excepting our first parents, such a pair 

Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever; 
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 
And hell and purgatory — but forgot 
Just in the very crisis she should not. 

cxciv. 
They look upon eacli other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps 
Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies 

Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; 
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs. 

He hers until they end in broken gasps ; 
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique, 
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek, 

cxcv. 
And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 

And Juan sunk to sleep witiiin her arms, 
She slept not, but all tenderly, lhou;;h fast, 

Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms, 
And now and then her eye to heaven is oast, 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 
Pillow'd on her o'crflowing heart, which pants 
With all it granted, and wilh all it grants. 

cxcvi. 
An infant when it gazes on a li^ht, 

A chikl the moment when it drains the brex-^t, 
A devotee when soars the host in sight, 

An Arab with n stranger f)r a guest, 
A sailor, when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest, 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what thoy love while sleeping. 



cxcvii. 
For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 

All that it hath of life with us is living ; 
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved. 

And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving, 
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

Hush'd into d^jpths beyond the watcher's diving ; 
There lies the thing we love with all its errors, 
And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCTIII. 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; 
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 

She and her wave-worn love had made their bower. 
Where naught upon their passion could intrude, 

And all the stars that crowded the blue space 

Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone, 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring. 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet as real 
Torture is theirs — what they inflict ibey feel. 

CO. 

They ^re right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 

Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; 

Taught to conceal, tlieir bursting hearts despond 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond 
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover. 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 'a over. 

cci. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 
Some mind their household, others dissipation, 

Some run away, and but exchange tlieir cares, 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 

Few changes e'er can better their aflairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation, 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 

Some play the devil, and tlion write a novel. 

cm. 
Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this ; 

Haidee was passion's child, born where the sun 
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 

Of his gazelle-eyed daujjhters ; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
Elsewhere was nothing — She had naught to fear, 
Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 

CCIII. 

And oh! that quickcnirig of the heart, that beat! 

How much it costs us, yet each rising throb 
Is iti its cause as its eflVct so sweet, 

That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even conscience, too, has a lough job 
To make us understand each goixi old maxim, 
So good — I wonder Castlcrcagh do n't tax 'cm. 

ccxs. 
And now 't was done — on the lone shore wrr** plight«d 

Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 
Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 

Ocean their witness, and the cave ihoir bed, 
By their own feelings hallow'd and united, 

Their priest was solitude, and they were wed: 
And tliey w»Te happy, f«ir to their young eyee 
Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 



516 



DON JUAN. 



Oh love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who ralher would be neuter— 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh Love ! thou art the very god of evil. 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

ccvi. 
Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious, 

Andjestest with the brows of mightiest men: 
Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 

Have much employed the muse of history's pen ; 
Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 

Such worthies time will never see again : — 
Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 
They all were heroes, conquerers, and cuckolds. 

CCVII. 

Thou makest philosophers : there 's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories, quite practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure us 

How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new,) 
" Eat, drink, and love, what can ihe rest avail us?" 
So said the royal sage, Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII, 

But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 't is her boon. 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ? 

ccix. 
I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condenm, abjure the mortal made 
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 

No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 

And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 

cox. 
But soon philosophy came to my aid, 

And whisper'd " think of every sacred tie!" 
*' I will, my dear philosophy !" I said, 

" But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven! her eye ! 
I '11 just inquire if she be wife or maid, 

Or neither — out of curiosity." 
'* Slop !" cried philosophy, with air so Grecian 
(Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian)— 

ccxr. 
*' Stop !" so I stopp'd. — But to return: that which 

Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration due where nature 's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 

A lovely statue we almost adore, 
This sort of admiration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 

ccxii. 
'T is the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful, 

Drawn from the stars, and filteHd through Ae skies, 
Without which life would be extremely dull; 

In short, it is the use of our own eyes, 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 



Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we always could perceive 

In the same object graces quite as killing 
As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 

'T would save us many a heart-ach, many a shilling, 
(For we must get them any how, or grieve,) 

Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, 

How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver 1 

ccxiv. 
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 

But changes night and day too, like the sky ; 
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven. 

And darkness and destruction as on high ; 
But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven. 

Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 
Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears, 
Which make the English climate of our years, 

ccxv. 
The liver is the lazaret of bile, 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a while 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction. 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil. 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " central." 

ccxvr. 
In the mean time, without proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, 

That being about the number I '11 allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee, to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO ni. 



Hail, Muse ! et cestera. — We left Juan sleeping, 
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast. 

And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 
And loved by a young heart too deeply bless'd 

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 
Or know who rested there ; a foe to rest 

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 

II. 

Oh, love ! what is it in this world of ours 
Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 

With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh? 

As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers, 
And place tliem on their breast — but place to die 

Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 

Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

III. 
In her first passion woman loves her lover, 

In all the others all she loves is love, 
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 

And fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 
As you may find whene'er you like to prove her ; 

One man alone at first her heart can move ; 
She then prefers him in the plural number. 
Not finding that the additions much encumber. 



DON JUAN. 



61T 



I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing 's pretty sure ; a woman planted, 
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers,) 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, 
But those who have ne'er end with only otic. 

V. 

*T is melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of humaii frailty, folly, also crime, 
That love and marriage rarely can combine, 

Although they both are born in the same clime ; 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour 
Down to a very homely household savour. 

VI. 

There 's something of antipathy, as 't were, 
Between their present and their future state ; 

A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 

Is used, until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair? 

The same things change their names at such a rate 5 

For instance — passion in a lover 's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 

They sometimes also get a little tired, 
(But that, of course, is rare,) and then despond : 

The same things cannot always be admired. 
Yet 't is " so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 

There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
Which forms, in fact, true lover's antithesis ; 

Romances paint at full length people's wooings, 
But only give a bust of marriages ; 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: 

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wif«, 

He would have written sonnets all his life ? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 

All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 
The future states of both are left to faith. 

For authors fear description might disparage 
The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath. 

And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage. 
So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 
They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 

X. 

The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 

Dante and Milton, and of both the afli'oction 
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 

Of fatilt or temper ruin'd the connexion, — 

(Such things, in fact, it do n't ask much to mar ;) 

But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress— I, 
Although my opinion may rotjuire apology, 

Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatica 
Meant to personify the roathematica. 



Haidee and Juan were not married, but 

The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair,' 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 

The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 

Then, if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut 
The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 

Before the consequences grow too awful — 

'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 

Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
But, more imprudent grown with every visit, 

Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss it. 

At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
Thus she came often, not a moment losing. 
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 

XIV. 

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange. 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 

For into a prime minister but change 
His title, and 't is nothing but taxation 

But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 

And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 

By winds and waves, and some important captures ; 

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd. 

Although a squall or two had damped his raptures 

By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters, 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

XVI. 

Some he disposed of off* Cape Matapan, 

Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 

To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
Toss'd overboard unsaleable, (being old ;) 

The rest — save here and there some richer one, 
Reserved for future ransom in the hold, — 

Were link'd alike; as for the common people, he 

Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchandise was served in the same way. 

Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 
Except some certain portions of the prey, 

Light classic articles of female want, 
French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot tray, 

Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 
All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 
Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

xvixr. 
A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a markaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 
He chose from several animals ho saw — 

A terrier loo, which once had been a Briton's, 
Who dying on the coast of Ithara, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pitt^nre ; 
These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 
He caged in one luign hamper alt<igether. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affair*, 

Despatching single cruisers here and there, 

His vesHi'l having need of some repairs, 

He shaped his course to whore Ins daughter fair 

Continued still her hospilablo cure:*; 

But that pan of the coast being shoal and bare, 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, 

His port lay on the oiJier side o' the wle. 



518 



DON JUAN. 



And there he went ashore without delay, 

Having no custom-house or quarantine 
To ask him awkward questions on the way 

About the time and place where he had been : 
He left his ship to be hove down next day, 

With orders to the people to careen ; 
So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 

XXI, 

Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home. 
He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! 
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
And bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires. 

After long travelling by land or water, 
Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 

A female family's a serious matter ; 
(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires 

But they hate flattery, so I never flatter;) 
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at his return 

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses : 

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 

To his memory, and two or three young misses 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, 

And that his argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser ; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser. 

He may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier servente, or despise her; 

And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

"Write odes on the inconstancy of woman. 

XXV. 

And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 

An honest friendship with a married lady — 
The only thing of this sort ever seen 

To last — of all connexions the most steady 

And the true Hymen, (the first 's but a screen) — 

Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 

I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a-day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean. 

On seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad ; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad. 
Or that of any other strong emotion \ 

He lovedliis child, and would have wept the loss of her, 

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 

XXVII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun. 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 

The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 

The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun. 
The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms, (in the East all arm,) and various dyes 

Of colour'd garbs as bright as butterflies. 



XXVIII, 

And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 

He hears — alas ! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears. 

The cause being past his guessing or unriddling ; 

A pipe too and a drum, and, shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
Descending rather quickly the declivity, 

Thro' the waved branches, o'er the greensward glancing, 
'Midst other indications of festivity, 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancinc 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 

To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 

And further on a group of Grecian girls, 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 

Were strung together like a row of pearls ; 

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each too having 

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
(The least of which would set ten poets raving,) 

Their leader sang — and bounded to her song. 

With coral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 

Small socia' parties just begun to dine ; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine. 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 

Above them their desert grew on its vine. 
The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, 
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store." 

XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 
There wreathe his venera le horns with flowers ; 

While peaceful as if stil' an unwean'd lamb, 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head majestically tame, 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow as if in act to butt, and then. 

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 

Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses. 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 

The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 

So that the philosophical beholder 

Sigh'd for their sakes — that they should e'er grow older. 

XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 

To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales. 

Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, 
Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 

Of rocks bewitched that open to the knockers. 
Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 
Transform'd their lords to beasts, (but that 's a fact.) 

XXXV. . 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

For the imagination or the senses. 
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastime in which no offence is ; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses. 
Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
The inflammation of his weekly bilk. 



DON JUAN. 



519 



XXXVI. 

Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — • 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
That lures to flay alive the young beginner; 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
And long he paused to reassure his eyes, 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know — (alas I how men will lie) — 
That a report — (especially the Greeks) — 

Avouch'd his death, (such people never die,) 
And put his house in mourning several weeks. 

But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 

The bloom too had return'd to Haidee's cheeks ; 

Her tears too being return'd into their fount, 

She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; 

The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond measure. 

Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 

Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure ; 

'T was wonderful how things went on improving, 

While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast 

He flew into a passion, and m fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act. 
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 

To teach his people to be more exact, 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
He show'd the roya] penchants of a pirate. 

XLI. 

You're wrong. — He was the mildest manner'dman 

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat ; 
With such true breeding of a gentleman, 

You never could divine his real thought ; 
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 

Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
He was so great a loss to good society. 

XLII. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray. 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighcst guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
Boded no good, whatever it cxpress'd. 

He ask'd the meaning of this holiday? 

The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 

XMII. 

And, without turning his facetious head, 
Over his shoulder, with a Hacchanl air. 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 

" Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 

A second hiccup'd, *' Our old master 's doail, 
You'd better ask our mistress, who 'b his heir." 

" Our mistress !"— quoth a third : " Our mistress !— pooh 

You mean our master — not the old, but now." 



These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
They thus address'd— and Lambro's visage fell— 

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

'The expression, and, endeavouring to resume 
His smile, requested one of them to tell 

The name and quality of his new patron. 

Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 

XLV. 

" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
He is, nor whence he came — and little care ; 

But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat, 

And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare ; 

And if you are not satisfied with that, 
Direct your questions to my neighbour there ; 

He '11 answer all for better or for worse, 

For none likes more to hear himself converse." • 

XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience, 
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding. 

Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations, 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; 

He bore these sneers against his near relations. 
His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding, 

The insults too of every servile glutton, 

Who all the time were eating up his mutton. 

XLVII. 

Now in a person used to much command — 

To bid men come, and go, and come again — 
To see his orders done too out of hand — 

Whether the word was death, or but the chain- 
It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
Yet such things are, which I cannot explain. 
Though doubtless he who can command himself 
Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 

XLVIII. 

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
But never in his real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood ; 

With him it never was a word and blow. 
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, 

But in his silence there was much to rue, 

And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way, 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded. 
So little they expected him that day ; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say. 

But certainly to one, dcern'd dead, returning, 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 

L. 

If all the dead rouKI now return to life, 

(Which God forbid I) or some, or a great many; 
For instance, if a husband or his wifo, 

(Nuptial examples arc as good as any,) 
No doubt whate'or might be their former strife, 

The present weather would be much more rainy — 
Tears shod into the grave of the connexion 
Would share most probably its resurrection. 

I.I. 
lie entcr'd in the house, no more his home, 

A lliinf, to human feelings the most trymg, 
And hnnlor for the heart to overromo 

Porhaps, than even the nirntal pnngn of dying ; 
To find our heatthsiono turn'd into a tomb, 

Anil round it.s once warm precincts pnlely 'ytng 
Tije ashes of our hoprs, i^ a derp crief. 
Boyond a sintjle gmlloninn's Iwlirl". 



620 



DON JUAN. 



He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no home — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 

Without a welcome ; there he long had dwelt, 

There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 

Over the innocence of that sweet child, 

His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LIU. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 
Of mild demeanour though of savage mood, 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure as in food, 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
For something better, if not wholly good ; 

His countr}.-'s wrongs and his despair to save her 

Had stung him fi-om a slave to an. enslaver. 

LIV. 

The lore of power, and rapid gain of gold. 
The hardness by long habitude produced, 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted oft abused, 

The sights he was accustom'd to behold, 

The vs'ild seas and wild men with whom he cruised, 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 

And niade him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 

But something ofthe spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

Such as lit onward to the golden fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days : 

'T is true he had no ardent love for peace; 
Alas I his country' show'd no path to praise : 

Hate to the world and war with everv nation 

He wag'd, in vengeance of her degradation. 

I.TI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power imconsciously full many a time, 

A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
A pleasure m the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystals, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his caimer hours. 

LTH. 

But whatso'er he had of love, reposed 
On that beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 

A lonely pure aSection unopposed : 

There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 

And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blindness. 

LTIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flo<i ; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is wjiging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging — 
Their fury being spent by its own shock, 

Than the stem, single, deep, and wordless ire 

Of a strong htmian heart, aJod in a sire. 

LIX. 

It is a hard, although a common case. 

To 6nd our children running restive — they 

In whom our brightest davs we would retrace. 
Our little selves reformed in finer clay ; 

Just as old age is creeping on apace, 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 

But in good company — the gout and stone. 



Yet a 6ne family is a fine thing, 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner;) 
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up, (if nursing them don't thin her;) 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the fireside, (a sight to touch a sinner.) 
A lady with her daughter or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven shilling pieces. 



4 



Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 

And stood within his h£dl at eventide; 
ZSIeaniime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty- and their pride : 
An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, juad fair slaves on every side ; 
Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service ooosdy, 
Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly. 

Lxn. 

The diimer made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb and pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats, 
And saffi-on soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishes 

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice. 
Squeezed throu^ the rind, which makss it best for use, 

LXIII. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer. 
And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, 

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 
In small fine China cups came in at last — 

Gold cups of filigree, made to secure 

The hflind from burning, underneath them placed; 

Cloves, cinnamon, and saffi"on too, were boil'd 

f p with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIY. 

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 

Of velvet panels, each of different hue, 
And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid : 

And roimd them ran a yellow border too ; 
The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 

Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
From poets, or the moralists their betters. 

LXT. 

These oriental writings on the wall, 
Q,uite common in those coimtries, are a kind 

Of monitore, adapted to recall. 

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in iiis hall. 
And took his kingdom fi-om him. — You will find, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure. 

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake tiam'd methodistic or eclectic — 

(For that's the name they like to pray beneath)-— 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic. 
Are things that really take away the breath. 

And show that late hours, wine, and love, are ablo 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

Lxnr. 
Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 
Their sofa occupied three parts complete 

Of the apautment — and appeau^d quite new ; 
The velvet cushions — (for a throne nacre meet) — 

Were scarlet, fixwn whose glowing centre grew 
A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue. 
Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 



DON JUAN. 



521 



Lxnn. 
Crvstal and marble, plaie and porcelain, 

Had <kne their work of ^lieodoar, Indian mats 
And Persian carpets, the heart bled to stain, 

Over the floors were ^>read ; gazelles and cats. 
And dwar& and blades, and such like things, that gain 

Their bread as ministers and ^Tourites— -(that 'a 
To say, by degradation) — mingled there 
As plentiful as in a court <x fau-. 

I. XIX. 

There was i»o want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With mother-c^pearl or irory, stood at hand, 

Or vrere of tort(»se-shelI or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver : by command, 

The greater part of these were ready spread 
With riands, and sherbets in ice, and wine — 
Kept f(»- all comers, at all hoars to diue. 

I. XX. 

Of an the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks— one was of pale ydlow ; 

Of arure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 

'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow : 

With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
All gold and crimson shone her j click's fellow. 

And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her. 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 

Lockles — so pliable from the pure gold 
That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm. 

The limb which it adom'd its only mould ; 
So beautiful — its very shape would charm. 

And Hinging as if loth to lose its hold. 
The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 
That e'er by precious metal was held in.' 

Lxxn. 
Around, as princess of her father's land, 

A like gold bar, above her instep roli'd,* 
Announced her rank : twelve rings were on her hand ; 

Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 
About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 

Her hair's long auburn waves do^vn to her heel 
Flow'd likean Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
Her person* if allow'd at large to run ; 

And stUl they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds whene'er some zeph>T caught began 

To <^er his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXXV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life, 

The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 
Tbev were so soft and beautiful, and rife 

With all we can imagine of the skies, 
And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 

Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
Her overpowering presence made you feel 
It wouki not be idolatry to kneel. 
Lxxr. 
Her eyelashes, though dark as night, wer« tinged, 

(It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; 
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 

The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 
And in their native beauty stood avenged : 

Her nails were touch'd with henna : bul agam 
The power of art was tum'd to nothins. for 
They couW not look more rosy than before. 

' 3 a 



I.XXTI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to maks 
The skin reeved appear more fairly fiur: 

She had no need of this — day ne'er will break 
On mountain tops more heavenly white than her : 

The eye might dcMibt if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision ; I might err, 

But Shakspeare also savs *t is verv siOj 

« To giW refined gold, or paint the Uly." 

LXXTII. 

Juan had <» a shawl of black and gM^ 
But a white baracan, and so transparent. 

The sparkling gems beneath you might bdidd, 
Like small stars through the milkv way apparent ; 

His ttirban. furl'd in many a graceful foW, 
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in *t 

Surmounted as its clasp— a glowing crescent. 

Whose rays ^tone ever trembling, but 



LXXVIII. 

And now they were diverted by their suite, 

Dwarfe, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 

TMiich made their new establishment coo^ete ; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it : 

His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme — he seldom simg below it, 

He being paid to satirize or flaUer, 

As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present and abused the past. 

Reversing the good custom of old days, 
An eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He tum'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 
For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 

By his seeming independent in his lays, 
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 
With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crasdiaw. 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes. 
And always changed as true as any needle, 

His pcJar star being one which rather ranges. 
And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wlieedle : 

So vile he 'scaped the doom which oA avenges ; 
And being fluent, (save indeed when fee'd ill,) 

He lied with such a ferv-our of intention — 

There was no doubt he eam'd his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius — when a turncoat has it 

The '' vates irritabilis" takes car© 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 

Even good men like to make the public star* : — 
But to my subject — let me see — what was it ? 

Oh ! — the tliird canto — and the pretty pair^— 
Their loves, and feasts, and bouse, and dreaa, and node 
Of living in their insular abode. 

LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trinmier, but no lesa 

In company a very pleasant feOow, 
Had been the favo«irit«» of full many a mess 

Of men. and m " " ocbes when haif meiiow i 

And tho»igh his n ^ould rarely i 

Yet still they dL._.. - .cup or 

The glorious meed ot' popular api^use, 

Of which llie first ne'er knows the aocood cauee. 

LXXXIIt. 

But now being lifted into high eocicty, 

And havine pirk'd up several odds an>! cnA 

octree ihoughu in hu travols. f r vArn ty. 

He deom'r »->>" ' '' « I'^x" i»Ie among friends, 

That Hit!). > of a riol. he 

Might t" inak" himjwlf ai»end» ; 

And, singing as he snnf, in his wann youth 

Agree to a short armistice witli truth. 



.% 



622 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations ; 

And, having lived vi'ith people of all ranks, 
Had something ready upon most occasions — 

Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
He varied with some skill his adulations ; 

To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing. 
He gave the different nations something national; 

'T was ail the same to him — " God save the Kinc '' 
Or " Ca ira," according to the fashion all ; 

His muse made increment of any thin^, 
From the high lyrical to the low rational ; 

If Pindar sang horseraces, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 

In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain, he 'd make a ballad or romance on 

The last war— much the same in Portugal ; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on'' 

Would be old Goethe's— (see what says de Stael;) 
In Italy, he 'd ape the " Trecentisti ;" 
In Greece, he 'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye. 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,— 
Where grew the arts of war and peace,— 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the Bless'd." 

The mountains look on Marathon 

And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free: 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamia; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ;— all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day— 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now— 
The heroic bosom beats no more I 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

»Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush— for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd ^ 
Must we but blush ?— Our fathers bled. 

Earth! render back from out thy breast 
A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 

Of the three hundred grant but three. 

To make a new Thermopylae. 



What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, "Let one living head, 
But one arise, — ^we come, we come !" 
'T is but the living who are dumb. 
In vain— in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal! 
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates— 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
The tyrant or the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 
Trust not for freedom to the Franks— 

They have a king who buys and sells. 
In native swords, and native ranks. 

The only hope of courage dwells ; 
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
Would break your shield, however broad, ' 
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade 

I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
But, gazing on each glowing maid. 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep- 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LXXXVII. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 

The modem Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 

Yet in these times he might have done much worse: 
His strain display'd some feeling— right or wrong ; 

And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars. 
And take all colours — like the hands of dyers. 

rxxxviii. 
But words are thmgs, and a small drop of ink 

Falling like dew upon a thought, produces 
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think ; 

'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses, 
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 

Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
Frail man, when paper— even a rag like this. 
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his. 



DON JUAN. 



523 



LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
His station, generation, even his nation, 

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
In chronological eommemoration, 

Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station. 

In digging the foundation of a closet, 

May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

xc. 
And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind- 
Depending more upon the historian's style 

Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ; 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

xci. 
Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine ; 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine ; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way. 

We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 

XCII. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes 
Like Titus' youth, and C2esar's earliest acts ; 

Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes ;) 
Like Cromwell's pranks ;— but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes. 
As most essential to their hero's story. 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XCIII. 

All are not moralists like Southey, when 

He prated to the world of *' Pantisocracy ;" 
Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 

Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 
Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 

Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 
When he and Southey, following the same path, 
Espoused two partners, (milliners of Bath.) 

xciv. 
Such names at present cut a convict figure. 

The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 
Their loyal treason, renegado vigour, 

Are good manure for their more bare biography. 
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 

Than any since the birthday of typography : 
A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excursion " 
Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 
He there builds up a formidable dyke 

Between his own and others' intellect ; 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 

Joanna Soulhcote's Shiloh and her sect, 
Are things which in this century do n't strike 

The public mind, so few are the elect ; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities. 

xcvi. 
But let me to my story: I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
Leaving my people to proceed alono. 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session : 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite bo great as Ariosto. 



I know that what our neighbours call " languacrg* 
(We 've not so good a ward, but have the thing 

In that complete perfection which ensures 
An epic from Bob Southey every spring)— 

Form not the true temptation which allures 
The reader ; but 't would not be hawd to bring 

Some fine examples of the ipopie, 

To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 

XCTIII. 

We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps 
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, 

To show with what complacency he creeps, 
With his dear " Wagonert,^^ around his lakes ; 

He wishes for " a boat" to sail the deeps — 
Of ocean ? — no, of air ; and then he makes 

Another outcry for " a little boat," 

And drivels seas to set it well afloat 

i 
xcix. ; 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain. 

And Pegasus runs restive in his '* wagon," 
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's wain 9 

Or pray Medea for a single dragon? 
Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain. 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 

c. 

" Pedlars," and " boats," and " wagons !" Oh ! ye ihades 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 

That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss— 

The " little boatman" and his " Peter Bell" 

Can sneer at him who drew " Achilophel !" 

CI. 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone. 

The rosy flood of twilight sky admirea ; — 

Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea. 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest the* ! 

oil. 
Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
While swung the deep bell in tlic distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest loaves seem stirr'd with prayer. 

ciir. 
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! 

Ave Maria ! 'l is the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria! may our spirits daro 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyos bonoath iho almighty 
What tiiough 't is but a pictured imago strike- 
That painting is no idol, 'lis too like. 

CIV. 

Some Kindrr casuists are pleased to roy, 
In namrloss print— that 1 havt' no dovotion; 

But sol those persons d»\vn with mo to pray, 
And you shall si'i^ who has the proppresl notion 

Of gt'lting intoheavon the shortest way ; 
I\Iy altars aro the mountains and ihn ocean, 

EartJi, air, slars,— all tlmt springs from tlie gr«^ 

Who halh produced, and will receive the souL 



524 



DON JUAN. 



Sweet hour of twilig^ht I — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

"Which bounds Ravenna's immenuHial wood, 
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, 

To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, 
Eyo'-greeo forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 

How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! 

CTI, 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
Making Aeir summer lives oae ceaseless song, 

TVere the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along ; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 
EQs hell-dogB, and their chase, and the fair throne, 

Which leam'd fix)m this exanqrfe not to fly 

From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 

cvu. 
Oh Hesperus !* thou bringest all good things — 

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 

The welcome stall to the o'eiiabour'd steer ; 
Whate'er of peace about our hearthsbMie clings, 

'^Vhate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
Are gather d round us by thy look of rest; 
Thou bring'st the child, too^ to the motho's breast. 

cvui. 
Soft hour ! * which wak^ the wish and melts the heart 

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
• Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 
As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 

Seaning to weep the dying day's decay ; 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
Ah ! sorely nothing dies but something mooms ! 

crx. 
When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 

Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed 
Amid the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of natimis freed, and the world overjoy'd, 
Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb :^ 

Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 
Of feeling for srane kindness done, when power 
Had 1^ the wretch an unoomipted hoar. 

ex. 

But I 'm digressing : what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such like sovereign bufibons. 
To do with the transactions of my hero. 

More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's ? 
Sure my invention must be down at zero. 

And I grown one of many •' wooden spoons'* 
Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please 
To dub the last of honours in degrees.) 

CXI. 

I feel this tediooaiess will never do — 

'T is being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this kng canto into two : 
They '0 never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced few : 
And then as an improvement 't will be shown : 

I '11 prove that such the <^inion of the critic is, 

From Aristotle jjonim.— -See Iloiirrunif. 



CAXTO IV. 



NoTHnrc so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, tmless perhaps the end : 
For oftentimes when Pegasie seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning ; 

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too for. 
Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 

n. 
But time, whidi brings all beings to their lerel, 

And sharp adversity, will teach at last 
Man. — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the denl; 

That neither of their intellects are vast : 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revd, 

We know not this— the Uood flows on too fost; 
But as the tonrent widois towards the ocean, 
TVe ponder deejay on each past 



As boy, I thought myself a clever feDow, 
And wish'd that <^ers held the same opinion 

They took it iq> when my days grew more radkm. 
And odier minds acknowiedged my dominion: 

Now my sere foncy " falls into the yellow 
Leaf." and imagination droops her pinion, 

And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 

Turns what was once romandc to buiksque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 

'T is that our nature cannot alwavs bring 
Itself to apathy, which we must steep 

First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring. 
Ere what we least wish to bdiold will 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in S^ ; 

A mortal mother woaU on Lethe fix. 



Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the luid. 

And trace it in this poem every line : 
I do n't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when I would be very fine ; 
But the fact is that I have nodiing plann'd. 

Unless it was to be a UKNnent merry, 

A oord word in my vocabulary. 

TI. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime 
Thb way of writing will appear exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the hatf-serious rhyme, 

Who sung whoi diivaliy was more Q^iizotic, 

And revell'd in the foncies of the time. 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, ki 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modem subject as more meeL 

How I have treated it, I do not know — 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me 

Who have imputed such designs as show. 
Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to i 

But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, — 
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are firee: 

Meantime ApoUo plucks me by the ear, 

And tells me to resume my stoiy here. 






DON JUAN. 



625 



Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own heart's most sweet society ; 

Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he 

Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 

The blank gray was not made to blast their hair. 
But, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail, 

They were all summer : lightning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 

A long and snake-like life of dull decay 

Was not for them — they had too little clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 

Weary, unless when separate : the tree 
Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damm'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, 

Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 

XI. 

The heart — which may be broken : happy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who, of that fragile mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

xir. 
** Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore," 

And many deaths do they escape by this : 
The death of friends, and, that which slays even more — 

The death of frienship, love, youth, ail that is. 
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 

Awaits at last even those whom longest miss 
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 

Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; 

The heavens, and earth, and air, secm'd made for them: 
They found no fault with time, save that he fled ; 

They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 

XIV. 

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
The least glance better understood than words, 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
A language, too, but like to that of birds, 

Known but to them, at least appearing such 
As but to lovers a true sense affords; 

Sweet playful phrases, which would Hccm absurd 

To those who have ceased to iicar such, or ne'er heard : 

XV. 

All these were theirs, for they wore children still, 
And children still llioy should have ever been; 

They wore not made in the roiil world to fill 
A busy character in iho dull scone ; 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 

To pa«s their lives in fountains and on flowers, 

And never know the weight of human hours. 



Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round : 

And these were not of the vain kind which cloys ; 

For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights. 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 

XTIII. 

Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from care? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
But was in them their nature or their fate ; 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding. 
So that there was no reason for their loves, 
More than for those of nightingales or doves 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset ; 't is an hour 

Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
For it had made them what they were : the power 

Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies, 
When happiness had been their only dower. 

And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties; 
Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought 
The past still welcome as the present thought. 

xxr. 

I know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
Even as ihcy gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flamo, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 
And thus some boding flash'd through cither frame, 

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haid'*e's cvi}. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet oyo secm'd to dilate 

And follow far the disappearing sun, 
As if their last day of a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone ; 
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 

Ho felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 
His glance inquired i)f hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She tiim'd to him. and smiled, but in that sort 

VVIiieh makrs not otlirrs smile ; thru turn'd uide : 

Whatever feoling shook Iut, it (tcom'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport— 
Of this their mutual feeling, rIip replied — 

" If it should be so, — but — it cannot be- 

Or I at least shall not survive to see." 



526 



DON JUAN. 



XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lips to hers, and silenced him with this, 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 

And no doubt of all methods 't is the best : 
Some people prefer wine — 't is not amiss : 

I have tried both ; so those who would a part take 

May choose between the head-ach and the heart-ach. 

XXV. 

One of the two, according to your choice, 
Women or wine, you '11 have to undergo ; 

Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 

But which to choose I really hardly know ; 

And if I had to give a casting voice, 

For both sides I could many reasons show, 

And then decide, without great wrong to either, 

It were much better to have both than neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other, 

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother. 
All that the best can mingle and express. 

When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, 
And love too much, and yet can not love less ; 

But almost sanctify the sweet excess 

By the immortal wish and power to bless. 

XXVII. 

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 

Why did they not then die ? — they had lived too long, 

Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart ; 
Years could not bring them cruel things or wrong, 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 

Love was born with them, in them, so intense. 

It w£is their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 

They should have lived together deep' in woods. 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Call'd social, where all vice and hatred are : 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 

The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
A wordless music, and her face so fair 
Stirr'd with her dream as rose-leaves with the air : 

XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 
Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; 

Strange state of being ! (for 't is still to be) 

Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 

XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the seashore, 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 

Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her ; 

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, 
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 



XXXII. 

Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 

And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 

Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid ; 
'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed : in a cave she stood, its walls 
Were hung with marble icicles : the work 

Of ages on its water-fretted halls, [lurk ; 

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and 

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk 

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 

Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 

XXXIT. 

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet. 
Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 

Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!) 

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea-dirges low 

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 

And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 

Faded, or alter'd into something new — 
Like to her father's features, till each trace 

More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew— 
With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 

And starting, she awoke, and what to view ! 
Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she there ? 
'T is — 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well ; 
Dear as hor father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 
And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call 

A thousand scimitars await the word : 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

XXXVIII. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 't is — 
'T is Lambro — 't is my father! Kneel with me- 

He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 
Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood, 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 

Not always signs witli him of calmest mood : 
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 

Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 

In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 

On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 



DON JUAN. 



627 



" Young man, your sword ;" so Lambro once more said : 
Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free," 

The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, 
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 

Replied, " Your blood be then on your own head," 
Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 

'T was fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 

And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 

It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 

A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; 

A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 
If you have got a former friend for foe ; 

But after being fired at once or twice, 

The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 

Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breath, 

When Haidee threw herself her boy before. 

Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, " let death 

Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 

He found — but sought not. I have pledged my faith ; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 

XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 

And tenderness, and infancy: but now 
She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 

Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow ; 
And tail beyond her sex and their compeers, 

She drew up to her height, as if to show 
A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
Her father's face — ^but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

Hfl gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 

How like they look'd ! the expression was the same ; 

Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 

For she too was as one who could avenge, 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame : 

Her father's blood before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature differing but in sex and years ; 

Even to the delicacy of their hands 

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLTI. 

The father paused a moment, then witlidrew 

His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still, 
And looking en her, as to look her through, 

*' Not /," he said, " have sought this stranger's ill ; 
Not / have made this desolation : few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 
But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
Done thine, llie present vouches for the past. 

xLvir. 
" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 
His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 
Ho raised his whistle, as the word ho said, 
And blew ; another answer'd to the call, 
And rushing in disorderly, though led, 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 
Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 
H«gav6 the word, •' Arrest or slay the Frank." 



XLVIII. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter ; while compress'd within his grasp, 

'T wixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp,— 

His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 

The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in: so well, ere you could \ook, 

His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 



And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 

Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
Old Lambro bade them talie him to the shore, 

Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line; 
On board of one of these, and under hatches. 
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 

LI. 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant; 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 

Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 

Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LII, 

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 

Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea ! 

Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic ; 
For if my pure hbations exceed three, 

I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 
That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 

'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, 

For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 

LIII. 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlcgethonlic rill ! 
Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack, 

(In each sense of the word,) whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIV. 

I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 

Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 

Yet could his cori)oral pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haidec's bosom bounded? 

She was not one to weep, and rave, and chofo, 
And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 

Her mother was a Moorish nmid, from Fez, 

Where all is Edon, or a wilderuess. 

LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts ; there grain, and riower, and &uit» 

Gush from the earth until the land nms o'er ; 
But there loo many a [wison-lree has root, 

And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 

And long, long desert.-* srorrh the camel's (bol. 

Or lieavuig whelm iho lielpiew earavan, 

An.l as the soil In. s.. thr heart of man. 



628 



DON JUAN. 



Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
Her human clay is kindled : full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth. 

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 

And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 

Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower: 

But her large dark eye show'd deep passion's force, 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVII, 

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 

Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 

Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 

Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
But, overwrought with passion and despair. 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 

Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

I, VIII. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore. 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down ; 

His blood was running on the very floor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own: 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst,^ and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
Were dabbled with the deep blood which rcUi o'er ; 

And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 

O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids bore 

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 

But she defied all means they could employ. 

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 

Corruption came not in each mind too kill 
All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 

New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul. 

She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there 

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 

O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes. 
And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 

Their energy like life forms all their fame, 

;Yet looks not life, for they axe still the same. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXIII. 

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 
On many a token without knowing what ; 

She saw them watch her without asking why. 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 

Not speechless, though she spoke not : not a sigh 
^ Reveal'd her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 



rxiv. 
Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
She recognised no being, and no spot. 

However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
They changed from room to room, but aU forgot. 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay ; 
And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, seem'd full or fearful meaning. 

LXV. 

At last a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp. 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, 
And he began a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

rxvi. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 

In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme. 

And sung of love — the fierce name struck through all 
Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being ; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
Although her paroxysm drew towards its close : 

Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 

Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face. 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 

Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last. 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 

A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 

And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to posses such lustre — and then lack ! 

LXXII. 

She died, but not alone ; she held within 

A second principle of life, which migh 
Have davra'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; 

But closed its little being without light, 
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 

Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; 
In vain the dews of heaven descend above 
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she : never more on her, 
Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
BrieT, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 

Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 

By the seashore whereon she loved to dwell. 



DON JUAN. 



629 



LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare, 
Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay : 

Y e could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Geek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her ; 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err. 

In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 
And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf; 

I do n't much like describing people mad. 
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself— 

Besides, I 've no more on this head to add: 
And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 

We '11 put about and try another tack 

With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 
Some days ajid nights elapsed before that he 

Could alltogether call the past to mind ; 
And when he did, he found himself at sea, 

Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 

Another time he might have liked to see 'em. 

But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum. 

LXXVI, 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 

Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles: 
They say so — (Bryant says the contrary :) 

And further downward, tall and towering, still is 
The tumulus -of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may be 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, — 

All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 

Lxxvir. 
High barrows, without marble or a name, 

A vast, untill'd, and mountain skirted plain, 
And Ida in the distance, still the same, 

And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain ; 
The situation seems still form'd for fame — 

A hundred thousand men might fight again 
With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, 
The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

rxxviii. 
Troops of untended horses ; here and there 

Some lilde hamlets, with new names uncouth; 
Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 

A moment at the European youth 
Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear ; 

A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, 
Extremely taken with his own religion, 
Are what I found there — but tJio dovil a Phrygian. 

I.XXIX. 

Don Juan, hero permitted to emerge 

From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'crshadow'd there by many a hero's grave : 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory infjrmation 

About his past or present situation. 
3 II 



LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 

To be Italians — as they were, in fact; 
From them, at least, their destiny he heard. 

Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 
In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 

In their vocation, — had not been attack'd, 
In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate. 
But sold by the impresario at no high rate.* 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case ; 

For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty. 
And bore him with some gayety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanour 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying, " Our Machiavelian impresario. 

Making a signal off some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario! 

We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario ; 

But, if the sultan has a taste for song. 

We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIII. 

" The prima donna, though a little old. 

And haggard with a dissipated life, 
And subject, when the house is tliin, to cold, 

Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife, 
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold ; 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife. 
By carrying off Count Cacsare Cicogna, 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

" And then there are the dancers ; there 's the Nini, 
With more than one profession, gains by all ; 

Then there 's that laughing slut, the Pellegrini, 
She too was fortunate last carnival, 

And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul ; 

And then there 's llie Grotesca — sucii a dancer I 

Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer. 

LXXXV. 

" As for the figurant i, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with hero and there 
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 

The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; 
There 's one, though tall, and stiffer than a pike, 

Yet has a sentimental kind of air, 
Which might go far, but she don't dance with rigour ; 
The more 's the pity, willi her face and figure. 

LXXXVI. 

" As for the men, they are a middling set ; 

The Musieo is but a rrark'd old basin, 
But, being (|ualified in one way yet, 

May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
And as a servant some preferment got ; 

His sinping I no finther trust ran place in: 
From all itie pope * makes yearly, 'l would perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the Utird aox. 

I.XXXVII. 

" The trnor's voice is spoilt by nffiK-lation, 
And for the bass, the beusi can only Ullow 

In fiiet, he had no sinking i«<linaiion, 

An ignorant, noteless. I uiielesjt, lunelpM fellow, 

But being the prima dnnnu's near relation, 

Who s\vor«' his voice wn< very rich and mellow. 

They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believf 

An nsH was practising recitative. 



530 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXVIII. 

«< "T would not become myself to dwell upon 

My own merits, and though young — I see, sir — ^you 

Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 
To whom the opera is by no means new : 

You 've heard of Raucocanti ? — I 'm die man ; 
The time may come when you may hear me too ; 

You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 

But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there — do go. 

LXXXIX. 

*' Our barytone I almost had forgot, 

A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit 
With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 
He always is complaining of his lot, 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street ; 
In lovers' parts, his passion more to breathe, 
Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 



Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to tlieir sad berths ; each threw 
A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all, 

From the blue skies derived a double blue. 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 

xcr. 
They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his sublimity's firman — 
The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

Which every body does without who can, — 
More to secure them in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, w^ell as man to man, 
Were to be chained and lotted out per couple 
For the slave-market of Constantinople. 

XCII. 

It seems when this allotment was made out, 

There chanced to be an odd male and odd female. 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt 
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 

Was Juan, who — an awkward thing at his age — 

Pair'd ofFwith a Bacchante's blooming visage. 

XCIII. 

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 
Instead of bearing up without debate. 

That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, 

" Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both. 

xciv. 
Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred wiihin the March of old Ancona, 
With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 

(And other chief points of a " bella donna,") 
Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 
Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 
Especially when added to the power. 

xcv. 
But all that power was wasted upon him, 

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 

And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 

(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or make his failh feel brittle : 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 



No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 

But facts are facts, — no knight could be more true, 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
We will omit the proofs, save one or two. 

'T is said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
By thought of frosty Caucasus," but few 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XGVII. 

Here I might enter on a chaste description, 
Having withstood temptation in my youth. 

But hear that several people take exception 
At the first two books having too much truth; 

Therefore I '11 make Don Juan leave the ship soon. 
Because the publisher declares, in sooth. 

Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel b 

To pass, than those two cantos into families, 

XCVIII. 

'T is all the same to me, I 'm fond of yielding, 

And therefore leave them to the purer page 
Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so correct an age ; 
I once had great alacrity in wielding 

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage. 
And recollect the time when all this cant 
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. 

xcix. 
As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble ; 

But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
Leaving such to the literary rabble. 

Whether my verse's fanje be doom'd to cease 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able. 

Or of some centuries to take a lease. 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long. 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

c. 

Of poets, w^o come down to us through distance 
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of fame, 

Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 

'T is as a snowball which derives assistance 
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same. 

Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow, — 

But after all 't is nothing but cold snow. 

CI. 

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 

And love of glory 's but an airy lust. 
Too oflen in its fury overcoming all 

Who would, as 't were, identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, 

Leaves nothing till the coming of the just — 
Save change : I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome. 

CII. 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb. 

Until the memory of an age is fled, 
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom : 

Where are the epitaphs our fathers read ? 
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, 

And lose their own in universal death. 



I canter by the spot each aflemoon 

Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 

Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 

A broken pillar not uncouthly hewn. 

But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 

Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 

While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.' 



DON JUAN. 



631 



I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 

A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column : 
The time must come when both alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth. 

cv. 
With human blood that column was cemented, 

With human filth that column is defiled. 
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 

To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd ; 
Thus is the trophy used and thus lamented 

Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild 
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone, 

cvi. 
Yet there will still be bards ; though fame is smoke. 

Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; 
And the unquiet feelings which first woke 

Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; 
As on the beach the waves at last are broke. 

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought. 
Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 
Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion^ 

evil. 
If in the course of such a life as was 

At once adventurous and contemplative, 
Men who partake all passions as they pass, 

Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
Their images again, as in a glass. 

And in such colours that they seem to live ; 
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 

Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books! 

Benign ceruleans of the second sex! 
Wlio advertise new poems by your looks, 

Your " imprimatur"" will ye not annex ? — 
What, must I go to the oblivious cooks, — 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel bo 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea? 

cix. 
What, can I prove " a lion" then no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 

And sigh " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling, 
Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore, 

(Because the world won't read him, always snarling,) 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery. 
Drawn by the bluo-coat misses of a coterie. 

ex. 
Oh ! " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 

As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 
And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; 

They say your stockings are so, (Heaven knows why, 
I have examined few pair of that hue ;) 

Blue as the garters which serenely lio 
Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn 
Tlie festal midnight and the levee morn. 



Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures— 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 

You read my stanzas, and t read your f-aturos : 
And— but no matter, all those things arc over; 

Still I have no dislike to Icarixul natures, 

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 

I know one woman of that purple school, 

The ioveiest, chastest, huM, but— qinte a fool. 



Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 

The last, if late accounts be accurate, 
Invented, by some name I have forgot. 

As well as the sublime discovery's date, 
An airy instrument, with which he sought 

To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
By measuring " the intensity of blue ;" 
Oh I Lady Daphne ! let me measure you! 

CXIII. 

But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 

With staves to sell off in the capital. 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound 

Were landed in the market, one and all, 
And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 
Bought up for difl^crent purposes and passions. 

cxiv. 
Some went off dearly: fifteen hundred dollars 

For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 
Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 

Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers. 

Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 
But when the offer went beyond, they knew 
'T was for the sultan, and at once withdrew. 

cxv. 
Twelve negresscs from Nubia brought a price 

"Which the West Indian market scarce would bring, 
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 

What 't was ere abolition ; and the thing 
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king 
The virtues, even the most exalted, charity, 
Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

cxvr. 
But for the destiny of this young troop, 

How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews 
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop. 

And otliers rose to the command of crews 
As renegadoes ; while in hapless group, 

Hoping no very old vizier might choose, 
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim. 

cxvii. 
All this must be reserved f5>r further song ; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
(Because this canto has become too long.) 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present , 
I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong, 

But could not for the muse of me put less in 't : 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian, the fifth Duon. 



CANTO V. 



When amatory pocti? sing llieir loves 

In liquid lines melUHuously bland, 
And |>air their rhymes aH \i'\\m yokes hrrdo?«« 

They little think what misehic-if i-« in hand; 
The greater their surer.';.'" the worse it proves, 

As t)vi<l'« verse n)ny make you undernlRnd ; 
Kven Petrarch's self, if jiKl«e,i with duo sovority, 
Is the Platonic pimp of all jwstentv. 



632 



DON JUAN. 



I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 
Except in such a way as not to attract ; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Form'd rather for instructing tlian delighting. 
And with all passions in their turn attack'd ; 

Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem will become a moral model. 

III. 
The European with the Asian shore 

Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream, 
Here and there studded with a seventy-four; 

Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 
The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 

The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream. 
Far less describe, present the very view 
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montague. 

IV. 

I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 

For once it was a magic sound to me, 
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy. 

Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
All feelings change, but this was last to vary, 

A spell from which even yet I am not quite free : 
But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
Which must not be pathetically told. 

V. 

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 

■ Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades, 

'T is a grand sight, from off " the Giant's Grave," 2 

To watch the progress of those rolling seas 
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 

Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; 
There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in 
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 

'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 

The Parcse then cut short the further spinning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
In all who o'er the great deep take their ways : 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 

Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared they won't. 

VII. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 

Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 

Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly changed. 

All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation. 

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged, 

The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 

As most at his age are, of hope, and healtli ; 

Yet I must own he look'd a little dull. 

And now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction among Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless. 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene: 

His figure, and the splendour of his dress. 

Of which some gilded remnants still were seen. 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, thougli pale, he was so very handsome ; 

And then — tliey calculated on his ransorn 



Like a backganunon-board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted : 

Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 

It chanced, among the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale. 

With resolution in his dark-gray eye. 

Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy, 

XI. 

He had an English look ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark-brown hair, 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 

An open brow, a little marked with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such sangfroid, that greater 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 

XII. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad. 

Of a high spirit evidently, though 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the wo, 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 

" My boy !" — said he, " amid this motley crew 
Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, 

All ragamuffins differing but in hue. 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, 

The only gentlemen seem I and you. 
So let us be acquainted, as we ought ; 

If I could yield you any consolation, 

'T would give me pleasure. — Pray, what is your nation '/" 

XIV. 

When Juan answer'd " Spanish !" he replied, 
" I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 

Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 
Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 

But that's the way with all men till they 're tried : 
But never mind, — she 'U turn, perhaps, next week ; 

She has served me also much the same as you. 

Except that I have found it nothing new." 

XV. 

"Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 

What brought you here ?" — " Oh ! nothing very rare — 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question 's fair. 

Is that which I would learn." — " I served for some 
Months with the Russian army here and there. 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widin." 

XVI. 

' Have you no friends ?" — "I had — but, by God's blessing, 
Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 

I have answer'd all your questions without pressing. 
And you an equal courtesy should show." 

" Alas '." said Juan, 't were a tale distressing. 
And long besides." — " Oh I if 't is really so, 

You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue; 

A sad tale saddens doubly when 't is long. 

XVII. 

But droop not : Fortune, at your time of life. 

Although a female moderately fickle. 
Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) 

For Emy length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive too with our fate were such a strife 

As if the com-sheaf should oppose the sickle: 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 



DON JUAN. 



533 



xvm. 

" 'T is not," said Juan, " for my present doom 
I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid :" 

He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 
A single tear upon his eyelash stay'd 

A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to resume, 
'T is not my present lot, as I have said, 

Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 

Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XIX. 

'* On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and here 
He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 

" Ay," quoth his friend, " I thought it would appear 
That there had been a lady in the case ; 

And these are things which ask a tender tear, 
Such as I too would shed, if in your place : 

I cried upon my first wife's dying day, 

And also when my second ran away : 

XX. 

" My third" — " Your third !" quoth Juan, turning round ; 

" You scarcely can be thirty : have you three ?" 
** No — only two at present above ground : 

Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" 

" Well, then, your third," said Juan ; " what did she ? 
She did not run away, too, did she, sir ?" 
<• No, faith."—" What then ?" " I ran away from her." 

XXI. 

" You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 
Replied the other, " what can a man do ? 

There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new. 

Commence with feelings warm and prospects high ; 
But time strips our illusions of their hue, 

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 

Casts off" its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 

xiii. 
" 'T is true, it gets another bright and fresh, 

Or fresher, brighter ; but, the year gone through, 
This skin must go the way too of all flesh. 

Or sometimes only wear a week or two ; — 
Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 

Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 
The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 
Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 

" All this is very fine, and may be true," 
Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 

It betters present times with me or you." 

" No !" quoth the other ; '* yet you will allow, 

By setting tilings in their right point of view, 

Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now, 

We know what slavery is, and our disasters 

May teach us better to behave when masters." 

XXIV. 

«' Would we were masters now, if but to try 

Their present lessons on our pagan friends here," 

Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning sigh: 

" Heav'n help the scholar whom his fortune sends hero !" 

" Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,"' 

Rcjoin'd the other, " when our bad luck mends here, 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 

I wish to G-d that somebody would buy us I 

XXV. 

" But after all, what is our present state? 

'T is bad, and may be b<!ttcr — all men's lot : 
Most men arc slaves, none more so than llio groat, 

To their own whims and passions, and what not : 
Society itself, which sliould create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is tlio true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men witho\it a heart." 



Just now a black old neutral personage 

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 

The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover. 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 

Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices, 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII 

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 

First but for one, and after for the pair ; 

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did! 

As though they were in a mere Christian fair, 
Cheapening an ox, as ass, a lamb, or kid ; 

So that their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last ihey settled into simple grumbling. 

And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 

Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, 

Until the sum was accurately scann'd. 
And then the merchant, giving change and signing 
Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good ; 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion. 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question, 
About the right divine how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd on«, 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire says " No;" he tells you that Candida 

Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
He 's wrong — unless man was a i)ig, indeed, 

Repletion rather adds to what lu> feels ; 
Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed 

From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 
Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 
Amnion's (ill pleased with one world and one father;) 

XXXII. 

1 think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two, 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

ReiloubU'd ; when a roast and a ragout, 
And fish anil soup, by some side-dishes Imck'd, 

(>an give us eitlu^r pain or plea-suro, who 
Would pique himself on iiitellecis, whoso use 
Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 

XXXIII. 

The otiier evening ('l was on Friday lost) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fublo — 
Just as my great coat was about nio cast, 

My hat and gloves still lying <»n the table,' 
1 h.ard a shot— 't was eight o'clock scarce pMU— 

And running out as fiust as I was able,* 
I found the military comm.indant 
Strotch'd in the slreet, and abb" »►. arco to ^vtX. 



634 



DON JUAN. 



XXXIV. 

Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 

They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him there 
To perish on the pavement : so I had 

Him borne into the house and up the stair. 
And stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 

More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 
The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.* 

XXXV. 

1 gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 

And, though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell, [liver. 

So calm ; though pierced through stomach, heart, and 
He seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead : — 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

"Can this be death 7 then what is life or death ? 

Speak !" but he spoke not : " wake !" but still he slept : 
But yesterday, and who had mightier breath ? 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe : he said, as the centurion saith, 

' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 

XXXVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed, 

To gaze once more on the commanding clay 

Which for the last though not the first time bled ; 

And such an end ! that he who many a day 
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 

The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 

Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley, 

XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
Those honourable scars which brought him fame ; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view — 

But let me quit the theme, as such things claim 

Perhaps even more attention than is due 

From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death, 

Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 

And there we go: — ^but where ? five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed ? 

Can every element our elements mar ? 

And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead ? 

We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more : 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 

As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
They look'd like persons being led to sentence. 

Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 
Up in a litde creek below a wall 
O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 

Of a small iron door, t' was open'd, and 
He led them onward, first through a low thicket 

Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either hand : 
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 

For night was closing ere they came to land. 
The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word 



As they were plodding on their winding way, 

Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth, 

(Of which I might have a good deal to say. 
There being no such profusion in the North 

Of oriental plants, " etcsetera," 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 

Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 

Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks :) 

XLIII. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into DcKi Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion : — 't was the same 
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 

" Methinks," — said he — " it would be no great shame 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free ; 

Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head 

And march away — 't were easier done than said." 

XLIV. 

" Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 

How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den. 

And worse oflf than we hitherto have been ; 
Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright, a beef-steak. 

XLV. 

" We must be near some place of man's abode ; 

For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 
With his two captives, by so queer a road. 

Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping ; 
A single cry would bring them all abroad : 

'T is therefore better looking before leaping — 
And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. 
By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too." 

XLVI. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 

Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 

There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 

A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in 

The arts of which these lands were once the font : 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savour 

Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, 
Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour. 

Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause. 
And put himself upon his good behaviour : 

His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 
Said, " In Heaven's name let's get some supper now, 

And then I'm with you, if you're for a row." 

XL VIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 

Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 

The last of these was never much the fashion, 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on. 

With arguments according to their *' forte ;" 

But no one ever dreams of being short. 

XLIX. 

But I digress : of all appeals, — although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 

Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold, 

Than that all-softening, o'erpowering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 



DON JUAN. 



635 



Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine: 
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 

No Christiaji knoll to table, saw no line 
Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared. 

Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 

And gazed around them to the left and right 

With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance, 

They follow'd close behind their sable guide, 

Who little thought that his own crack'd existence 
Was on the point of being set aside: 

He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide, 

And a magnificent large hall display'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 

LII. 

1 won't describe ; description is my forte, 
But every fool describes in these bright days 

His wond'rous journey to some foreign court, 

And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport ; 

While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 

Resigns herself with exemplary patience 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. 

LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 

Others in monosyllable talk chatted. 

And some seem'd much in love with their own dress ; 

And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
With amber mouths of greater price or less ; 

And several strutted, others slept, and some 

Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.^ 

LIV. 

As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment without slackening from their pace ; 
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in any wise : 

One or two stared the captives in the face, 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 

Some nodded to the negro from their station, 

But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping. 
On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 

Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping," 
A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 

Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 
Some female head most curiously presumes 

To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 

As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofly walls 
Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 

But not enough to show the imperial halls 
la all the flashing of their full array ; 

Perhaps there 's nothing— I 'U not say appals, 
But saddens more by night as well as day, 

Than an enormous room wilhciut a soul 

To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 

I- VII. 

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing : 
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 

There solitude, wo know, has her full growth in 
The spots whicli were her n-alins for ever more: 

But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings and those built of yoro, 

A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 

Seeing what 's meant for many witli but one. 



LVIII. 

A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 

A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite. 

Are things which make an English evening pass ; 
Though certes by no means so grands sight 

As is a theatre lit up by gais. 
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 
AJid that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas ! mam makes that great which makes him little: 

I grant you in a church 't is very well : 
What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 

But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill — 

And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell : 
Me thinks the story of the tower of Babel 
Might teach them this much better than I 'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing. 

Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 

Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing. 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den. 
The people's awe and admiration raising ; 

'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 

And the calumniated Queen Semiramia. 



But to resume, — should there be, (what may not 
Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't. 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 

(Though Claudius Rich, esquire, some bricks has got, 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't, 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though Uiey believe not you: — 

LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 

Shortly and sweetly tlie masonic folly 
Of those, forgetting the great place of rest. 

Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 
We know whore things and men nuisl end at last ; 

A moral (like all morals) melancholy, 
And " Et sepulcri immemor struis domos" 
Shows that we build when we should but entomb ua. 

LXIV. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 

Whore echo wolio as if from a long slumber: 
Though full of all things which could be desired. 

One wonilor'd what to do with such a number 
Of articles wliioh nobody reijuirtHl ; 

Hero wealth had done its utmost to encumber 
With furniture an exquisite apartment, 
Which puzzled nature nviich to know what art nioont. 

i.xv. 
It seem'd however, but to open on 

A riuigi- or suit ol" further chainbrni, wbicli 
Might loud to hoaven knows wlioro ; but in this on* 

The inovoablos wore pr«xligally rich; 
Sofas 't was half R sin to sit upoM 

So costly vfvw they ; carpet* every stilch 
Of workmanship so rare, that mado you wi«J» 
You could glide o'er Uicm like u joldon liali 



536 



DON JUAN. 



LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 
A glance at that which rapt tlie slaves in wonder, 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
As if the milky way their feet was under 

With all its stars : and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you do n't, the fault is not in me : 

LXVII. 

I wish to be perspicuous : and the black, 

I say, unlocking the recess, puU'd forth 
A quantity of clothes fit for the back 

Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
And of variety there was no lack — 

And yet, though I have said tliere was no dearth, 
He chose himself to point out what he thought 
Most proper for the Christians he had bought, 

LXVIII. 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 

Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 

And trowsers not so tight that they would burst, 
But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst. 
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 
In short, all things which form a Turkish dandy. 

LXIX. 

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend. 

Hinted the vast advantages which they 
Might probably attain both in the end, 

If they would but pursue the proper way 
Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend ; 

And then he added, that he needs must say, 
" 'T would greatly tend to better their condition, 
If they would condescend to circumcision. 

LXX. 

" For his own part, he really should rejoice 

To see them true believers, but no less 
Would leave his proposition to their choice." 

The other, thanking him for this excess 
Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 

In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
^' Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 
Of aU the customs of this polish'd nation. 

LXXI. 

*' For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite, 
And after swallowing down a slight reflection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." — 
" Will it ?" said Juan, sharply ; " Strike me dead. 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head — 

LXXII. 

" Cut off a thousand heads, before " — " Now pray," 

Replied the other, "do not interrupt: 
You put me out in what I had to say. 

Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd 
I shall perpend if your proposals may 

Be such as I can properly accept ; 
Provided always your great goodness still 
Remits the matter to our own freewill." 

LXXIII. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said " Be so good 
As dress yourself—" and pointed out a suit 

In which a princess with great pleasure would 
Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute. 

As not being in a masquerading mood. 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 

And when the old negro told him lo " Get ready." 

Replied, " Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady." 



LXXIV. 

"What you may be, I neither know nor care,* 

Said Baba, " but pray do as I desire, 
I have no more time nor many words to spare." 

" At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 
The cause of this odd travesty?" — " Forbear," 

Said Baba, " to be curious : 't will transpire. 
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 
I have no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXT. 

" Then if I do," said Juan, '< I 'U be " " Hold !" 

Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not provoking ; 

This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold, 
And you will find us not too fond of joking." 

" What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
That I unsex'd my dress ?" But Baba, stroking 

The things down, said — " Incense me, and I call 

Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXVI. 

" I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: 

A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause [loathes 
Why you should wear them." — " What, though my soul 

The effeminate garb ?" — Thus, after a short pause, 
Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 

" What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?" 
Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 
Which e'er setoff a marriage-morning face. 

txxvii. 

And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 

A pair of trowsers of flesh-coiour'd silk ; 
Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd. 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk ; 
But, tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 

Which — as we say — or as the Scotch say, whilk, 
(The rhyme obliges me to this : — sometimes 
Kings are not more imperative than rhymes) — 

LXXVIII. 

Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to 
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward ; 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward ; 

The negro Baba help'd a little too, 

When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard ; 

And, wrestling both his arms into a gown. 

He paused and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd, — his hair 
Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare. 

That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there ; 

And this addition with such gems was bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 

While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 



And now being femininely all array'd. 

With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers, 
He look'd in almost all respects a maid. 

And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, " You see, sirs, 
A perfect transformation here display 'd ; 

And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, 
That is — the lady :" — clapping his hands twice, 
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 

" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
" Will please to accompany those gentlemen 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun. 
Will follow me : no trifling, sir : for when 

I say a thing, it must at once be done. 

What fear you ? think you this a lion's den ? 

"Why 't is a palace, where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 



DON JUAN. 



537 



LXXXII. 

" You fool ! 1 tell you no one means you harm." 
" So much the better," Juan said, " for them : 

Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 

I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm, 
If any take me for that which I seem ; 

So that I trust, for every body's sake, 

That this disguise may lead* to no mistake." 

LXXXIII. 

" Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; while 

Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile 

Upon the metamorphosis in view, 
"Farewell!" they mutually exclaim'd : "this soil 

Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 
One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid. 
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 

LXXXIV. 

" Farewell !" said Juan ; " should we meet no more, 
I wish you a good appetite." — " Farewell !" 

Replied the other ; " though it grieves me sore ; 
When we next meet we '11 have a tale to tell ; 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once fell." 

" Nay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self sheui't carry 

Unless his highness promises to marry me." [me, 

LXXXV. 

And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 

Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 

Till a gigantic portal through tlie gloom. 
Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI, 

The giant door was broad, and bright and high. 
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 

Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 

Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies ; 

There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 
And in perspective many a squadron flies : 

It seems the work of times before the line 

Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantino. 

LXXXVII. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 

Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 

Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 
In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 

O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 
The gate so splendid was in all \ts features,'' 
You never thought about these little creatures, 

r.xxxviii. 
Until you nearly trod on them, and then 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men. 

Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor gray. 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb- 
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

T.XXXIX. 

Their duty was— for they were strong, and though 
They look'd so little, di'l ^'rong things at timos— 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers rhymes; 

And now and then, with tougli stiings of the bow, 
As is the custom of thoso eastern rhmos, 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 

For rnutcB are generally used for that. 



They spoke by signs— that is, not spoke at all : 
And, looking like two incubi, they glared 

As Baba with his fingers made them fall 
To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 

Juan a moment, as this pair so small 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 

It was as if their little looks could poison 

Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 

xci. 
Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 

To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 
" If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 

That somewhat manly majesty of stride, [in 't) — 
'T would be as well, and — (though there 's not much 

To swing a little less from side to side, 
Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; 
And also, could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 

'T would be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
Like needles, which might pierce those petticoats ; 

And if they should discover your disguise. 

You know how near vis the deep Bosphorus floats ; 

And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
To find our way to Marmora without boats, 

Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 

A good deal practised here upon occasion." 

XCIII. 

With this encouragement, he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry any thing away, 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; 
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter 
Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

xciv. 
Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; such things 

Occur in orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten'd domes of western kings, 

(Of which I 've also seen some six or seven,) 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
Much lustre, there is much to bo forgiven ; 
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcv. 
In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined 
Q,uite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady. Baba slopp'd, and kneeling, sign'd 
To Juan, who, though not much used to pray, 

Knelt down by iustinct, womlering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bonded 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

xcvi. 
The lady, rising up with such an air 

As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 
Bent like an antolopo a Papliian pair 

Of eyes, which put out oa<:l» surrounding gem 
And, raising up an arm as moonliglit fair, 

She sign'd to Babu, wiio fir^t kis.s'd the hem 
or her deep-purple robe, and, Rpeaking low 
Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

xcvil. 
Her presence was as lofly as hor state ; 

Her beauty of llint overpowering kind. 
Whose fivrce description only would aimlr': 

I 'd rather leave it nuifh to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by wliul 1 could relate 

Of forms and featurfs ; ii would strike you blind, 
Could I do justice lo the full dcliiil ; 
So, lut!kilv forbolJi, my phrases liiil. 



538 



DON JUAN. 



XCVXII, 

This much however I may add — ^her years 

Were ripe, they might make six and twenty springs, 

But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 

Such as was Mary's, Q,ueen of Scots ; true — tears 
And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 

Charms from the charmer — yet some never grow 

Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 

xcix. 
She spake some words to her attendants, who 

Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 
And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 

Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen : 
They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 

"Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 
As far as outward show may correspond ; 
I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 

c. 
They bovv'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 

But not by the same door through which came in 
Baba and Juan, which last stood admirintr. 

At some small distance, all he saw within 
This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 

Marvel and praise : for both or none things win ; 
And I must say 1 ne'er could see the very 
Great happiness of the " Nil admirari." 

CI. 

" Not to admire is all the art I know 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) 
To make men happy, or to keep them so ;" 

(So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
Thus Horace wrote, we all know, long ago ; 

And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 
From his translation; but had none admired, 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

CII. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdravm 

Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 
A second time desired him to kneel down 

And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 
He heard repeated, Juan with a frov\Ti 

Drew himself up to his full height again, 
And said '<■ It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 

crii. 
Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 

About a bowstring — quite in vain ; not yet 
Would Juan stoop, though 't were to Mahomet's bride 

There 's nothing in the world like etiquette, 
In kingly chambers or imperial halls. 
As also at the race and county balls. 



CIV. 

Ho stood like Atlas, with a world of words, 
About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 

The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
BoiPd in his veins, and rather than descend 

To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
A thousand times of him had made an end ; 

At length perceiving the ''foot'' could not stand, 

Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

cv. 
Here was an honourable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise 

And Juan now his willingness e.xpress'd 
To use all fit and proper courtesies. 

Adding, that this was commonest and best. 
For through the South the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 



And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
Though on more thorough-bred^ or fairer fingers 

No lips ere left their transitory trace: 

On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
As you will see, if she you love will bring hers 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 

An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

CVII. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 

And, looking on him with a sort of smile, 
Took leave with such a face of satisfaction. 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 

CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
I know not what might be the lady's thought. 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, 
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 

The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 

A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

cix. 

Her form had all the softness of her sex. 
Her features all the sweetness of the devil. 

When he put on the cherub to perplex 
Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil ; 

The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 
Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil; 

Yet somehow there was something somewhere wanting. 

As if she rather ordered than was granting,— 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was thrown, as 't were, about the neck of you, 

And rapture's self will seem abnost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view : 
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey— 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet. 

As though they were quite conscious of her statiai — 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine.) 



CXII. 

To hear and to obey" had been from birth 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth; 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still; 
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion 
We should have found out the " perpetual motion." 

cxin. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed' 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought. 

And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed ; 
There was no end unto the things she bought. 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, 
I The women pardon'd all except her face. 



DON JUAN. 



539 



Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 

Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 
She order'd him directly to be bought. 

And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 
In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 

Had his instructions where and how to deal : 
She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 
Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

cxv. 
His youth and features favour'd the disguise, 

And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 
Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 

This I must leave sultanas to decide : 
Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes. 

And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 
As we may ascertain with due precision, 
Some by experience, others by tradition. 

cxvi. 
But to the main point, where we have been tending : — 

She now conceived all difficulties past, 
And deem'd herself extremely condescending 

When being made her property at last. 
Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 

Passion and power, a glance on him she cast. 
And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou love?" 
Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

cxvii. 
And so it was, in proper time and place 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, 
Rush back upon his heart, which fiU'd apace. 

And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing: 
These words went through his soul like Arab spears. 
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVIII. 

She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears. 
For women shed and use them at their liking; 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking: 

A woman's tear-drop melts, a man half sears. 
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

His heart, to force it out, for (to be shorter) 

To them 't is a relief, to us a torture. 

cxix. 
And she would have consoled, but knew not how; 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now. 

And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 

cxx. 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
And when a strong although a strange sensation 

Moves — ^female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every situation ; 

And thus Gulbcyaz, though she knew not why 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must stop like all things else; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one who dared to ask if " he had loved," 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which wliono 
Bright with tlio very weakness he reproved; 

And although sensUive to beauty, ho 

Felt most indignant alill at not being fro«. 



CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into a comfortable t^te-h-t^te. 

To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 

And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I also would suggest llie fitting time, 
To gentlemen in any such like case. 

That is to say — in a meridian clime ; 

With us there is more law given to the case, 

But here a small delay forms a great crime : 
So recollect that the extremest grace 

Is just two minutes for your declaration — 

A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

cxxiv 

Juan's was good ; and might liave been still better, 
But he had got Haidee into his head : 

However strange, he could not yet forget her, 
Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 

Gulbeyaz, who loak'd on him as her debtor 
For having had him to the palace led, 

Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 

Grow deadly pale, and then blush back sigain. 

cxxv. 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 

Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes, 
AVhich needed not an empire to persuade, 

Look'd into his for love, where none replies: 
Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 

That being the last thing a proud woman tries : 
She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, threw 
Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

cxxvi. 
This was an awkward test, as Juan found. 

But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride , 
With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 

And seated her all drooping by his side. 
Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 

And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
" The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor 1 
Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

" Thou ask'st if I can love / bo this the proof 
How much I have luved — that I love not titee I 

In this vile garb, the distafl's web and woof 
Were fitter for me: love is for ihe fl-eo ! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof. 

Whate'cr thy power, and great it seems lobe — 

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a ilironp, 

And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 

CXXVIII. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite, 

Not so to her who ne'er had heard surh things; 

She deem'd her least conuuand must yield delight, 
Earth being only ma.le for jpieens and kings. 

If hearts lay on the left side or the right 
She hardly knew, to such perfection bring* 

Legitimacy its born votaries, when 

Aware of their duo royal riglila o'er men. 

I'XXIX. 

Besiil.-s, us has lurn atinl, »lie wa« bo fair 
As even in u nuuh humbler lot had mado 

A kinmlom or confusion any where ; 
And also, us may be presiinird, nIu- laid 

Some stress upon those ehatiiL-* which seldom f 
By the [Hissessors iJirowu into tiie nhado j; — 

She lliouylii lurs nave a iloubl'" •" right divine," 

And half of tlal opinion '• aUo nuue. 



640 



DON JUAN. 



cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you camiot) imagine, 

Ye ! who have kept your chastity when young, 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stun^ 

By your refusal, recollect her raging ! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject; then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

cxxxi. 
Suppose, but you already have supposed. 

The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
Phedra, and all which story has disclosed 

Of good examples ; pity that so few by 
Poets and private tutors are exposed, 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 
But when you have supposed the few we know, 
You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

cxxxii, 
A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness. 

Or any interesting beast of prey. 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies who cannot have their own way ; 
But though my turn will not be served with less. 

These do n't express one half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any? 

CXXXIII. 

The love of offspring 's nature's general law. 

From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings ; 

There 's nothing whets the beak or arms the claw 
Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings ; 

And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 

How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings 

This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 

Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 

cxxxrv. 
If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 

'T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire ; 
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 

I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer. 
So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 
Even you who know what a check'd woman is, 
(Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of this. 

cxxxv. 
Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well— 

A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 
It lasted, 't was like a short glimpse of hell : 

Naught 's more sublime than energetic bile. 
Though horrible to see yet gi-and to tell, 



Like 



ocean warrmg 'gamst a rocky isle : 



And the deep passions flashing through her form 
Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 

cxxx VI. 

A vulgar tempest 't were to a Typhoon 

To match a common fury with her rage. 
And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 

Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page ; 
Her anger pitched into a lower tune, 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age— 
Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," like^Lear's, 
And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears. 

cxxxvii. 
A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 

Pass'd without words — in fact she could not ; 
And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 

A sentiment till then in her but weak, 
But now it flow'd in natural and fast, 

As water through an unexpected leak, 
For she felt humbled— and humiliation 
Is sometimes good for people in her station. 



:peak 



CXXXVIII. 

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 
It also gently hints to them that others. 

Although of clay, are not yet quite of mud ; 
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 

And works of the same pottery, bad or good, 

Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: 

It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches, 

But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

cxxxix. 
Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head ; 

Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance ; 
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred ; 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence 
The lash to Baba ; — but her grand resource 
Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 

CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 

The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward ; 

For eastern stays are little made to pad, 
So that a poinard pierces if 't is stuck hard 

She thought of killing Juan— but, poor lad ! 

Though he deserved it well for being so backward, 

The cutting off his head was not the art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 

To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 

Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish. 
And thus heroically stood resign'd. 

Rather than sin — except to his own wish 
But all his great preparatives for dying 
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 

' CXLII. 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed 
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how ; 

And first he wonder'd why he had refused 
And then, if matters could be made up now ; 

And next his savage virtue he accused. 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath. 

Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 

CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 

Have sung, or even a dandy's dandiest chatter. 
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ; 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

CXLIV. 

" Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon !" 

('T was thus he spake) " and Empress of the Earth 

Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, 
Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, 

Your slave brings tidings— he hopes not too soon— 
Which your sublime attention may be worth ; 

The Sun himself has sent me like a ray 

To hint that he is coming up this way." 

CXLV. 

" Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say? 

I v.'ish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
But bid my women form the milky way. 

Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warning— 
And, Christian I mingle with them as you may ; 

And, as you 'd have me pardon your past sooming — " 
Here they were interrupted by a humming 
Sound, and then by a cry, " the Sultan 's comin<» " 



DON JUAN. 



641 



CXLV/. 

First came her damsels, a decorous file, 

And then his highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 

The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 
His majesty was always so polite 

As to announce his visits a long while 
Before he came, especially at night ; 

For being the last wife of the emperor. 

She was of course the favourite of the four. 

CXLVII. 

His highness was a man of solemn port, 

Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court. 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 

Ho was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention'd in the histories 

Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line.® 

CXLVIII. 

Ho went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
With more than " oriental scrupulosity;" 

He left to his vizier all state affairs. 
And show'd but little royal curiosity 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
No process proved connubial animosity ; 

Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 

Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 

The story scarcely pass'd a single lip— . 
The sack and sea had settled all in time, 

From which the secret nobody could rip : 

The public knew no more than does this rhyme 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 

CL. 

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
Was also certain that the earth was square, 

Because he had journcy'd fifty miles, and found 
No sign that it was circular any where ; 

His empire also was without a bound : 

'T is true, a little troubled here and there. 

By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 

But then they never came to " the Seven Towers ;" 

CLI. 

Except in shape of envoys, who wore sent 

To lodge there when a war broke out, according 

To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels who have never had a sword in 

Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 

Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 

Their lies, yclept di'spalchcs, without risk or 

The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

C.I,II. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, 
Of whom all such as came of ago were stow'd, 

The former in a palace, where like; nuns 

They lived till some bashaw was sent abroad. 

When she, whoso turn it was, wedded at onre, 

Sometimes at six years old — though this seoms odd, 

'T is true ; the reason is, that the bashaw 

Must make a present to his sire iti law. 

CMII. 

His sons were kept in prison till they grow 
Of years to till a bowstring or the throne, 

One or the other, but which of llu' two 
Could yet be known unio ihe fiii<'H alone ; 

Meantime the education they wnt through 

Was princely, an the proofs hav always shown; 

So that tlio heir apparent still was found 

No less deserving to bo hang'd than crown d. 



CLIV. 

His majesty saluted his fourth spouse 

With all the ceremonies of his rank, 
Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smootli'd her 

As suits a matron who has piay'd a prank: 
These must seem doubly mindfii! of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank ; 
To no men are such cordial greetings given 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 

CLV. 

His highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan among the damsels in disgui.se. 

At which he secm'd no whit surprised, nor grieved, 

But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 

" I see you 've bought another girl ; 't is pity 

That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CLVI. 

This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 

The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake 

Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 
Oh, Mahomet! that his majesty should take 

Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
Of them his lips imperial ever spake I 

There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLvn. 
The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 

The women up — because, in sad reality, 
Their chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality, 
Which in tho north prevents precocious crimes, 

And makes our snow less pure than our morality ; 
The sun, which yearly mehs th« polar ice, 
Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause, 
Though not for want of matter; but 't is time. 

According to the ancient epic laws. 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyn>e. 

Let this fiflh canto meet with diK^ applause, 
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime; 

Meanwliile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 

Yo'i Ml pardon to my muse a few .-jhort naps. 



PREFACE 



CANTOS VI. VII. VIII. 



The details of the siege of Ismail in two of tho fol- 
lowing rantos (i. e. th«- 7lh an.l Sili) are tak.n fnwn a 
French work, entitled " Ilistoire de la Nouvellr Rustsie." 
Some of the ineuli-nls nitribul.d to Don Juan rrally 
occurr<'d, particularly tlw cirrumstanre of his staving 
the infant, which was the actual case (>f tho late IHic 
do Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the RiitLsian 
service, and afterwards the founder and benofnrtor of 
Odessa, where his nnmo and moniory can novor craao 
to be regarded with roverenro. In the rourso of thene 
• antos, a stanr.a or two will be foumi rolativr to llje 
late ManpuH of Londonderry, but wriiion mwne lime 
before bin dec-a-se. Had that persn." ' 'iv diet! 

with him, ihoy would havo beon Nupi ' >•'«. I 

inn awure of nothing in the maiimi • <'[ of 

his life to i)rovent tho free fxpreroion ol the opinions 
of all whom his whole rxistenec wan conmimrd in en- 
deavouring to enBlave. Tliu' li-' «n« an amiable man 
in pritate lif", may or moy not b.< truo; but wUh thia 



542 



DON JUAN. 



the public have nothing to do : and as to lamenting his 
death, it will be time enough when Ireland has ceased 
to mourn for his birth. As a minister, I, for one of 
millions, looked upon him as the most despotic in inten- 
tion, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannized 
over a country. It is the first time indeed since the 
Normans, that England has been insulted by a minister 
(at least) who could not speali English, and that Parlia- 
ment permitted itself to be dictated to in the language 
of Mrs. Malaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, except 
that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or Watson, 
had cut his throat, he would have been buried in a cross- 
road, with the usual appurtenances of the stake and 
mallet. But the minister was an elegant lunatic — a sen- 
timental suicide — he merely cut the ''carotid artery" 
(blessings on their learning !) — and lo ! the pageant, and 
the abbey, and " the syllables of dolour yelled forth" by 
the newspapers — and the harangue of the coroner in an 
eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased — (an 
Antony worthy of such a Caesar) — and the nauseous 
and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of conspirators 
against all that is sincere or honourable. In his death 
he was necessarily one of two things by the law — a felon 
or a madman — and in either case no great subject for 
panegyric* In his life he was — what all the world 
knows, and half of it will feel for years to come, unless 
his death prove a " moral lesson" to the surviving Sejanif 
of Europe. It may at least serve as some consolation 
to the nations, that their oppressors are not happy, and 
in some instances judge so justly of their own actions as 
to anticipate the sentence of mankind. — Let us hear no 
more of this man, and let Ireland remove the ashes of 
her Grattan from the sanctuary of Westminster. Shall 
the Patriot of Humanity repose by the Werther of Po- 
litics!!! 

With regard to the objections which have been made 
on another score to the already published cantos of this 
poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from 
Voltaire : — 

" La pudeur s'est enfuite des coeurs, et s'est refugiee 
sur les levres." 

" Plus les mceurs sont depravees, plus les expressions 
deviennent mesurees ; on croit regagner en langage ce 
qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and 
hypocritical mass which leavens the present English 
generation, and is the only answer they deserve. The 
hackneyed and lavished title of blasphemer — which with 
radical, liberal, jacobin, reformer, &c. are the changes 
which the hirelings are daily ringing in tlie ears of those 
who will listen — should be welcome to all who recollect 
on whom it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus 
Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, and so 
have been and may be many who dare to oppose the 
most notorious abuses of the name of God and the 
mind of man. But persecution is not refutation, nor 
even triumph : the wretched infidel, as he is called, is 
probably happier in his prison than the proudest of his 
assailants. With his opinions I have nothing to do — 
they may be right or wrong — but he has suffered for 
them, and that very suffering for conscience' sake will 
make more proselytes to Deism than the example of 
heterodoxj prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to 



oppression, or over-pensioned homicides to the impious 
alliance which insults the world with the name of " Holy 1" 
I have no wish to trample on the dishonoured or the 
dead ; but it would be well if the adherents to the classes 
from whence those persons sprung should abate a little 
of the cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealing 
and false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and — but 
enough for the present. 



CANTO VI. 



I say by tlie laic of the land— the laws of humanity judge more 
tly ; but as the legitimates h 
them here make the most of it. 
t From this ntimber must be excepted Canning. Canning is a genius, 
almost a universal one : an orator, a wit, a poet, a statesman ; and no 
nian of talent can long pursue the path of his late predecessor, Lord C. 
If ever man saved his country, Canning can ; but icill he? I, for one, 
hope so. 

t When Lord Sandwich said "lie did not know the difference between 
orthodoxy and heterodoxy," — Warburton, the bishop, replied, " Ortho- 
doxy, my loid, is my doxy,&nA heterodoxy is another man's doxy." — 
A prehiie of the pvrsent day has discovered, it seems, a third kind of 
doxy, which has not greatly exalted in the eyes of theelect, that which 
fieniham calls " Cburch-of-Englandiem." 



" There is a tide in the affairs of men 

Which, taken at the flood" — you know the rest, 

And most of us have found it, now and then ; 
At least we think so, though but fev/ have guess'd 

The moment, till too late to come again. 
But no doubt every thing is for the best — 

Of which the surest sign is in the end : 

When things are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 

II. 

There is a tide in the affairs of women 

" Which, taken at the flood, leads" — God knows where ; 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair ; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
Men, with their heads, reflect on this and that — 
But women, with their hearts, on heaven knows what 

III. 

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 
Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 
A throne, the world, the universe, to be 

Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 
The stars from out the sky, than not be free 

As are the billows when the breeze is brisk- 
Though such a she 's a devil, (if that there be one,) 
Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 

IV. 

Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
By commonest ambition, tltat when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 

If Antony be well remember'd yet, 

'T is not his conquests keep his name in &shion ; 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalance all the Caesars' victories. 

v. 

He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty. 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport — I 

Remember when, diough I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart : as the world went, I 
Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

VI. 

'T was the boy's " mite," and like the " widow's," may 
Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 

But whether such things do, or do not, weigh, 
All who have loved, or love, will slill allow 

Life has naught like it. God is love, they say, 
And Love 's a god, or was before the brow 

Of Earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 

Of— but chronology best knows the years. 



DON JUAN. 



543 



We left our hero and third heroine in 
A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 

For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 
For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 

Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 

And do n't agree at all with the wise Roman, 

Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 

Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 

vni. 
I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
But I detest all fiction, even in song, 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it) 
Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
But by " the bookish theoric" it appears. 

If 't is summ'd up with feminine precision. 

That, adding to the account his Highness' years, 

The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; . 
For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, 

She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 

Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

z. 

It is observed that ladies are litigious 

Upon all legal objects of possession, 
And not the least so when they are religious, 

Which doubles what they think of the transgression. 
With suits and prosecution they besiege us. 

As the tribunals show through many a session, 
When they suspect that any one goes shares 
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 

XI. 

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land. 
The heathens also, though with lesser latitude, 

Are apt to carry things with a high hand. 

And take what kings call " an imposing attitude ;" 

And for their rights connubial make a stand, 

When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude ; 

And as four wives must have quadruple claims. 

The Tigris has its jealousies like Thames. 

XII. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 

The favourite ; but what 's favour among four ? 

Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
Not only as a sin, but as a bore : 

Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, 
Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 

And all (except Mahometans) forbear 

To malte the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 

XIII. 

His highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 

So styled according to the usual forms 
Of every monarch, till they are consigned 

To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms, 
Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — 

H's hi"hness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 
Expecting all the wolcomo of a lover, 
(A " Highland welcome" all iho wide world over. 

XIV. 

Now here we should diHtinfiiiish ; for liowe'cr 
Kisses, sweet words, iinhrniM-s, luid all thai, 

May look like what is— nt-itlur hrre nor (here: 
They are put on as easily as a hat. 

Or rather bonnet, which tho fair sex w<!ar, 
Trimm'd citlmr heads or ln-arls to dccorato, 

Which form an ornament, but no more part 

Of heads, than their caresses of tho heart. 



A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 

Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 

Rather to hide what pleases most unknown. 
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
A sincere woman's breast, — for over warm 
Or over coW, annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 

For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire ; 
For no one, save in very early youth. 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire. 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount : while your over chilly 
Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly. — 

XVII. 

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 

Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd. 
And see a sentimental passion glow. 

Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 
In his Monastic Concubine of Snow ; — 

In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 

Horatian, " Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 

XVIII. 

The " tu" 's too much, — but let it stand — the verse 
Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme, 

And not the pink of old Hexameters ; 

But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time 

In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
And was llirust in to close the octave's chime : 

I own no prosody can ever rate it 

As a rule, but lYuth may, if you translate it. 

XIX. 

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 

Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
Than other articles of female dress. 

Self-love in man too beats all female art ; 
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less: 

And no one virtue yet, except stan'ation, 

Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave tliis royal couple to repose ; 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
Whatc'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes ; 

Yet disappointed joys arc woes as deep 
As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wean 
Tho soul out (like the stone) with potty cares. 

XXI. 

A scolding wife", a sullon son, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, prt)lest<-d, or dis«rounle«l 

At a ptr-centii^e ; a child cross, doj{ ill, 

A favourite horse falli-n lanje just «.•« ho 's mtHmt*>d : 

A bad old woman making a worse will, 

Which leaves yon nunus of tho rash you counted 

As certain ; — those are paltry thing?«. and ypt 

1 'vo rarely soon iho man they did not fret. 

\XII. 

I 'ni n pliilosoph.r; «-(in(5>iin<l thorn nil! 

Hills, lioanis, and men, and — n<>I not wi)m«nkind ! 
\\ ith one goinl hearty «Mirso I vent n»y call, 

And then my "loifism lenvos nuunhl Inhind 
Whieli it can oillior pninor evil rail, 

And I ran {tive my win " ' '' mind; 

Though xvliftl M soul" oi 1 -III or tn-'«>th, 

h more lliiiK I know— 111. >■ i • ihom both. 



544 



DON JUAN. 



XXIII. 

So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse, 
Which doth your true believer so much please : 

J doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 

'T is so sententious, positive, and terse, 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XXIV. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
At least one of them — Oh the heavy night! 

When wicked wives who love some bachelor 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite, 

To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake, 

Lest their too lawful bedfellow should wake. 

XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 
• Also beneath the canopy of beds. 
Four-posted and silk^curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 

Snow." Well ! 't is all hap-hazard when one weds. 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. 

XXVI. 

Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, 

With all the damsels in their long array. 

Had bow'd themselves before the imperial eyes. 
And, at the usual signal, ta'en their way 

Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 

Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 

Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

XXVII. 

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
The tyrant's wish " that mankind only had 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce :" 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, 

And much more tender on the whole than fierce : 
It being (not now, but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth. 

To kiss them all at once from North to South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 

And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 

In such proportion ! — But my muse withstands 
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 

Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 

Our hero through the labyrinth of love 

In which we left him several lines above. 

XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
At the given signal join'd to their array ; 

And though he certainly ran many risks. 
Yet he could not at times keep by the way, 

(Although the consequences of such frisks 
Are worse than the worst damages men pay 

In moral England, where the thing 's a tax,) 

From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 



Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 

The galleries from room to reom they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng. 

By eunuchs flank'd ; while at their head there stalk'd 

A dame who kept up discipline among 

The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 

Without her sanction on their shc-paradcs : 

Her title was " the Mother of the Maid?." 



I 



XXXI. 

Whether she was a " mother," I know not, 

Or whether they were " maids" who call'd her mother •, 

But this is her seraglio title, got 

I know not how, but good as any other ; 

So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott : 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 

Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd. 

XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 

More easy by the absence of all men 
Except his Majesty, who, with her aid, 

And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 
A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
Where all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. 

XXXIII. 

And what is that? Devotion, doubtless — how 
Could you ask such a question 1 — but we will 

Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
Of ladies of all countries at the will 

Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
Like water-lilies floating down a rill. 

Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 

Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 

Vfaves at spring-tide, or women any where 

When freed from bonds, (which are of no great use, 

After all,) or like Irish at a fair, 

Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truce 

Establish'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play- 

XXXV. 

Their talk of course ran most on the new comer. 
Her shape, her air, her hair, her every thing : 

Some thought her dress did not so much become her, 
Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 

Some said her years were getting nigh their summer^ 
Others contended they were but in spring ; 

Some thought her rather masculine in height, 

While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 

XXXVI. 

But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and "beautiful exceedingly," 

Who with the brightest Georgians might compare: 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz too could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew. 

Although her beauty was enough to vex, 
After the first investigating view, 

They all foimd out as few, or fewer, specks, 
In the fair form of their companion new. 

Than is the custom of the gentle sex. 
When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen,. 
In a new face " the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIII. 

And yet they had their little jealousies, 
Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion, 

Whether there are such things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation. 

Although they could not see througli his disguise. 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 

Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 

You please — we will not quarrel about that : 



DON JUAN. 



545 



XXXIX. 

But certain 't is, they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 't were 

A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 

Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 

Whom if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu ; — in short, 
(To save description,) fair as fair can be 

Were they according to the best report, 
Though differing in stature and degree, 

And clime and time, and country and complexion; 

They all alike admired their new connexion. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red. 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm. 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread. 
But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XLII. 

A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 

Yet very fit to " murder sleep" in those 
Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue. 

Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
Few angles were there in her form, 't is true, 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where 
It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 

XLIII. 

She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking; 
She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife. 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name— 
*' Juanna."— Well, a pretty name enough. 

Katinka ask'd her also whence she came— [such stuff, 
« From Spain."—" But where is Spain ?"— " Do'nt ask 

Nor show your Georgian ignorance— for shame !" 
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 

To poor Katinka : " Spain 's an island near 

Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 

Juanna, playing with her veil of hair; 
And looking at her .steadfastly she sigh'd, 

As if she pitied her for being there, 
A pretty stranger, without friend or guide. 

And all abash'd too at the general stare 
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places. 
With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 

xi>vi. 
But hern the Mother of the Maids* drew near, 

With " Ladies it is time to goto rrst. 
I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 

She added, to Juanna, their new ^.'uest : 
" Your coming lias been unrxpected hern. 

And every couch is occupied; you had best 
Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early ^^ 
We will have all things si^ltled for you fairly. 
3T 



Here Ijolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 

You do'nt sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
That any body should disturb you ; so 

1 '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 
Than you would make the half of; — don't say no. 

And I of your young charge will take due care." 
But here Katinka interfered and said, 

** She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLVIII. 

" Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 

The matron frown'd : "Why so?" — "For fear of ghosts." 

Replied Katinka ; " I am sure I see 
A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 

And then I have the worst dreams that can be. 

Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts." 

The dame replied, " Between your dreams and you, 

I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 

XLIX. 

" You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 

Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you 

The same, Katinka, until by and by; 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 

Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy. 

And will not toss and chatter the night through. 

What say you, child ?" — Dudu said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 
Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 

Katinka too ; and with a gentle bow, 

(Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks,) 

She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, 

The others pouting at the matron's preference 

Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference. 

i-i. 

It was a spacious chamber, (Oda is 

The Turkish title,) and ranijed round tlic wall 

Were couches, toilets — and much more than this 
I might describe, as I have seen it all. 

But it suffices— little was amiss; 

'T was on the whole a nobly turnish'd hall, 

With all things ladies want save one or two, 

And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 

Dudii, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature, 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportiim — the wild strokes of nature 
Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike. 

And, pleasing or unjilcasing, still arc like. 

Mil. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 

Where all was harmony and calm and quiet, 
Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth, 

Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 
Than are vour mighty passions and so forth. 

Which some call "the sublime ;" I wish th«7 'd try it : 
I 've seen your stormy ."eas and sturiiiy women, 
And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

I.I v. 
But she was prnsivo more tlum melnnrholv. 

And serious more than juMisive. and serene 
It may be more than oiih< r— n<M unholy 

Her thoughts at l<-asl till now, appeur lo Imvr bnen. 
The Hlran"esl thing xvas. beaulrous. iiho w»<i wholly 

Unconscious, albeit turii'd of quick wventeon, 
That she was fuir, or dork, or Rhort, or tail ♦ 
Slio never thought about htjr«elf at oil. 



546 



DON JUAN. 



And therefore was she kind and gentle as 

The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 

By which its nomenclatme came to pass ; 
Thus most appropria'ely has been shown 

" Lucus a non Lucendo," not what v:as, 

But what wan not ; a sort of slyle that 's grown 

Extremely common in this age, whose metal 

The devil may decompose but never settle: 

LVI. 

I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost.) Kind reader! pass 
This long parenthesis : I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class 

My faults even with your own ! which meaneth, put 

A kind construction upon them and me : 

But that you won't — then don't — I am not less free. 

LVII. 

'T is time we should return to plain narration, 
And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudu 

With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 

This labyrinth of females, and each station 

Described — what 's strange, in words extremely few: 

I have but one simile, and that's a blunder. 

For wordless women, which is silent thunder. 

LVIII. 

And next she gave her (I say her, because 

The gender still was epicene, at least 
In outward show, which is a saving clause) 

An outline of the customs of the East, 
Wiih all their chaste integrity of laws. 

By which the more a haram is increased, 
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I 'm suro 

That nobody can ever take amiss, 

Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than this— 
That they have nothing better near, or newer. 

" Kiss" rhymes to " bliss" in fact as well as verse— 

I wish it never led to something worse. 

LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 

A child of nature, carelessly array 'd ; 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'T was like the fawn which, in the lake display'd, 
Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass, 

When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 

Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside ; but not before she offer'd 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd — 

Which pass'd well off — as she could do no less : 
Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd. 

Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 

Making a woman like a porcupine. 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread 

Oh ye I whose fate it is, as once 't was mine, 
In early youth to turn a lady's maid ; — 

I did my very boyish best to shine 
In tricking her out for a masquerade : 

The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 

Btuck all exactly in the proper spot. 



LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise — 
And I love Wisdom more than she loves me ; 

My tendency is to philosophize 

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree : 

But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 

What are we ? and whence came wo ? what shall bp 

Our ultimate existence? what 's our present? 

Are questions answeriess, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 

There was deep silence in the chamber: dim 
And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 

And Slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
Of the fair occupants : if there be sprhcs. 

They should have walk'd there in their spriteliest trim, 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites. 

And shown themselves as ghosts of belter taste. 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lay those around. 

Like flowers of different hue and clime and root, 

In some exotic garden sometimes found. 

With cost and care and warmth induced to shool. 

One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, 
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 

Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath 

And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 

One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm 
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 

Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 

And, smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 

The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further chartn. 
As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, 

Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 

All bashfully to struggle into light. 

LXVII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 

'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. 

A third's all-pallid aspect otfer'd more 

The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betray'd 

Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shor* 
Beloved and dcj)lored : while slowly stray'd 

(As night dew, on the cypress glittering, tinges 

The black bough) tear-drops thro' her eyes' dark fringes. 

LXVIII. 

A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still, 

Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 

White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, 

Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will ;— 
My similes are gather'd in a heap, 

So pick and choose — perhaps you '11 be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 

LXIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 

A lady of " a certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see 

As ere that awful period intervenes, 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon tlieir sins and self 

LXX. 

But all this time how slept or dream'd DudCi, 
With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover. 

And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 

Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue. 
And phantoms hover'd or might seem to hover, 

To those who like their company, about 

The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out. 



DON JUAN. 



647 



LXXI. 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commoiion : 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, 

All trembling, wondering, without the least notion, 
More than I have myself, of what could make 
The calm Dudu so turbulenlly wake. 

LXXII. 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed. 
With floating draperies and wilh flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, 

And bright as any meteor ever bred 

By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of care, 

For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd. 

Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 

But what is strange — and a strong proof how great 

A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna lay 
As fast as ever husband by his mate 

In holy matrimony snores away. 
Not all the clamour broke her happy state 

Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say, 
At least, — and then she too unclosed her eyes, 
And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 

LXXIV. 

And now commenced a strict investigation, 

Which, as all spoke at once, and more than onco 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration. 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration, 

Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But, being " no orator, as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 

At length she said, that, in a slumber sound. 
She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood— 

A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found > 
Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 

Life's hall-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ;— 

And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits. 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXVI. 

And in the midst a golden ap[)lc grew, — 

A most prodigious pippin— but it hung 
Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 

Her glances on il, and then, longing, flung 
Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 

Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
But always at a most provoking height : — 

LXXVII. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 

It fell down of its own accord, before 
Her feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 

And pick it up, and bile it to the core; 
That just as her young lip began to ope 

Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, 
And so— she awoke with a great scream and start. 

I.XXVIII. 

All this she told with some confiision and 
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 

To expound their vain and visionary gleams. ^ 

I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann d 
Prophetically, or that which ono deems 

" A strange coincidence," to use a phiaso 

By which such things aro Rctilod now-a-duys. 



LXXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughrs of some great harm. 

Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
To scold a lilde at the falie alarm 

That broke for nothing on laeir sleeping ear. 
The matron too was wroth to lcu.ve her warm 

Bed for the dream she had been obiijed to hear, 
And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 
And said that she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 

" I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee. 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three, 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see, 
To-morrow, what his highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 

" And poor Juanna, too ! the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

AVith such a clamour — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie abne, 

And, as the quietest of all, she niiglit 

With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known ; 

But now I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lo'.ah — though her couch is not so large." 

LXXXII. 

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision. 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone,) 
Juanna should be taken frum her, and 
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She promised never more to have a dream, 
At least to dream so loudly as just now; 

She wondcr'd at herself how she could scream— 
'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow 

A fjnd hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — hut she felt her spirits low, 
I And begg'd they would excuse her ; she 'd gel ovtr 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed, 
And said she fell herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed 
When all around rang like a tocsin-boll; 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming onco " mal-4-propos." 

I. XXXV. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round, 
And hid her face within Jiianna's broosl 

Her neck alone was sei-n, but that was found 
The colour of a budilitij^ rose's crest. 

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can exjjounj 
The mystery of this ru|)iuro of their rest ; 

All that I know is, that the facts I stale 

Aro true as truth has ever boon of late. 

I.XXXVI. 

And so good night lo ihem, — or, if you will, 
Good morrow— for iho cock had crown, and light 

Began to clothe each A^iaiic hill. 

And the mosque cr.s- ' ' into sight 

Of the long caravan, n\ '^ 

Of dewy dawn woim I I <'«<-h height 

That stretches to the stony belt \\U\c\\ pirds 

.\sia, where Kail looka down upon the Kurdi. 



648 



DON JUAN, 



LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather gray of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 

As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 

Array'd hersdf with mantle, gem, and veil: 

1 he nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which Fable places in her breast of wail. 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

"V^ hose headlong passions form their proper woes. 

LXXXVIII. 

And that 's the moral of this composition, 
If people would but see its real drift; — 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While gentle writers also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural — 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, — 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

So beautiful that art could little mend her, 

Though pale with conflicts between love and pride :- 

So agitated was she with her error, 

She did not even look into the mirror. 

xc. 
Also arose about the self-same time, 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord. 
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
A thing of much less import in that clime — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
Than where two wives are under an embargo. 

xci. 
He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other : as a man. 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty. 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

XCII. 

And now he rose: and after due ablutions, 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers, and other pious evolutions, 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
And tlien withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased. 
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

XCIII. 

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! 

Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
Thme ear, if it should reach,— and now rhymes wander 

Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
Their roar even with the Baltic's,— so you be 
Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me. 

xciv. 
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 

Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
That hater of mankind, would be a shame 

A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: 
But people's ancestors are history's game ; 

And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
All generations, I should like to know 
What pedigree the best would have to show? 



4 



Had Catherine and the sultan understood 
I Their own true interest, which kings rarely know, 
: Until 't is taught by lessons rather rude, 
I There was a way to end their strife, although 
I Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 
I Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
I She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram, 
I And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

xcvi. 
But as it was, his Highness had to hold 

His daily council upon ways and means, 
How to encounter with this martial scold, 

This modern Amazon and Q,ueen of queans ; 
And the perplexity could not be told 
^ Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
Sometimes a little hea^7 on the backs 
Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

XCVII. 

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 

For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone, 
And rich with all contrivances which grace 

Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 

Of porcelain held in the fetter'd Howers, 

Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

XCVIII. 

Mother-of-pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 

And singing-birds without were heard to warble ; 
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 

Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 
The true effect, and so we had better not 

Be too minute ; an outline is the best, — 

A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 

And here she summon'd Baba, and required 
Don Juan at his hands, and information 

Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, 
And whether he had occupied their station; 

If matters had been managed as desired, 
And his disguise with due consideration 

Kept up ; and, above all, the where and how 

He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know. 

c. 
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions ask'd 
More easily than answerd, — that he had tried 

His best to obey in what he had been task'd; 
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, 

Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ; 
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz v.as no model of true patience, 
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; 

She liked quick answers in all conversations ; 
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 

In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 
And as his speech grew still more broken-knee'd. 

Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle. 

And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 

CII. 

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through- 
He could not help the thing which he related : 

Then out it came at length, that to Dudii 

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated ; 

But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 



' 



DON JUAN. 



The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole haram bore, 

As soon as they re-enler'd their own room, 
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door, 

Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
(The atoresaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it wa3. 

CIV. 

He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure, 

Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact, 
'T was certain that his conduct had been pure, 

Because a foolish or imprudent act 
Would not alone have made him insecure. 

But ended in his being found out and sacked 
And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 
Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 

cv. 
This he discreetly kept in the back ground. 

And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now. 
For any further answer that he found. 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow ; 
Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round. 

As if she had received a sudden blow. 
And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 
O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 

cvi. 
Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 
It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 

Can never be described ; we all have heard, 
And some of us have felt thus " all amort, ^' 

When things beyond the common Have occurr'd ; 
Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 
What she could ne'er express — then how should I ? 

cvii. 
She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 

Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 
Of inspiration galher'd from distress. 

When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 
The heart asunder; — then, as more or less 

Their speed abated, or their strength grew dull, 
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 
And bovv'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 

CVIII. 

Her face declined, and was unseen ; her hair 

Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 

Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, — 
A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow. 
Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles check 
Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. 

cix. 
Her head hung down, and her lon^r hair in stooping 

Conceal'd her features belter than a veil; 
And one han 1 o'er the ottoman lay drooping. 

White, waxen, and as alabasler pale ; 
Would that I were a painter I to bo grouping 

All that a poet drags into detail ! 
Oh that my words were colours I but their tints 
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 

ex. 
Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 

And when to hold his tongue, now held it (ill 
This pas.sion mi^hl l)low o'er, nor dared to bulk 

Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 
Al length she rose up, and began to walk 

Slowly along the room, but silent still, 
And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled ey« — 
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high- 



She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — but paused, 
And then moved on again with rapid pace; 

Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace 

A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 

By all the demons of all passions, show'd 

Their work even by the way in which he trode. 

CXII. 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: — " Slave: 
Bring the two slaves 1" she said, in a low tone, 

But one which Baba did not like to brave. 

And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 

To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 
(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 

What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 

For fear of any error like the late. 

cxiir. 
" The Georgian and her paramour," replied 

The imperial bride — and added, '• Let the boat 
Be ready by the secret portal's side: 

You know the rest." The words stuck in her throat, 
Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 

And of this Baba willingly took note, 
And begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
She would revoke the order he had heard. 

cxiv. 
" To hear is to obey," he said ; " but still, 

Sultana, think upon the consequence: 
It is not that I shall not all fulfil 

Your orders, even in their severest sense ; 
But such precipitation may end ill. 

Even at your own imperative expense; 
I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
In case of any premature disclosure ; 

ex v. 

'* But your own feelings. — Even should all the rest 

Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 
Already many a once love-beaten breast 

Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide— 
You love this boyish, new seraglio guest, 
And — if this violent remedy be tried- 
Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 
That killing him is not the way to cure you." 

cxvi. 
" What dost thou know of love ot feeling .' — wTetch ! 

Begone 1" she cried, wiih kindling eyes, " and do 
Mv bidding '." B.iba vunish'd ; far to stretch 

ilis own remonstrani e Tiriher, ho well knew, 
Might end in acting as his own " Jack Kc:ch ;" 

And, though he wish'd extremely to ge' through 
This awkward business without harm lo other*, 
He still preforr'd his own neck to anoUier'u. 

cxvii. 
Away he went then upon his commission, 

Growling and grumbling in g )od Turkish phras* 
A'zainU a'i womi'U, of wha'e'cr cjndilion, 

Especially sultanas and their ways; 
Their obstinacy, pride, and inJi'cision, 

Their never kn v.viiig their own mind two days, 
The trouble thai t!iey gave, their iinin.)raliiy, 
Which made iiim daily bless itii own noutralitjr. 

rxvMi. 
An I then he rnllM Wis broihron to his aid, 

And sent one on a summon-i to tho pair, 
That they must instantly bo well arrav'd, 

And, above all, be com'; ■ ■ i h.iir, 

And brought before the . 'i I made 

Inquirie;* ofer lluMU \M^: "'"^ 

At which Dudii look'd stranjjc, and Juan silly ; 
But go Uioy must at once, and will I— oill I. 



660 



DON JUAN. 



CXIX. 

And here I leave them at their preparation 

For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
Gulbeyaz siiow'd them both commiseration, 

Or got rid of the parties altogether — 
Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 

Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
May settle; but far be 't from me to anticipate 
In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

cxx. 
I leave them for the present, with good wishes, 

Though doubts of their well-doing, to arrange 
Another part of history ; for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes change: 
And, trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 

Although his situation now seems strange 
And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 
The muse will take a little touch at warfare. 



CANTO VII. 



Oh love ! Oh glory ! what are ye ? who fly 

Around us ever, rarely to alight: 
There 's not a meteor in the polar shy 

Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. 
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 

Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
A thousand and a thousand colours they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 

ir. 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail us, 
But ne'ertheless, I hope it is no crime 

To laugh at alt things : for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a showl 

III. 
They accuse me — rae — the present writer of 
' The present poem, of — I know not what,— 
A tendency to underrate and scoff 

At human power and virtue, and all that; 
And this they say in language rather rou^h. 

Good Gad! 1 wonder what they would be at? 
I say no more than has been said in Dante's 
Verse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes ; 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 

By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 

'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so— 
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 

Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die, 

But which is best, you know no more than I. 

V. 

Socrates said, our only knowdedgc was, 

" To know that nothing could be known ;" a plet 

Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 

Newton, (that proverb of the mind.) alas! 

Declared, with all his gi-and discoveries recent. 

That he himself felt only " like a youth 

Picking up shells by the great ocean — truth." 



Ecclesiastes said, that all is vanity- 
Most njodern preachers say the same, or show it 

By their examples of true Christianity ; 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it: 

And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity, 
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 

Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 

Fiom holding up the nothingness of life? 

VIT. 

Do2S, or men ! (for 1 flatter you in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far) ye may 

Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
To show ye what ye are in every way. 

As little as the moon stops for the baying 

Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray 

From out her skies ; — then howl your idle wrath ! 

While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 

" Fierce loves and faithless wars" — I am not sure 
If this be the right reading — 't is no matter ; 

The fact 's about the same ; I am secure ; — 
I sing them both, and am about to batter 

A town which did a famous siege endure, 
And was belcaguer'd both by land and water 

Bv Suvaroff, or anglice Suwarrow, 

Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 

IX. 

The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 

With buildings in the orienfal taste, 
But still a fjrtress of the foremost rank. 

Or was, at least, unless 't is since defaced. 

Which with your conquerors is a common prank: 

It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 

And measures round of toises thousands three. 



Within the extent of this fortification 
A borough is comprised, along the height 

Upon the lefc, which, from its loftier station. 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upright, 

So placed as to impede the fire of those 

Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

XI. 

This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
Of the high talents of this new Vauban ; 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, 
The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang: 

But then there was a great want of precaution, 
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang,) 

Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, 

To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 



But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our Saint George, 
Case-mated one, and 't other a " barbette," 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge ; 
While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set. 

Rose o'er the town's right side, in bristling tier. 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town 's open quite. 
Because the Turks could never be persuaded 

A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 

And such their creed was, till they were invaded, 

When it grew rather late to set things right. 
But as the Danube could not well be waded. 

They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla. 

And only shouted, "Alia!'' and " Bis Millah !" 



DON JUAN. 



661 



The Russians now were ready to attack ; 

Bat c'n, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
How shall I spell the name of each Cossack 

Who were immortal, could one tell their story? 
Alas ! what to their memory can lack? 

Achilles' self was not more grim and gory 
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, 
"Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation, 

XV. 

Still I '11 record a few, if but to increase 

Our euphony — there was S:ron;icnofF, and StrokonofF, 
Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arseniew of modern Greece, 

And TschitsshakofT, and RDguenofF, and ChokenofF, 
And others of twelve consonants apiece: 

And more might be found out, if I could poke enough 
Into gazettes ; but Fame, (capricious strumpet !) 
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 

XVI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration, 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme. 

Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words ton, fited fjr the peroration 
Of Londonderry, drawlincr a'^ainsttime, 

Ending in " ischskin," " ousckin," " ifTskchy," " ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 

XVII. 

Scherematoff and ChremaiofF, Koklophti, 
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high 
A^amst a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to n.akc their kettle-drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchmsnt had grown dear, 

And no more handy substitute been near. 

XVIII. 

Then there were foreigners of much renown, 

Of various nations, and all volunteers; 
Not fighting for their country or its crown, 

But wishing to be one day brigadiers ; 
Also to have the sacking of n town — 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 
'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, 
Sixteen call'd Thompson, and nineteen named Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack Thompson and Bill Thompson ;— all the rest 
Had been call'd " Jemmy'' after the great bard; 

I do n't know whether they had arms or crest, 
But such a godfather 's as good a card. 

Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
Among them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, 

Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 

At Halifax ;" but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills; 

But when I 've added that the eider Jack Smith 
Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 

And (hat his father was an honest blacksmith, 
I 've said all / know of a name that fills 

Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmacsmitli," 
A village of M;)ldavia'.s wa<;te, wherein 
He fell," immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 

Praise (if a man's name in a htiHctin 
May make up for a Imllct in his body? 

I hope this little (jueslion is no sin, 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same tliought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doating, 
Which many people pass for wits by (luoting. 



Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: 

But I 'm too great a patriot to record 
Their gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason: they betray 

Their country, and, as traitors are abhorr'd. 
Who name the French and English, save to show 
How peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. 

xxiir. 
The Russians, having built two batteries on 

An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 
The first was to bombard it, and knock down 

The public buildings, and the private too, 
No matter what poor souls might be undone. 

The city's shape suggested this, 't is true ; 
Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 
Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to i)rofil by 

The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh, 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fjx-terriers ; 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 

Common in many cases, was in this 

The cause of killing TchitchitzkofTand Smith; 

One of the valorous " Smiths" whom we shall miss 
Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ;" 

But 't is a name so spread o'er " Sir" and " Mcdam," 

That one v,ould think the first who bore it " Adam." 

XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
Because they were constructed in a hurry. 

Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
As they who print them think is necessary. 

May likewise put off" for a time what story 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 

X X V II . 

Whether it was their engineers' stupidity, 

Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor car» 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homiciile ; but there was no solidity 
In the now batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'ii, or they were never mist'd, 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVMI. 

A sad miscalenlation about distance 

Made all their naval matters incorrrct ; 
Three fire-ships lost their amiable existence, 

liefore they rearh'd a spot t»> take effect : 
The match was lit too smin. and no assistance 

Could reiiunlv this lubberly defect ; 
Tlu-y l»l«'w up in the middle of the river, 
While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fa»l ai erer. 

XXIX. 

At seven they rose, however, and mirvey'd 

The Kuss flotilla pellin« under way ; 
♦T was nine, when still nJvanring undismay'd, 

Within n ruble's length ih-ur v.-snels lay 
Off* Ismail, anil oominen<<-d a rnniinnitdo, 

Whieh was ntnruM with ini< I'-i. I may aay, 
And bv a lire tif tniiMketry and ;;iiM"". 
And shells and shot of every »u<" auA shape. 



652 



DON JUAN. 



For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish fire ; and, aided by their own 

Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision: 
At length they fjund mere cannonade alone 

By no means would [jroduce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blew up ; a second, near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 

XXXI. 

The Moslem too had lost both ships and men ; 

But when they saw the enemy retire, 
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 

And pali'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main. 

But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
Count Damas drove them back into the water 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter, 

XXXII. 

" If" (says the historian here) "I could report 
All that the Russians did upon this day, 

I think that several volumes would fall short. 
And I should still have many things to say ;" 

And so he says no more — but pays his court 
To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray, 

The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 

Names great as any that the roll of fame has. 

XXXIII. 

This being the case, may show us what fame is: 
For out of three '' preux chevaliers," how 

Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed ? (and they may live now 

For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss ; 
There 's fortune even in fj.me, we must allow, 

'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 

Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's skreen. 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought. 
But buried in the heap of such transactions — 

Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 

And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 

Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault ; 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault ; 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
Which made a long debate : — but I must halt ; 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if that he was a man, — 

Not that his manhood could be call'd in question, 

For, had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 
He died beneath a tree, as much unbless'd on 

The soil of the green province he had wasted. 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted ; — 

XXXVII. 

This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great, 

If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 



XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent. 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the mean lime the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

AVere briskly fired and answer'd in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 

Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in war's art. 

By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase, 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal SuvarofT. 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spar-an, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial,— 
Defence of freedo.m, country, or of laws ; 

Bat as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause. 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

" You will take Ismail, at whatever price." 

XLI. 

" Let there be light !" said God, " and there was light!" 
" Let there be blood 1" says man, and there 's a seal 

The fiat of this spoil'd child of the night 
(For day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 

More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 

Summers could renovate, though they should ba 

Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit— 

For war cuts up not only branch but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends the Turks, who with loud " Alias" now 

Began to signalize the Russ retreat. 
Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat :) 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 

XLIII. 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop drew 

In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacks 

For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs. 

For there were but three shirts between the two ; 
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks. 

Till, in approaching, were at length descried 

In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 

XLIV. 

" Great joy to London now !" says some great fool, 
When London had a grand illumination. 

Which, to that batile-conjuror, John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, 
That sage {said John) surrenders at discretion 

His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 

To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 



'T is strange that he should further " damn his eyes," 
For they are damn'd : that once all-famous oath 

Is to the devil now no further prize. 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 

Debt he calls wealth, and taxes, paradise ; 
And famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 

Which stares him in the face, he won't examine, 

Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 



d 



DON JUAN. 



663 



XLVI. 

But to the tale. Great joy unto the camp ! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp, 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp. 

Which leads beholders on a boggy walk. 
He flitted to and fro, a dancing light. 
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 

XLVII. 

But, certes, matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause. 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLVIII. 

'T is thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind. 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection : 

Or as a little dog will lead the blind. 

Or a bellweather form the flocks connexion 

By tinkling sounds when they go forth to victual : 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 

The whole camp rung with joy ; you would have thought 
That they were going to a marriage-feast, 

(This metaphor, T think, holds good as aught, 
Since there is discord after both at least,) 

There was not now a luggage-boy but sought 
Danger and spoil with ardour much increased ; 

And why ? because a little, odd, old man, 

Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 

But so it was ; and every preparation 

Was made with all alacrity ; the first 
Detachment of three columns took its station, 

And waited but the signal's voice to burst 
Upon the foe: the second's ordination 

Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter: 
The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 

LI. 

New batteries were erected ; and was held 
A general council, in which unanimity, 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd. 
As someUmes happens in a great extremity ; 

And, every difficulty being expcU'd, 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 

While Suvaroff", determined to obtain it. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet.' 

LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could aflibrd to squander 
His time, a corporal's duties to fulfil : 

Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never taiie it ill ; 

He show'd thetii how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 
Liri. 

Also he dross'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 

And made them charge with bayonets these machines, 
By way of lesson against actual Turks. 

And, when well practised in these mimic sconM, 
He judged Uiem proper to assail the works ; 

At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty:— 

He made no answer; but he took tiio city. 
3 17 



Most things were in this posture on the eve 
Of the assault, and all the camp was in 

A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive: 
Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and thin, 

Are very silent when they once believe 
That all is settled: — there was little din. 

For some were thinking of their liome and friends, 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 



Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert. 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering: 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to storm 
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 

Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill, 
Had met a party, towards the twilight's fall, 

One of whom spoke their tongue, or well or ill — 
'T was much that he was understood at all ; 

But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 

They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 

LVII. 

Whereon, immediately at his request. 

They brought him and his comrades to headquarters 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish- fashioned vest 

Lurk'd Christianity ; who sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 

LViir. 
Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt. 

Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 
Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert. 

And lecturing on the noble art of killing,— 
For, deeming human clay but common dirt, 

This great philosopher was thus instilling 
His maxims, which, to martial comprehension, 
Proved death in battle equal to a pension ;— 

LIX. 

Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
Upon tlieni his slow brow and piercing eye: — 

" Whence come ye ?" — " From Constantinople last, 
Captives just now esca|ied," was the reply. 

" What are ye ?" — " What you see us." Briefly past 
This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. [Juan; 

" Your names ?" — ''Mine's Johnson, and my conirade'i 

The other two arc women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said : " 1 have heard 
Yotir name before, the second is a new one ; 

To bring the other three here was absuni ; 
Km let that pass ;— I think I 'vo heanlyour nam* 
In the NiUolaicw regiment .'" — " The same." — 

l.XI. 

«' Yon served at Widin ?" " Yea." '* Ymi led the attack t^ 
<. I did."—" What next ?"— ' I really hardly know." 

" You were the first i' the br.arh .'"—'• 1 ««•• noHlack, 
At least, to follow those who niishl be so." — 

" What follow'd .'"— " A Nhol laid mr im my back 
And I became a pi isonrr to the foe." — 

" You fihall have vengeance, for the town 

Is twice OS strong oj that where you war« 



664 



DON JUAN. 



" Where will you serve ?" — " Where'er you please." — 
You like to be the hope of the forlorn, [' ' I know 

And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
After the hardships you 've already borne. 

And this young fellow'.' say what can he do? — 
He with the beardless chin, and garments torn." 

" Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 

In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 

LXIII. 

" He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrovy 

Continued : " Your old regiment 's allow'd, 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 

Or it may be to-night, the assault : I 've vow'd 
To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

rxiv. 
•' So now, my lads, for glory !" — Here he turn'd, 

And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 
Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 
A preacher had held forth, (who nobly spurn'd 

AH earthly goods save tithes,) and bade them push on 
To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 
The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 

LXV. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 

Himself a favourite, ventured to address 
Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 

In his resumed amusement. " I confess 
My debt, in being thus allow'd to die 

Among the foremost ; but if you 'd express 
Explicitly our several posts, my friend 
And self would know what duty to attend." — 

LXVI. 

" Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which should be 

Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) — 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 

He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new, 
Although their haram education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines th^ most true, 
Passive obedience, — now raised up the head, 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, 

LXVIII. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled hell with heroes slain. 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

Oh, foolish mortals! always taught in vain ! 
Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 

Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea ! 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears, 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling; for, however habit sears 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes — and such was Suwarrow. 



LXX. 

He said — and in the kindest Calmuc tone — 
" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 

By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 
All the attention possible, and seen 

In safety to the wagons, where alone 

In fact they can be safe. You should have been 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 

Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives." 

LXXI. 

" May it please your excellency," thus replied 

Our British friend, " these are the wives of others, 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers, 

To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
Into a camp ; I know that naught so bother 

The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXII. 

" But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
With their attendant aided our escape, 

And afterwards accompanied us through 
A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 

To me this kind of life is not so new ; 

To them, poor things ! it is an awkward step ; 

I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 

Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime, these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 

Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 

To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
In aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust, 

Stript to his waistcoat, and thai not too clean, 

More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 

For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 

As they could read in all eyes. Now, to them. 

Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad, 
(That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem,) 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without. 

LXXV. 

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
Though little versed in feelings oriental, 

Suggested some slight comfort in his way. 
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, 

Swore they should see him by the dawn of day. 
Or that the Russian army should repent all : 

And, strange to say, they found some consolation 

In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses. 
They parted for the present — these to await. 

According to the artillery's hits or misses. 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate— 

(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 
A mortgage on Humanity's estate)— 

While their beloved friends began to arm. 

To burn a town which never did tliem harm. 

LXXVII. 

Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross- 
Being much too gross to see them in detail ; 

Who calculated life as so much dross, 
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job ; — 

What was 't to him to hear two women sob? 



DON JUAN. 



656 



Lxxriii. 

Nothing. The work of glory still went on, 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

We only can but talk of escalade, 
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets. 
Hard words which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 

LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long — all ages, though so short, 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 

Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; — 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer! I have now 

To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain. 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow. 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow. 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood — 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact : 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum! 

Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, 
There should be, ne'ertheless, a slight substratum. 

But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em ? 

Souls of immortal generals ! Phcebus watches 

To colour up his rays from your despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Buonaparte ! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded ! 
Shade of Leonidas ! who fought so hearty. 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded! 
Oh, Caesar's Commentaries ! now impart ye. 

Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting to the Muse. 

Lxxxiir. 
When I call " fading" martial immortality, 

I mean, that every age and every year, 
And almost every day, in sad reality, 

Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear. 
Who, when we come to sum up the totality 

Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 
Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 
Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals, ranks, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 

Are things immortal to immortal man, 
As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 

An uniform to boys is like a fan 
To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet. 

But deems himself the first in glory's van. 
But glory 's glory ; and if you would find 
What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXV. 

At least hefccla it, and some say he seen, 

Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 

Say that he scuds before it like a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigufl. 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village-steeple. 



LXXXTI. 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold dull night. 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rarik ! 

Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristlinor bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank, 

Which curl in curious wreaths — How soon the smoke 

Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful pause, dividing life from death. 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 

Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! 

A moment — and all will be life again ! 

The march ! the charge! the shouts of either faith! 

Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more — 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO VIII. 



Oh blood and thunder ! and oh blood and wounds ! 

The?e are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, 
Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds : 

And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her theme, 
So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

II. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To wield them in their terrible array. 
The army, like a lion from his don, 

March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay— 
A human Hydra, issuing from its fon 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
Whose heads were heroes, which, cut off in vain, 
Immediately in otliers grew again. 

III. 
History can only take things in the gross; 

But could we know >hcm in detail, perchanc* 
In balancing the profit and the loss, 

War's merit it by no means mi<jht enhance. 
To waste so much gold for a little dross, 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gor«. 

IV. 

And why? because it brings self-approbation ; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pension^ from a nation — 

Which (it may be) has not much lef\ to spar*— 
A higher title, or a loftier station. 

Though they may make corruption pnpo or stare, 
Yet, in the end, except in freedom's battlt-s, 
Arc nothing but a child of murder's rattles. 

V. 

And such they are— and mich they will be founef. 

Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whoso every battle-field i^ holv ground. 

Which breathes of nai ' > ■' w^rlas unaon.. 

H<iw swtM'tly on the em '<>"d '■ 

While the mere virloi. "i- stun 

The servile and the vain, such nnmrs will b« 
A watchword till lh« futur* shall bo Cre«. 



656 



DON JUAN. 



The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
Naught to be seen save the artillery's flame, 

Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
And in the Danube's waters shone the same, 

A mirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 

The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes 

Spare, or smite rarely — Man's make millions ashes! 

VII. 

The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises. 

When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices ; 

Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced. 
Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises ; 

While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 

The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 

And one enormous shout of " Allah !" rose 
In the same moment, loud as even the roar 

Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 

Resounded " Allah I" and the clouds, which close 
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er. 

Vibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark ! through 

All sounds it pierceth," Allah! Allah! Hu !" > 

IX. 

The columns were in movement, one and all : 
But, of the portion which attack'd by water, 

Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall. 

Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter. 

As brave as ever faced both boom and ball. [ter;"^ 

" Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daugh- 

If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 

Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 

The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 

Count Chapeau-Bras too had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap ; in fact the ball could mean 
No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
" Ashes to cishes" — why not lead to lead. 

XI. 

Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince, 
Amid some groaning thousands dying near, — 

All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General Markow, who could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token. 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 

XII. 

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic. 
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 

Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills ; 

Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 

Past, present, and to come ; — but all may yield 

To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony. 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard— 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket, — these reward 

Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 

May win, perhaps, a riband at the breast ! 



1 



Yet I love glory ; glory 's a great thing ; 

Think what it is to be in your old age 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king : 

A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
And heroes are but made for bards to sing. 

Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 
Half-pay for life, makes mankind worth destroying. 

XV. 

The troops already disembark'd push'd on 
To take a battery on the right ; the others, 

Who landed lower down, their landing done. 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 

Being grenadiers, they mounted, one by one. 

Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers— 

O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, 

Q,uite orderly, as if upon parade. 

XVI. 

And this was admirable ; for so hot 

The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
And shells or hells, it could not more have 

Of officers a third fell on the spot, 

A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault 

XVII. 

But here I leave the general concern. 

To track our hero on his path of fame : 
He must his laurels separately earn ; 

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 
Though all deserving equally to turn 

A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory. 
And, what is worse still, a much longer story : 

XVIII. 

And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 

Their clay for the last time their souls encumber;— 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 

In the despatch ; I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. ' 

XIX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps. 

And fought away with might and main, not knowing 
The way which they had never trod before. 

And still less guessing where they might be going; 
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er. 

Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing, 
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining 

A yard or two of ground, v/hich brought them nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were straining; 

At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 

Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining, 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 

A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 

XXI. 

Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
The nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch, 

Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
A glance on tlie dull clouds (as thick as starch, 

Which stifFen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;— 

Yet for all this he did not run away. 



DON JUAN. 



667 



XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had ? 

There have been and are heroes who begun 
With something not much better, or as bad : 

Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run, 
For the first and last time; for, like a pad, 

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 
Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks, 
And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 

Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic, 
(The antiquarians who can settle time, 

Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, 
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime 

With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
As any other notion, and not national ;) — ** 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
A thing of impulse and a child of song: 

Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 

Or the sensation, (if that phrase seem wrong, 

And afterwards, if he must needs destroy, 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 

XXV. 

But always without malice. If he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what we call " the best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's trump-card, 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
Off each attack when people are inquest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 

'T is pity '< that such meaning should pave hell."* 

XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved-^ 
Must not have latterly been quite worn out. 

Not by the numbers good intent hath saved. 
But by the mass who go below witliout 
* Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 
And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of helj 
Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides. 
Just at the close of the first bridal year, 

By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides. 
Was on a sudden rathor puzzled here. 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing, 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII, 

I do n't know how the thing occur'd — it might 
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 

And that the rest had faced unto the right 

About ; a circumstance which has confounded 

Ca;sar himself, who, in the very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 

In courage, was obligi^d to snatch a shield 

And rally back his Romans to the field. 

XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Cccsar, but a fine young lad, who fought 

He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 

For a much longer time ; then, like an ass — 

(Start not, kind reader ; since great Homer thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one :) — 



Then, like an ass, he went upon his way. 
And, what was stranger, never look'd behind ; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like tlie day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
He stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A path, to add his own sli^^^ht arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 

Q,uite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (I can't 
Account for every thing which may look bad 

In history ; but we at least njay grant 
It was not marvellous that a mere lad. 

In search of glory, should look on before, 

Nor care a pinch of snuflT about his corps :) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — where he knew not — single-handed ; 
As travellers follow over bog and brake 

An " ignis faluus," or as sailors stranded 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, 

So Juan, following honour and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 

XXXIII. 

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 

For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 

The hour, as is the case with lively brains 
And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard. 

And the loud cannon pealed its hoarsest strains. 
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon ! * 

XXXIV, 

And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late the second column, 

Under the orders of the general Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume. 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 

Air, 'mid the rest, who kept their valiant faces, 

And levell'd weapons, still against tlic glacis. 

XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 

Who had " retreated," as the phrase is, when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to ciU and rome again, 

And never ran away, exciiit when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI, 

And so, when all Ins corps were dead or dying, 

Except Don Juan— a mere novice, whoso 
More virgin valour never dreamt of Hying, 

From ignorance of danger, which indues 
Its votaries, like innocence relying 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,- 
Johnson retired a little, just to rally ^ ^^ 

Those who catch cold in " shadows of death's vallsy. 

xxxvii. 
And there, a litllo Bhrller'd from the shot, 

Which rain'd from bastion, batlrry. parapet, 
Rampart, wall, easement, house— for there was not 

In this extensive city, sore beset 
Bv ('hrisitian soldiery, a single gpol 

Which did not combat like the devil as yet, 
lie foimd a number of chasseurs, all scatter'd 
By tlio resistance of \he chase they baUer d. 



658 



DON JUAN. 



XXXVIII. 

And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they came 

Unto his call, unlike " the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb. 
And that odd impulse, which, in wars or creeds, 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 

By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
And though his name than Ajax or Achilles 

Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
Her steady breath, (which some months the same stilli^ ,-) 

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 

And could be very busy without bustle. 

XL, 

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 

Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
He would find others who would fain be rid so 

Of idle apprehensions, which, like wind, 
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 

Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
But when they light upon immediate death, 
Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLI. 

But Johnson only ran off to return 

With many other warriors, as we said, 
Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, 

Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread, 
To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern : 

His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 
Acted upon the living as on wire, 
And led them back into the heaviest fire. 

XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 

To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 

Which fills a regiment, (besides their pay, 

That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 

They found on their return the self-same welcome. 

Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. 

XLIII. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 

Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 

Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIV, 

The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 

Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks. 
So order'd it, amid these sulphury revels. 

That Johnson, and some few who had not scamper'd, 

Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart. 

XLV, 

First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen. 
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 

All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin 

Flame was shower'd forth above as well 's below. 

So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, — 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 

Their martial faces on the parapet, 

Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 



I XLVI. 

But those who scaled found out that their advance 
Was favour'd by an accident or blunder : 

The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
Had palisadoed in a way you 'd wonder 

To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)- 

Right in the middle of the parapet 

Just named, these palisades were primly set : 

XLVII. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 

Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 

To march ; a great convenience to our men. 
At least to all those who were left alive, 

Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
And that which further aided them to strive 

Was, that they could kick down the palisades. 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.' 

XLVIII. 

Among the first, — I will not say the ^rst, 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations ; 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too ; — 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 

And God knows who besides in " au" and " ou," 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
Into the hearts of those who fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw, 

The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 

His orders, also to receive his pensions. 

Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 

L. 

But never mind ; — " God save the king !" and kings ! 

For if he do n't, I doubt if men will longer. — 
I think I hear a little bird, who sings, 

Tlie people by and by will be the stronger: 
The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 

So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
At last fall sick of imitating Job. 



At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then. 

Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant; 

At last it takes to weapons, such as men 

Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant ; 

Then "comes the tug of war ;" — 'twill come again, 
I rather doubt ; and I would fain say " fie on't," 

If I had not perceived that revolution 

Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

But to continue : — I say not the first, 

But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 

Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 

Amid such scenes — though this was quite a new one 

To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 

Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, 

Pervaded him — although a generous creature. 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LIII. 

And here he was — who, upon woman's breast, 
Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confess'd ; 
To him it was Elysium to be there ; 

And he could even withstand that awkward test 
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 

" Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ;" 

But Juan never left them while they 'd charms. 



DON JUAN. 



Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But here he was! — where each lie that can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame: 

And }ie, whose very body was all mind, — 

Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tamo 

The loftiest,— hurried by the time and place,— 

Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LV. 

So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, 

As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, 
Or double post and rail, where the existence 

Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight. 
The lightest being the safest: at a distance 

He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
Blood, until heated — and even there his own 
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LVI, 

The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youn<rsters all abreast, 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a " base Bezonian," 
(As PiStol calls it,) but a young Livonian. 

LVII. 

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 

In answer made an inclination to 

The general who held him in command ; 

For, seeing one with ribbons black and blue, 
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 

AdSressing him in tones which seem'd to thank. 

He recognised an officer of rank. 

LVIII. 

Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
No common language; and besides, in time 

Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 

Is perpetrated ere a word can break 

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 

In, like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer, 

There cannot be much conversation there. 



And therefore all wc have related in 

Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, 

Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 

" God made the country, and man made the town,' 
So Cowper says — and I begin to be 

Of his opinion, vvlien I see cast down 
Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh — 

All walls men know, and many never known ; 
And, pondering on the present and the past, 
To deem the woods shall be our home at last. 

LXI. 

Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, 
Who passes for in life and death most liirky, 

Of the great names, which in our fart-s stiin>, 

The General Boon, back-woodsniaii of Kentucky, 

Was happiest among mortals any whore ; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days, 

Of his old ago in wilds of deepest maze. 



659 



Crime came not near him— she is not the child 
Of solitude ; health shrank not from him— for 

Her home is in the rarely- trodden wild, 

Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 

Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety; 

LXIII. 

And what 's still stranger, left behind a name — 
For which men vainly decimate the throng, — 

Not only famous, but of that good fame 

Without which glory 's but a tavern sone — 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong ; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 

Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

'T is true he shrank from men, even of his nation, 
When they built up unto his darling trees, — 

He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
Where there were fewer houses and more ease 

The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; — 

But, where he met the individual man, 

He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 

LXV. 

He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 

Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet hatl left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could vou view 
A frown on nature's or on human face ; — 

The free-born forest found and kept llicm free. 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 



And tall and strong and swift of foot were they. 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 

Of care or gain : the green woodd were their portions ; 

No sinking spirits told them they grew gray ; 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; 

Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles. 

Though very true, wore not yet used for uiflcs. 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers. 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of llioir toil; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their ntnnbers ; 
Corruption could not make their inarts her soil: 

The lust which stings, the spk-ndorr which encumber*. 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

LXVIII. 

So much fur nature : — by way of variety . 

Now back to thy great joys, civilization! 
And the sweet consetjuence of large society, — 

War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 

I'he millions slain bv soldiers for their ration, 
The scenes like ("utiieriiie's boudoir at threescore, 
With Ismuirs storm to sofn-n it the more. 

1.XIX. 

The town wa.s cnterM : first one cohimn made 

Its sHiiguinary way goo«l — then onoUu-r; 
The rei'kilig bayonet and the llusliins; lilailo 

(Miish'il 'gainst the s. , ' ' iibe and mother 

With disiaiii Nhneks \n. ^w lo upbraid; 

Still closer sulphury i ! '■" tmiothcr 

The breath of morn ami man, wberr, fojil by foot, 
I'hc niadden'd Turks lliuir city sliU dispulo. 



660 



DON JUAN. 



Koutousovv, he who afterwards beat back 

(With some assistance from the frost and snow) 

Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 

It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 

He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
His jest alike in face of friend or foe, 

Though life, and death, and victory, were at stake — 

But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take : 

LXXI. 

For, having thrown himself into a ditch, 
FoUow'd in haste by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 

But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch — 
'Mong other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 

Was much regretted) — for tlie Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again : 

LXXII. 

And, had it not been for some stray troops, landing 
They knew not where, — being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
And wander'd up and down as in a dream. 

Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 

And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, 

After the taking of the " cavalier," 
Just as Koutousovv's most " forlorn" of " hopes" 

Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
Opin'd the gate call'd "Kilia" to the groups 

Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud. 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 



The Kozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks — 
(I do n't much pique myself upon orthography, 

So that I do not grossly err in facts, 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 

Having been used to serve on horses' backs. 
And no great dilettanti in topography 

Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 

Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 

LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart. 

And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 
The city, without being further hamper'd; 

But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd — 
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd, 

Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners. 

From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners. 

LXXVI, 

Then being taken by the tail — a taking 

Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — tliese 
Cossacks were all cut off as day was breaking, 

And found their lives were let at a short lease — 
But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 

Leaving as ladders their heap'd carca'^ses. 
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki: — 

LXXVII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet. 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 't was an even bet 

Which of the armies would have cause to mourn: 

'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. 



LXXVIII. 

Another column also suffer'd much : 

And here we may remark with the historian, 

You should but give few cartridges to such 

Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory: 

When matters must be carried by the touch 

Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on. 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 

(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) 

Was made at length, with those who dared to climb 

The death-disgorging rampart once a^ain ; 

And, though the Turks' resistance was sublime, 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson and some volunteers, 

Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter, 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. — 

He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
A savage sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was also dish'd. 

Lxxxr. 

For all the answer to his proposition 

Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 

On which the rest, without more intermission. 
Began to lay about with steel and lead, — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions: not a single head 

Was spared, — three thousand Moslems perish'd here 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 

LXXXII. 

The city 's taken — only part by part — 

And deaih is drunk with gore; there 's not a street 
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying nature ; and the heat 

Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 

Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head. 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel. 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 

And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal— 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold. 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, siiatch'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute — 

(That which some ancient Muse or modem wit 

Named af er thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 

Even wish his life — for (but they lie) 't is said 

To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 

I.XXXV. 

However this may be, 't is pretty sure 

The Russian officer for life was lamed, 
For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 

And left him 'mid the invalid and maim'd : 
The regimental surgeon could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 
More than the head of the inveterate foe. 
Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 



DON JUAN. 



6r,i 



LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact— and 't is the part 

Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from I he restriction 
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 

For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 
And that outrageous appetite for lies 
Which Satan angles with for souls like flies. 

LXXXVII. 

The city 's taken, but not render'd ! — No I 

There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword : 

The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 
Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word 

Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe ; 
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 

By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 

Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are lavish'd every where. 

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves, 
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 

And groans ; and thus the peoplfed city grieves. 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 

But still it falls with vast and awful splinters. 

As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 

LXXXIX, 

It is an awful topic — ^but 't is not 

My cue for any time to be terrific : 
For chequer'd as it seems our human lot 

With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

xc. 
And one good action in the midst of crimes 

Is "quite refreshing" — in the affected phrase 
Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, — 
And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 

A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 
Of conquest and its consequences, which 
Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

xci. 
Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 
Of murder'd women, who had found their way 

To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 
And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May, 

A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
And hide her little palpitating breast 
Amid tlie bodies luU'd in bloody rest. 

XCII. 

Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child 

With flashing eyes and weapons : match'd with them. 

The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, — 

The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild: 

And whom for this at last must we condemn / 

Their natures, or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 

XCIII. 

Their sabres glittcr'd o'er her little head, 

Whence her fair hair rose; twining with affright, 

Her hidden face was plunged amid the dead : 
When Juan caught a glim[)se of this sad sight. 

I shall not say exactly what he mid, 

Because it might not solace " oars polite ; 

But what he did, wan to lay on their backs, — 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 
3V 



One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, 
Ard drove them with their brutal yells to seek 

If there might be chirurgcons who could solder 
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 

Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 

Don Juan raised his little captive from 

The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

xcv. 

And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how near 

Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 

For the same blow which laid her mother here 

Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 
As the last link with all she had held dear 

But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 

And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

xcvi. 
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 

Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 

With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
Unto his protege ; while hers, transfa'd 

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face. 
Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 

xcvii. 
Up came John Johnson — (I »vill not say " Jack,'** 

For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace 
On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case) — 
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 

Exclaiming : — Juan ! Juan ! On, boy ! brace 
Your arm, and I '11 bet Moscow to a dollar, 
That you and I will win St. George's collar.' 

XCVIIl. 

" The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly, 'mid the din 

Of our artillery and his own ; 't is said 
Our kill'd already piled up to the chin, 

Lie round the battery; but still it batters, 

And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

xcix. 
" Then up with me !" — But Juan answer'd, " Look 

Upon this child — I sav'd her — must not leave 
Her life to chance ; b»it point me out some nook 

Of safety, where she less may shriok and ffricvo, 
And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 

A glance arouml — andshrugg'd — and twitch'd his sleeve 
And black silk nerkclolh — and replied, " You 're right ; 
Poor thing! what 's to be done ? 1 'm puzzled quite," 

c. 
Said Juan — " Whatsoever is to be 

Done, I 'II not quit her till she seems secure 
Of present life a gootl deal more than we." — 

Quoth Johnson — " Nrithrr will 1 quite insure. 
But at the least yow may die gloriously." 

Juan replied — " At least I will endure 
VVhale'er is to bo borne — but not resifjn 
This child, who 's parenlloss, and therefore mine." 

(I. 
Johnson Maid — " Juan, we 've no time to ^-we ; 

The chiM'M a pretty child — n very pretty— 
I never saw such eyes — but hark I now olutose 

Between your fame anti feelinpi, |)ri«lo ami pity I 
Hark! how the roor inoren.iesl — no rxruse 

Will serve wiien there is pluiKlcr in a city ; — 
I should be loth to niarrh without you, but, 
By Ctod ! we Ml bo too late for the fir* ctJl." 



562 



DON JUAN. 



But Juan was immoveable ; until 

Johnson, who really loved hira in his way, 

Pick'd out among his followers with some skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to prey : 

And swearing if the infant came to ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day, 

But if she were delivered safe and sound, 

They should at least have fifty roubles round, 

cm. 
And all allowances besides of plunder 

In fair proportion with their comrades ; — then 
Juan consented to march on through thunder, 

Which tbinn'd at every step their ranks of men : 
And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 

For they were heated by the hope of gain, 
A thing which happens every where each day — 
No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 

CIV, 

And such is victory, and such is man ! 

At least nine- tenths of what we call so ; — Gcd 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject: a brave Tartar Klian, — 

Or " s^/ton," as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 

cv. 
But, flank'd by Jive, brave sons (such is polygamy. 

That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 
Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy) 

He never would believe the city won, 
While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 

Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 
Neither, — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 
Who fought with his five children in the van. 

cvi. 
To lake him was the point. The truly brave. 

When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, 
Are touch'd with a desire to shield or save ; — 

A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 
Are they — now fjrious as the sweeping wave. 

Now moved with pity : even as sometimes nods 
The rugged tree unto the summer wind. 
Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

CVII. 

But he would rwt be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side. 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied : 

Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. 

CVIII. 

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
Expended all their eastern phraseology 

In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
So much less fight as might form an apology 

For them in saving such a desperate foe — 
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 

When they dispute with skeptics ; and with curses 

Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

cix. 
Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 

Juan and Johnson, whereupon they fell — 
The first with sighs, the second with an oath — 

Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 
And all around were grown exceeding wroth 

At such a pertinacious infidel. 
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain. 
Which they resisted like a sandy plain, 



That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd : — 

His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 
His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 

Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd, 

Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 
Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, 
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 

CXI, 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As great a scomer of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr. 

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green. 
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 

On earth, in Paradise ; and, when once seen, 
Those Houris, like all other pretty creatures. 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features, 

CXII. 

And what they pleased to do with the young Khan 
In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 

; But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 

And that 's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 

For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 

You '11 find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

CXIII, 

Your Houris also have a natural pleasure 

In lopping off your lately married men 
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure. 

And the sad second moon grows dim again^ 
Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure 

To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 
And thus your Houri (it may be) disputes 
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIT, 

Thus the young Khan, with Houris in his sight. 
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides. 

But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
In short, howe'er our better faith derides. 

These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, 
As though there were one heaven and none besides,-' 

Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 
So fully flash'd the pharitom on his eyes, 

That when the very lance was in his heart. 
He shouted, " Allah !" and saw Paradise 

With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 
And bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart, — 
With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 
In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died: 

cxvi. 
But, with a heavenly rapture on his face. 

The good old Khan — who long had ceased to see 
Houris, or aught except his florid race. 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 
When he beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, 
Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 
A glance on that slain son, his first and last, 

cxvii. 

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 

duarter, in case he bade them not " aroint!" 
As he before had done. He did not heed 

Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed. 

As he look'd do^vn upon his children gone, 

And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 



DON JUAN. 



663 



cxriii. 
But 't was a transient tremor : — with a spring 

Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 

Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 
Closer, that all the deadlier they might wing, 

Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; 
And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, 
fn one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 

cxix. 
T is strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 

Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 

And lay before them with his children near, 
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, 

Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, 
They honour'd such determined scorn of life. 

cxx. 
But the stone bastion still kept up its fire. 

Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post : 
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire. 

And baffled the assaults of all their host ; 
At length he condescended to inquire 

If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 
And, being told the latter, sent a Bey 
To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid. 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 

Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet, looking 

With martial stoicism, naught seem'd to annoy 
His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 

His beard, he pufT'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 

As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

cxxir. 

The town was taken — whether he might yield 

Himself or bastion, little matter'd now ; 
His stubborn valour was no future shield. 

Ismail 's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 

But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water. 
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 

cxxiri. 
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses-, 

All that the body perpetrates of bad; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
All that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell— mere mortals who their power abuse, — 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose, 

cxxiv. 
If here and there some transient trait of pity. 

Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through 
Its bloody bond, and saved p(!rhap3 some pretty 

Child, or an aged helpless man or two — 
What 's this in one annihilated city. 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow ? 
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris ! 
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxv. 
Think how the joys of rc;ading a gazette 

Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: 
Or, if these do not move you, do n't forgot 

Such doom may bo your own in after tunes. 
Meantime the taxes, Castleroagh, and debt, 

Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymon. 
Read your own hearts and Ireland's pnwcnt story, 
Then feed her famine fat with Wclleslcv's glory. 



cxxvi. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation, 
Which loves so well its country and its king, 

A subject of sublimest exultation — 

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 

Howe'er the mighty locust. Desolation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 

Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throne — 

Tho' Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. 

cxxvir. 
But let me put an end unto my theme : 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town! 
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 

And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 

Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown: 
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 
Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all ! 

CXXVIII. 

In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise 

The Russian army upon this occasion, 
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, 

And therefore worlliy of commemoration : 
The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase — 

Perhaps the season's chill, and tlicir long station 
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 
Had made them chaste ; — tliey ravish'd verj- little. 

cxxix. 
Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 

Might here and there occur some violation 
In the other line ; — but not to such excess 

As when the French, that dissipated nation. 
Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 

Except cold weather and commiseration ; 
But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 
Were almost a:i much virgins as before. 

cxxx. 

Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark. 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste - 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides such tilings from iiasl*- 

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
Of light to save the venerably chaste : — 

But six old damsels, each of seventy years. 

Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 

But on the whole their continence was groat-, 
So that some disappointment there ensued 

To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
Of " single blessedness," and tlicHight it good 

(Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 
To bear these crosses) for each waning prudfs 

To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 

Without the expense and the suspense of b<>ddinjj. 

CXXXII. 

Some voices of the buxom middlo-agexi 

Were also heard to wonder in lh«' din 
(Widows of forty wore llu-sc binU long raged) 

" Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!" 
But, while the thirst for gore and plunder rngoH, 

There was small leisure for superlluou.'^ sin; 
»ut whether they «'scnpod or no. lies hid 
In darkness— I can only hope tln-y did. 

cxxxtii. 
Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 

For Timor or for Zinghis in his trade. 
While mosques and streets, ben>'nlh his rves. like 

Hla/ed, uiul the eamum's rn;ii dUy'd, 

With bloody luuids he wroU- \u- i' ; 

And here exn<-l|y followH whsu ; 
" f Jlory lo fifxl and lo the Kmpress !" (i»ouyTt^^ 
Kttmol ! nuch namea mmgted !) " Uinail '• Oiirt '" • 



564 



DON JUAN. 



CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
Since " Men6, Men6, Tekel," and "Upharsin, 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me ! I 'm but little of a parson : 

What Daniel read was shorthand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophets wrote no farce on 

The fate of nations ; — but this Russ, so witty, 

Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 

CXXXT. 

He wrote this polar melody, and set it, 

Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans. 
Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 

For I will teach, if possible, the stones 
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 

Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 
But ye — our children's children ! think how we 
Show'd what things were before the world was free ! 

cxxxvi. 
That hour is not for us, but 't is for you ; 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 
You hardly will believe such things were true 

As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em ; 
But may their very memory perish too ! — 

Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em, 
More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
"Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. 

cxxxvii. 
And when you hear historians talk of thrones. 

And those that sate upon them, let it be 
As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones. 

And wonder what old world such things could see ; 
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 

The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
Guessing at what shall happily be hid 
As the real purpose of a pyramid, 

cxxxviii. 
Reader ! I have kept my word, — at least so far 

As the first canto promised. You have now 
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 

All very accurate, you must allow, 
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar ; 

For I have drawn much less with a long bow 
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing. 
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 

cxxxix. 
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
But now I choose to break off in the middle, 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch. 
For which all Peters])urgh is on the watch. 



This special honour was conferr'd, because 
He had behaved with courage and humanity ; — 

Which last men like, when they have time to pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little captive gain'd him some applause, 
For saving her amid the wild insanity 

Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her 

Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXLI, 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless: all 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall : 

Her very place of birth was but a specti'e 

Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call 

To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 

And made a vow to shield her, which he kept 



CANTO IX. 



Oh, Wellington ! (or " Vilainton" — ^for fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

France could not even conquer your great name, 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same) — 

You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay. 

Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay !" ' 

II. 

I do n't think that you used Kinnaird quite well 
In Marinet's affair — in fact 't was shabby, 

And, like some other things, won't do to tell 
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 

Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell. 

Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby; 

But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 

In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 

III. 

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more : 

You have repair'd legitimacy's crutch — 
A prop not quite so certain as before : 

The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore ; 

And Waterloo has made the world your debtor — 

(I wish your bards would sing it rather better.) 

IV. 

You are " the best of cut-throats :" — do not start ; 

The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied : 
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art. 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part. 

The world, not the world's masters, will decide, 
And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo? 

V. 

I am no flatterer — you 've supp'd full of flattery : 
They say you like it too— 't is no great wonder : 

He whose whole life has been assault and battery. 
At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 

And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
May like being praised for every lucky blunder : 

Call'd " Saviour of the Nations" — not yet saved. 

And " Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved. 

VI. 

I 've done. Now go and dine from off" the plate 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 

And send the sentinel before 3'our gate, ^ 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 

He fought, but has not fed so well of late, 
Some hunger too they say the people feels : 

There is no doubt that you deserve your ration — 

But pray give back a little to the nation. 

VII. 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, my Lord Duke ! is far above reflection. 

The high Roman fashion too of Cincinnatus 
With modern history has but small connexion : 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, 
You need not take them under your direction; 

And half a million for your Sabine farm 

Is rather dear ! — I 'm sure I mean no harm. 



DON JUAN, 



565 



Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses ; 

Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 

George Washington had thanks and naught beside, 
Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 

To free his country : Pitt too had his pride, 
And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain, gratis. 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity. 

Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity 

Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore ; 
And now — what is your fame ? Shall the muse tune it ye ? 

Now — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er ? 
Go, hear it in your famish'd country's cries ! 
Behold the world ! and curse your victories ! 

X. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 

Truths that you will not read in the gazettes. 
But which, 't is time to teach the hireling tribe 

Who fatten on their country's gore and debts, 
Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 

You did great things; but, not being great in mind. 

Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 

XI. 

Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
With which men image out the unknown thing 

That hides the past world, like to a set sun 

Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring : 

Death laughs at all you weep for ; — look upon 
This hourly dread of all whose threatened sting 

Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath ! 

Mark ! how its lipless mouih grins without breath 

XII. 

Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd ; the antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles ; and whether near or far. 

He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin. 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 

xni. 
And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 

But still it is so; and with such example 
Why should not Life be equally content. 

With his superior, in a smile to trample 
Upon the nothings which arc daily spent 

Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
Than the eternal deluge, wiiich devours 
Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like ours? 

XIV. 

«* To be, or not to b(! ! that is the question," 

Says Sliakspean^ who just now is much in fashion. 

I am neither Alrxandi-r nor Hc-phjcstion, 

Nor ever had for (titslract fame much passion ; 

But would much rather havo a sound digestion, 
Than BuonaparltN's cancer: — could I d;isli on 

Through fifiy victories to shame or fame, 

Without a stomach — what wore a good name ? 

XV. 

" Oh, dura ilia mcssorum !" — " OIi, 

Ye rigid guts of reapers!"— I translate 
For the great b(!n fit of those wljo know 

What indigestion is— that inward fate 
Which makes all Styx tlirough one small liver flow 

A peasant's sweat is wortli his lord's estate: 
Let this ono toil for bread— that. ra<-k for rent,— 
He who sleeps best may bo llie most content. 



" To be, or not to be '."—Ere I decide, 
I should be glad to know that which w being. 

'T is true we speculate both far and wide, 
And deem, because we see, we are aU^seeing : 

For my part, I 'U enlist on neither side, 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing, 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 

xvii. 

" due sais-je?" was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians: 
That all is dubious which man may attain, 

Was one of their most favourite positions. 
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain 

As any of mortality's conditions : 
So little do we know what we 're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

xviii. 
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 

Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation ; 
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 

Your wise men do n't know much of navigation ; 
And swimming long in the abyss of tliought 

Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station 
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers 
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 

XIX. 

" But heaven," as Cassio says, " is above all. — 
No more of this then, — let us pray !" We have 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall. 
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 
Is special providence," though how it gave 

Offence, we know not ; probably it perch'd 

Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 

Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony ? 

Oh, thou too mortal man ! what is philanthropy ? 
Oh, world, whicli was and is ! what is cosmogony ? 

Some people have accused me of misanlijro[)y ; 
And yet I know no more than tlie mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what tJiey mean : — Lt/kan- 
I comprehend ; for, without transformation, [thropy 

Men become wolves on any sliglit occasion. 

XXI. 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 

Like Moses, or Melanclhon, who have ne'er 

Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 

And (though I coulil not now and thon f )rbi"ar 

Following the bent of body or of mind) 
Have always had a lindcin y to spare, — 

Why do ihey rail nje tnisanlhropo ? Because 

They hate me, not I them : — .\nd hero we 'II pause. 

XXII. 

'T is time we should proceed with our good poem, 

For I maintain that it in really good, 
Not only in the body, but the proom, 

Howevf-r lillle both are undorsto«Kl 
Just now, — but by and by the truth will show 'cm 

Herself in her sublinirsi atliludo: 
And till she dolli, I fain must be contonl 
To share her lH>auly aiul her biuiisluiu'ul. 

XXIII. 

Our hero (and, I trust, kind r-.-iderl youm)— 

Was li-O up<m his way >o llu> chief riiy 
Of the iniint)rlal IVter'n poli»h'd l)ooni, 

Who still have shown themsrlvi^s ir«>ic braw than willy ; 
I know its mii;l)ty c-mpiri- now allurcH 

Much llail.iy— fvon VolliiiroV. and tltat '• a pily. 
For mo, I lUeni an alxioluto aut.Kral 
iVof a barbarian, but mu<h wonv (ban U»a«. 



666 



DON JUAN. 



XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 

With thought ; — and of thought's foes by far most rude, 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 

I know not who may conquer : if I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV, 

It is not that I adulate the people : 

Without me there are demagogues enough, 

And infidels to pull down every steeple, 
And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 

Whether they may sow skepticism to reap hell, 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know ; — I wish men to be free 

As much from mobs as kings — from you as me. 

XXVI. 

The consequence is, being of no party, 

I shall offend all parties : — never mind ! 
My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 

Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 
He who has naught to gain can have small art : he 

Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind 
May still expatiate freely, as will I, 
Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

xxvri. 
That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal ; 

I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 
By night, as do that mercenary pack all. 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 

However the poor jackals are less foul 
(As being the brave lion's keen providers) 
Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm ! 't will brush their web away, 
And without that, their poison and their claws 

Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I say — 
(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause ! 

The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases, till you shall make common cause 

None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 

As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter. 
Was left upon his way with the despatch. 

Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water ; 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 

O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 

Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the match 

Between these nations as a main of cocks, 

Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a kibitka he roll'd on, 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone,) 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings. 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt — and there were many — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill. 
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land. 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 



XXXII. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 

To be the first of what we used to call 
' Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out quite, 

Since lately there have been no rents at all, 
And " gentlemen" are in a piteous plight. 

And " farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fall: 
She fell with Buonaparte : — What strange thoughts 
Arise, when we see emperors fail with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 

Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy ! 

Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy, 

Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild. 
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

To sooth his woes withal, was slain, the sinner ! 

Because he could no more digest his dinner : — 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye ! or we ! or she ! or he ! reflect, 
That one life saved, especially if young 

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 

From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
With all the praises ever said or sung : 

Though hynm'd by every harp, unless within 

Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous ! 

Yet twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us! 

Whether you 're paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the <' courtier's kibes" 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation : — 

XXXVI. 

Oh, ye great authors ! — " Apropos de bottes" — 

I have forgotten what I meant to say. 
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots : 

"T was something calculated to allay 
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 

Certes it would have been but thrown tiway, 
And that 's one comfort for my lost advice. 
Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. 

But let it go: it will one day be found 
With other relics of " a former world," 

When this world shall be former, underground. 
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd. 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or drown'd, 
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 

First out of and then back again to chaos. 

The superstratum which will overlay us. 

XXXVIII. 

So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 

Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt : 
Like to the notions we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles. 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up I 
How the new worldlings of the then new east 

Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
(For they themselves will be but of the least: 

Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
And every new creation hath decreased 

In size, from overworking the material — 
I Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial.) — 



DON JUAN. 



567 



How will — to these young people, just thrust out 
From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 

Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
Especially of war and taxing — how, 

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'era, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum ! 

XLI, 

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
" The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 

I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 
And deviate into matters rather dry. 

I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 
Much too poetical: men should know why 

They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 

I never know the word which will come next. 

XLII. 

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate : 

I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 

Now we '11 get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we 've so many tours of late : 

Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 

XLIII. 

Suppose him in a handsome uniform; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new sliiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room. 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Qorme, 

Of yellow kerseymere we may presume. 
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk : 

XLIV. 

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, 

Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor- 
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 

Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler. 
Seeing how art can make her work more grand, 

(When she do n't pin men's limbs in like a jailer) — 
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery ? 



His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat ; 

His wings subdued to epaulets ; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small-sword, but sharp as over ; 
His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 

But still so like. Psyche were more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XL VI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whispcr'd, and 

The empress smiled ; the reigning favourite frown'd- 

I quite forget which of them was in hand 
Just then, as they are rather numerous found, 

Who took by turns that difficult command. 
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd : 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
Blushing and beardless ; and yet no'ertholess 

There was a something in his turn of limb, 

And still more in liis eye, wliirh soem'd lo oxpross, 

That though he look'd one of the soraphim, 
There lurk'd a man beneath the Hpiril's drosB. 

Besides, the empress sometimes likcnl ahoy, 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi: * 



XLVIII. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 

Or ScherbatofT, or any other off, 
Or on, might dreaxl her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
Of him who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that " high official situation." 

XLIX. 

Oh, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 

The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess * show 

His parts of speech ; and in the strange displays 
Of that odd string of words all in a row. 

Which none divine, and every one obeys, 
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning. 
Of that wealc wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

L. 

I think 1 can explain myself without 

That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 
That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 

Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
That monstrous hieroglyphic — tliat long spout 

Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh 1 
And here I must an anecdote relate, 
But luckily of no great length or weight. 

LI. 

An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
What were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing some women set a value on, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 

Call'd " Cavalier Servente ?" — a Pygmalion 

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas I too true 't is) 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose tbem, 

Said — " Lady, I beseech you to suppose them." 

LII. 

And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
And mildest, matron-like interpretation 

Of the imperial favourite's condition. 

'T was a high place, the highest in tlie nation 

In fact, if not in rank ; and tlie suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station, 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shouldert, 

If rather broad, made stocks rise and iheir hoWers. 



Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 

And had rctain'd his boyish look beyond 
The usual hirsute seasons, which destroy. 

With beards and whiskers and ll>o liko, the fond 
Parisian as|»ect which upset old Troy 

And fouiuled Doctors' ('oinmons : — I have coiin'd 
The history of divorces, wiiich, ihoujjh chequer'd, 
Calls Ilion's the first damages on rtx:<>rd. 

LI v. 
And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord, 

Who was gone to his place,) and |>ass'd for much. 
Admiring thosr (by (hunty tiaine^ abhorr'd) 

Gigantic gent lemon , y«l had a touch 
Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 

Was the lainenteil l.anskoi, who was such 
A lover as had cost her ninny a tear, 
And yet but umdo u middling grenadier. 

i.v. 
Oh, thou " teterrima causa" of all " bollil" — 

Thou gate of life and deoth!— ll>ou iiuiuioscript ! 
Whence is our t'xil and our entranre, — w.ll 1 

Mav pause in ixmderinj; how all n»>uU nrr difip'd 
In thy perennial fountain I li<»vv man Jrii, 1 

Know not, siiu-i- kiiowletigo naw hrr branchea atfippM 
Of hiT first fruit ; but how ho falls and rwr« 
A'intr, Owu host soltlod b«'yoiid all sumii***. 



568 



DON JUAN. 



LVI. 

Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the best : for, after all. 

From thee we come, to thee we go ; and why, 
To get at thee, not batter down a wall. 

Or waste a world? Since no one can deny 
Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 

With, or without thee, all things at a stand 

Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land! 

LVII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 

You please, (it causes all the things which be, 
So you may take your choice of this or that) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII, 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed 

At least three parts of this great whole,) she tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys ; the first 

Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 
Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 

As an East-Indian sunrise on the main. 
These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst — 

So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 
In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 
Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands ' 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Russian couplet, rather dull, 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI. 

The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
And lighted first her eye and then her mouth : 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, 
Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth : — 

But when on the lieutenant, at her feet. 
Her majesty — who liked to gaze on youth 

Ahnost as much as on a new despatch — 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
When wroth ; while pleased, she was as fine a figure 

As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, 
Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. 

She could repay each amatory look you lent 

With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour 

To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 

At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII, 

With her the latter, though at times convenient, 

Was not so necessary : for they tell 
That she was handsome, and, tho' fierce, looked lenient. 

And always used her favourites too well. 
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 

Your " fortune" was in a fair way " to swell 
A man," as Giles says ; ^ for, though she would widow all 
Nations she liked man as an individual. 



1 



LXIV. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
Is woman ? What a whirlwind is her head, 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
Is all the rest about her ! whether wed, 

Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like the wind ; whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she 'II say or do ;— 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 

LXV. 

Oh, Catherine ! (for of all interjections 
To thee both oh ! and ah ! belong of right 

In love and war) how odd are the connexions 
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 

Just now yours were cut out in different sections : 
First, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite ; 

Next, of new knights the fresh and glorious batch ; 

And thirdly, he who brought you the despatch I 



Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 

New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ;" 
And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 

While her young herald knelt before her still. 
'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high 

For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill fsing» 

Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and, by God's bles 
With youth and health all kisses are " heaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 

Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
And so they fell in love ; — she with his face. 

His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 

Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 

Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 

In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 

LXVIII. 

He, on the other hand, if not in love, 

Fell into that no less imperious passion, 
Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 

Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion. 
Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove," 

('T is Pope's phrase,) a great longing, tho' a rash one, 
For one especial person out of many, 
Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX, 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 

We do n't much care with whom we may engage, 
As bold as Daniel in the lions' den, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then. 

To make a twilight in — just as Sol's heat is 

GLuench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX, 

And Catherine, (we must say thus much for Catherine,] 
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 

Whose temporary passion was quite flattering. 
Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 

Made up upon an amatory pattern — 
A royal husband in all save the ring — 

Which being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

And when you add to this, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good. 
Or better, as the best examples say : 

Napoleon's, Mary's (Q,ueen of Scotland) should 
Lend to that colour a transcendent ray ; 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue — 

Too wise to look through opticks black or blue) — 



DON JUAN. 



569 



LXXII. 

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plunnpness, her imperial condescension, 

Her preference of a boy to men much b-<igor, 

(Fellows whom Mcssalina's self would pension,) 

Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, 

With other extras which we need not mention, — 

All these, or any one of these, explain 

Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LXXIII. 

And that 's enough, for love is vanity 

Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
Except where 't is a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity. 

On which the passion's self seems to depend: 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Make love the mainspring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove. 
That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 

'Gainst reason — reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
With rhyme, but always lean'd less to improving 

The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 

To love, there are those things which words name senses ; 

LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies. 
Which make all bodies anxious to get out 

Of their own sandpits to mix with a goddess — 
For such all women are at first, no doubt. 

How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
That fever which precedes the languid rout 

Of our sensations ! What a curious way 

The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with; the next grand 

Is that which may be christened love canonical, 
Because the clergy take the thing in hand ; 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicle, 
As flourishing in every Christian land. 

Is, when ciiaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. 

i.xxvix. 
Well, wc won't analyze — our story must 

Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 
Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ; — 

I cannot stoop to alter words once written, 
And the two arc so inix'd with human dust. 

That lie who names one, both perchance may hit on : 
But in such matters liussia's mighty empress 
Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whol(5 court melted into one wide whisper, 

And all lips were applied imlo all ears! 
The elder ladiiH' wrinkles curl'd much crispcr 

As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 
On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smil'd as she talk'd tli(! matter o'er ; but tears 
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of idl the powers 

Inquired, who was this very new young man. 

Who promised to be great in some few hours? 
Which is fiill soon, (though life is but a span.) 

Already th«y beheld llu'. silver showers 
Of roubles rain, as fust as s|>erie ran, 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Of several ribands and some ihouNnnd pennants. 
S W 



LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are : 
Love, that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be tliey n<.ar or far: 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
And was not the best wife, unless we call 

Such Clytemneslra; though periiaps 't is better 

That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 

LXXXI. 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 

Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, 

If history, the grand liar, ever saith 
The truth ; and tliough grief her old age might shorten. 

Because she put a favourite to death, 
Her vile ambiguous method of flirtation, 
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

Lxxxir. 

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 

In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratulations. 
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 

Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
It is to speculate on handsome faces. 
Especially when such lead to high places. 

Lxxxiir. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though motlest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Nature had written " Gentlen\an." He said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

I-XXXIV. 

An order from her majesty consigned 
Our young lieutenant to the genial care 

Of those in ollice : all the world look'd kind, 
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 

Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind;) 
As also did Miss ProtosoH" then there, 

Named, from her mystic oflice, " rEprouveuse," 

A term inexplicable to tlie Muse. 

I.XXXV. 

With her then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground, 

We have just lit on a " heaven-kis?ing hill," 
So lofiy that I feel my brain turn'd round, 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
To take a quiet ride in some green lano. 



CANTO X. 



WiiKN Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that slight startle from his ronlrmplation— 

•T is itaul (for 1 Ml not nnswer nbove ^^uund. 
For any snge'j* crrrd or en'i 

A mtxlo of proving that tlie e:i i"> 

In n moM natural whirl, rnl>- \>u; 

Ann thus is the m.lo mortal who rould Kr«|»p'«'« 

Since A.lam, with a fall i>r with an appU*. 



670 



DON JUAN. 



Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be true ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose, 

Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes ; 
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 

III. 

And wherefore this exordium ? — Why, just now, 

In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 

And my internal spirit cut a caper : 
And though so much inferior, as I know. 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, 
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 

The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
But at the least I 've shunn'd the common shore. 

And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 
The ocean of eternity : the roar 

Of brealcers has not daunted my slight, trim, 
But sfill sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 

V. 

We left our hero Juan in the bloom 

Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush ; 
And far be it from my Muses to presume 

(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 

It is enough that fortune found him flush 
Of youth and vigour, beauty, and those things 
Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 

But soon they grow again, and leave their nest. 

" Oh !" saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
Pinions, to flee away and be at rest !" 

And who, that recollects young years and loves, — 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much rather 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather ? 

VII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widow's) shrink 

Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow, 
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink. 

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 
Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think 

Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 
No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, 
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

VIII. 

But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 
And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 

Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
Is ruflled by a wrinkle, or the sun 

Of life reach ten o'clock : and, while a glow, 
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay. 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die — how happy they ! — 

IX. 

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favour of the moon, 

Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
Perhaps: but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary. 
Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray, 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 



Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young. 

The former know what's what ; while new-fledged chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sung 

In rhymes, ordream'd, (for fancy will play tricks. 
In visions of those skies from whence love sprung 

Some reckon women by their suns or years — 

I rather think the mooH should date the dears. 

XI. 

And why ? because she 's changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste. 

May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to " their temper or their taste,' 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air : 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself ; — if not, I must 

XII, 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue — 't is a point of honour ; 

And I know nothing 'vhich could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would shun her 

Like garlic, howsoever she extends 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII. 

This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 
Even shuffling Southey — ^that incarnate lie — 

Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes,"' 
Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty : 

And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 
Whether in Caledon or Italy, 

Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize, 

To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIV. 

The lawyer and the critic but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life, 
And naught remains unseen, but much untold, 

By those who scour those double vales of strife^ 
While common men grow ignorantly old, 

The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
And with it all the process of digestion. 



A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
And that's the reason he himself 's so dirty; 

The endless soot ^ bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 

Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper — 
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, 

In all their habits : not so you, I own ; 

As Csesar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XVI, 

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
To make such puppets of us things below,) 

Are over : Here 's a health to " Auld Lang Syne !" 
I do not know you, and may never laiow 

Your face, — ^but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. 

XVII, 

And when I use the phrase of" Auld Lang Syne !" 
'T is not address'd to you — the more 's the pity 

For me, for I would rather take my wine 
With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city 

But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flies to my head;— 



DON JUAN. 



671 



XVIII. 

As •* Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland one and all, 
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
streams, 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall,^ 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 

Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
Like Banquo's offspring — floating past me seems 

My childhood in this childishness of mine: 

I care not — 't is a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 

I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit. 
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 

Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit — 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early 

I " scotch'd, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood, 

And love the land of " mountain and of flood.'\ 

XX. 

Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 

For both are much the same, since what men think 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 

And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, 
And know no more of what is here than there : — 

XXI. 

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 

How we won't mention, wliy we need not say : 

Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way ; 

But /lis just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour : gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 

The favour of the empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Youncf people at his time of life should be able 

To come oflT handsomely in that regard. 
He now was growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

^ XXIII. 

About this time, as might have been anticipated. 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 

Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but— as being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 

Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, 

And shut our souls up in us like a shellfish. 

XXIV. 

This we pass over. Wc will also pass 

The usual progress of intrigues between 
Unequal match(!s, such as are, alas ! 

A young lieutenant's with a yiot old queen, 
But one who is not so youthful as she was 

In all the royalty of sweet sevcnti-rn. 
Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 
And wrinkles (the d d democrats) won't flatter. 

XXV. 

And Death, the sovereigns' sovereign, though iho great 

Gracchus of all mortality, who levels 
With his Airrarinn laws, the high eslnto 

Of him who feasts, and fights, and roarn, and revels, 
To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
Who never had a foot of land till now,— 
Death 'k a reformer, all men must allow. 



He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 

Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though 1 hate to say a thing that 'b bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 
I'hrough all the " purple and fine linen," fitter 

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 

And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII. 

And this same state we won't describe: we could 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood," 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 

Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection 

Life's sad posthorses o'er the dreary frontier 

Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one tear; — 

XXVIII, 

I won't describe — that is, if I can help 
Description: and I won't reflect — that is, 

If I can stave off" thought, whicli — as a whelp 
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abysa 

Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips ; but, as I said, 

I wonH philosophize, and wiU be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valour; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a racehorse ; much to each dress he sported, 
Which set the beauty olTin which he glow'd, 

As purple clouds befrin,;;e llie sun ; but most 

He owed to an old w^man and his post. 

XXX. 

He wTote to Spain: — and all his near relations, 

Perceiving he was in a handsome way 
Of getting on himself, and finding stations 

For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 
Several prepared themselves for emigrations; 

And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say. 
That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 
Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece. 

XXXI. 

His mother. Donna Inez, finding too 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, 

He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,— 

Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 

Those pleasures after which wild youth willhankw; 

As the sole sif'n of man'H being \n his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past e.xpenses. 

XXXII. 

" She also recommended him lo God, 

Anil no less to GtKl's Son, as well as Mother, 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 
In C'atholie eyes ; but told him too to smother 

Oiitirnrd dislike, which do n't look well abroad: 
Infonn'd him thai ho had a little brother 

l^iiru in a second wedlock ; and nlwvrt 

All, praised the enipresa's nuUimal love. 

XXXIII. 

•' She could not too much givf her approbation 
Unto an einpres!*, who pretVrr'd young men 

Whose ars, and, what was better utill, nnLwc nation 
And climate, stct- ' ' 'i - "^IjI. (now and then:)— 

At home it might I some vexation ; 

Hut where therm k down to ten, 

Or five, or one, or xcru, uUc cauiUI never 

Hrlirvn that virtue ilmw'd boforo ihr riror. 



572 



DON JUAN. 



Oh for ^forty-parson power * to chant 

Thy praise, hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 
Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 

Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ! 
Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 

Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 
Drew quiet consolation through its hint. 
When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul ! 

But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
As any body on the elected roll, 

Which portions out upon the judgment day 
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, 

Such as the conqueror William did repay 
His knights with, lotting others' properties 
Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

xxxvi. 
I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 

Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 
(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 

Were their reward for following Billy's banners ; 
And, though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair 

To strip the Saxons of their hydes,^ like tanners, 
Yet as they founded churches with the produce. 
You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants — call'd sensitive, 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes. 
Save such as Southey can afford to give. 

Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 

Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, 

In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty: 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps, — ^but, sans perhaps, we need to seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
As well as further drain the wither'd form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills in, and, however we may storm, 

They must be paid : though six days smoothly run, 

The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I do n't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 

At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 

XL. 

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours : 
Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin ; 

Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours. 
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 

Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, 
Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 

Others again were ready to maintain, 

•* 'T was only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
" Sodae-sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Mannse optim. 

Aq. fervent. F. 3. iss. 3. ij. tinct. Sennce 

Haustus" (and here the surgeon came and cupp'd him) 

*' R. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanhoe," 

(With more beside, if Juan had not stopp'd 'em.) 

** Bolus potassae sulphuret. sumendus, 

Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 



This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundum artem: but although we sneer 

In health — when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer: 

While that " hiatus maxime deflendus," 
To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 

XLIII. 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 

Cluit; and, though death had threaten'd an ejection, 
His youth and constitution bore him through, 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was delicate : the hue 

Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
"Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
And drooping like an eagle's with clipp'd pinion, 

She then resolved to send him on a mission, 

But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to push on ; 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 



XLVI. 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendour, and reward 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card. 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours. 
Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. 

XL VII. 

But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
Which puzzles us to know what fortune means. 

But to continue : though her years were waning, 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 

And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLVIII. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 

And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number 
Of candidates requesting to be placed. 

Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:— 
Not that she meant to fix again in haste. 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But, always choosing with deliberation. 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You '11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from Petersburgh ; the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair Czarina's autocratic crest, 

(When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris,) 

Was given to her favourite,^ and now bore his. 



DON JUAN. 



673 



A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine, 

All private favourites of Don Juan ; for 
(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 

He had a kind of inclination, or 
Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin — 

Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 
For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 
Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 

LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 

LII. 

Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character, 

As rare in living beings as a fossile 

Man, 'mid thy mouldy mammoths, " grand Cuvicr !" 

Ill fitted wilh her ignorance to jostle 

With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 

I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 

He was not yet quite old enough fo prove 

Parental feelings, and the other class, 
Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom — for he never had a sister : 

Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 

LIV. 

And still less was it sensual ; for besides 

That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
(Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, 

As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) 
Although {H will happen as our planet guides) 

His youth was not the chastest that might be, 
There was the purest platonism at bottom 
Of all his feelings— only he forgot 'em. 

LV, 

Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride too felt that she was not enslaved, 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation, 

Through his means and the church's, might be paved. 
But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted— 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 

LVI. 

'T was strange enough she Khould retain the impression 
Thro' such a scone of change, and dread, and slaughter: 

But, though three bishops told her the transgression, 
She show'd a great dislike to holy water: 

She also liad no passion for confession ; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess ; — no matter 

Whatc'cr the cause, the church made little of it — 

She still held out that Maliomot was a prophet. 

I.VII. 

In fact, the only Christian she could l)ear 

Was Juan, whom she scem'd to have selected 

In place of what her homo arul friends once ivere. 
Ho naturaUfj loved what he jirolciclod ; 

And thus they form'd a rather curious pair: 
A guardian green in years, a ward connectod 

In neither climo, lime, blood, with her d.fendcr ; 

And yet this want of ties made ihoira more imder. 



LVIII. 

They joumey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, 
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 

Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 
Which gave her dukes' the graceless name of " Biron." 

'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, 
Who marched to Moscow, led by fame, the syren! 

To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty years 

Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let not this seem an anti-climax : — " Oh ! 

My guard ! my old guard I" exclaim'd that god of clay — 
Think of the thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 

But, should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 

LX. 

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, 

Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 

Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 

To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 

Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine: — 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine: 

A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
Which Drachcnfels frowns over, like a spectre 

Of the good feudal times for ever gone. 

On which I have not time just now to lecture. 

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
A city which presents to the inspector 

Eleven thousand n:aidcnheads of bone, 

The greatest number flesh iiath ever known. 

LXI 1 1. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Hclvoetslujrs, 
That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches. 

When; juniper expresses its best juice — 

Tlie poor man's sparkling suhsiilulo for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
But to di-nv liie mob a cordial which is 

Too ofien all the rlothiri?, moat, or fuel, 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 

LXIV. 

Here ho cmbarU'd, and. wilh a flowing sail, 
Wont bi)undin;j for the island of ihr free, 

Towards which the impatient wind blow half a gale; 
High da>;h'<l the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, 

And seasick |>asson2ors turu'il 8om<*whnI pale : 
But Juan, season'd. as ho well niiuhl ho 

r>v former voyages, stood to wnlch the skitri 

VVhich pa'<s'd, or catch the first glimpse of the clifls. 

LXV. 

At length Ihoy rose, like a while wall along 
Tho'bluo soil's h.M-dor ; uihI 1> ' ' '' — 

What «'voM young 8lrani.'ors f« . 
At iho first Hight of Alhiou'H . 

A kin»i ofpri»lo that ho nhiMikl bo nnuniK 

Those iiaughty shopkocpers, who sternly dealt 

Their p«kmU and edicts out from polo lo jiole, 

And mB«lo llic very billows poy them toll. 



574 



DON JUAN. 



LXVI. 

I have no great cause to love that spot of earth, 
Which holds what might have been the noblest nation : 

But, though I owe it little but my birth, 
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 

For its decaying fame and former worth. 

Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 

Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 

When a man's country 's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd ; 

How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 

How all the nations deem her their worst foe. 
That worse than worst of foes — the once adored 

False friend, who held out freedom to mankind. 

And now would chain them to the very mind ; — 

LXVIII. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
WTio is but first of slaves ? The nations are 

In prison ; but the jailor, what is he? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 

Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties — 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbour, and hotel ; 

Thy custom-house with all its delicate duties ; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 

Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
To those who upon land or water dwell ; 

And last, not least to strangers uninstructed, 

Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 

LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 
And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week. 
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it — 

(His maggior duomo, a smart subtle Greek, 
Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it :) 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 

Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 

LXXI. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! [puddle; 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
With "schnapps" — sad dogs! whom " Hundsfot" or 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. [" Ferflucter" 

LXXII. 

Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry. 

And merely for the sake of its own merits : 
For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving 

At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXIII. 

They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral ; 

Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, 
Were pointed out as usual by the bndral. 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : 
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! all 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias, 
Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 



LXXIV. 

The effect on Juan was of course sublime: 
He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 

That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. 
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law, 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 

And asked why such a structure had been raised : 

LXXV. 

And being told it was " God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 

He suffer'd infidels in his homestead. 
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 

His holy temples in the lands which bred 
The true believers ; — and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

L,XXVI. 

On, on ! through meadows, managed like a garden, 

A paradise of hops and high production ; 
For, after years of travel by a bard in 

Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 
A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 

The absence of that more sublime construction 
Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 
Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 

LXXVII. 

And when I think upon a pot of beer — 

But I wont weep ! — and so, drive on, postillions ! 

As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired these highways of free millions ; 

A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 

Who " kick against the pricks" just at this juncture, 

And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 

Lxxviir. 
What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail ; — but, onward as we roll, 
" Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll! 

LXXIX. 

Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! [purses. 

Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's 

As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
Such is the shortest way to general curses. 

They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
On that sweet ore, which every body nurses ; — 

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it — 

But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 

LXXX. 

So said the Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 
To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 

Just as the day began to wane and darken, 

O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn 

Toward the great city: — ye who have a spark in 
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 

According as you take things well or ill — 

Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill ! 

LXXXI. 

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 

A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
Which well beseem'd the "Devil's drawing-room," 

As some have qualified that wondrous place. 
But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 

As one who, though he were not of the race, 
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
Who butchered half the earth, and bullied t' other.' 



DON JUAN. 



675 



LXXXII. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then losl amid the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head — and there is London town! 

LXXXIII. 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour 

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 

The wealth of worlds, (a wealth of tax and paper;) 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere — 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I — as doth a crew 
Before they give their broadside. By and by, 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 

Our old acquaintance, and at least I '11 try 

To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
Because they are so, — a male INIrs. Fry, 

With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 

And brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh, Mrs. Fry ! why go to Newgate? Why 

Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 

With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 

To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 

Unless you make their betters better : — Fie ! 

1 thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore : 

Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses : 
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more ; 

That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses: 
Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore. 

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses — 
The witless FalstafF of a hoary Hal, 
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all ; — 

Lxxxvir. 
Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, 

On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 
To set up vain pretences of being great, 

'T is not so to be good ; and be it stated, 
The worthiest kings have ever loved least state ; 

And tell them but you won't, and I have prated 

Just now enough ; but by and by I '11 prattle 
Like Roland's horn in Ronccsvalles' battle. 



CANTO XI. 



When Bishop Berkeley said *' there was no matter, 
And proved it — 't was no matter what he said : 

They say his system 't is in vain to batter, 
Too subtle for the airiest human luad ; 

And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter, 
Gladly, all mailers down to stone or lead, 

Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, 

And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 



What a sublime discovery 't was, to make the 

Universe universal egotism ! 
That all 's ideal — all ourselves ? I '11 stake the 

World (be it what you will) that thai 's no schism. 
Oh, doubt I — if thou be'st doubt, for which some take the«, 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit ! 
Heaven's brandy — though our brain can hardly bear it. 

III. 

For, ever and anon comes indigestion, 

(Not the most *' dainty Ariel,") and perplexes 

Our soarings with another sort of question : 
And that which, after all, my spirit vexes 

Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye'on, 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 

Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 

The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder- 

IV. 

If it be chance ; or if it be according 
To the old text, still better ! lest it should 

Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
As several people think such hazards rude : 

They 're right ; our days are too brief for affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and every body one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

V. 

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here nor there : 

If I agree that what is, is — then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 

The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical 
1 do n't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 

vr. 

The first attack at once proved the divinity, 
(But that I never doubted, nor the devil \) 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
The third, the usual origin of evil; 

The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity 
On so incontrovertiblf a level, 

That I devoutly wished the three were four, 

On pur{)Ose to believe so much tlie more. 

VII. 

To our theme : — The man who has stood on Uie Acropolis, 

And look'd down over Attica ; or ho 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 

Or si'on Tinibuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In smalUeyed China's crock ery- warn metropolis, 

Or sat amid the bricks of Nineveh, 
May not tliink much of London's first appearance— 
But ask him what he tJiinks of it a year hence ? 

VIII. 

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill — 
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 

Which looks al.ing that vale of good and ill 
Where Loiidi>n ntn-els ferment in full activity ; 

While every thing around wa.s calm and still, 

Except tlie creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 

Heard— and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 

Of cities, that boils over with iJioir scum : — 

IX. 

I sav, I^on Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 

Wulk'd on behind his carriage. oVr the sununit. 

And, lust in wonder of so great a natitwi. 
CJave way to 't, ninrr he could not overeome it. 

" And here," he cried, " is Kreodom's rhoeen station ; 
Hero peals the people's voice, n«jr can entomb it 

Racks, prisojis, inquisitions ; resurreclioo 

Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 



676 



DON JUAN. 



" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
But what they please ; and if that things be dear, 

'T is only that they love to throw away 

Their cash, to show how much they have a-yea. . 

Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 

Traps for the traveller, every highway 's clear : 

Here " he was interrupted by a knife. 

With " Damn your eyes ! your money or your life.' 

XI. 

These freebom sounds proceeded from four pads, 
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 

Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 

In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter. 

May find himself, within that isle of riches, 

Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XII. 

Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, " God damn !" 
And even that he had so rarely heard. 

He sometimes thought 't was only their " salam," 
Or " God be with you," — and 't is not absurd 

To think so; for, half English as I am, 
(To my misfortune,) never can I say 
I heard them wish " God with you," save that way: — 

XIII. 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 
And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, 

Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture. 
And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 

Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture. 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in. 

Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 

" Oh Jack ! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!" 

XIV. 

On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance. 

Came up, all marvelling at such a deed. 
And offering, as usual, late assistance. 

Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
As if his veins would pour out his existence, 

Stood calling out for bandages and lint. 

And wish'd he 'd been less hasty with his flint. 

XV. 

'* Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way : now 

I recollect some innkeepers who do n't 
Differ, except in robbing with a bow, 

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
But what is to be done ? I can't allow 

The fellow to lie groaning on the road; 

So take him up ; I '11 help you with the load." 

XVI. 

But, ere they could perform this pious duty. 

The dying man cried, " Hold ! I 've got my gruel ! 

Oh ! for a glass of Tnax ! We 've miss'd our booty ; 
Let me die where I am !" And, as the fuel 

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 

The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill 

His breath, he from his swelling throat untied 

A kerchief, crying " Give Sal that !" — and died. 

XVII. 

The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 

E.xactly why it was before him thrown, 

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 

Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled— 

His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 



XVIII. 

Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case. 
As soon as " crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace; — 
Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, a very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native 
In self-defence : this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man. 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle 1 

Who queer a flat 7 Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle ? 

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing,) 

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? * 

XX. 

But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing, 't is 
Not long before the most of them go home. — 

Hail I Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other " tons," 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; 



Through gi-oves, so call'd as being void of trees, 

(Like lucus from no light ;) through prospects named 

Mount Pleasant, as containing naught to please, 
Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 

With " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd; 

Through " rows" most modestly call'd " Paradise," 

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; — 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl 
Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; 

Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 
There mails fast flying oflf like a delusion ; 

There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
In windows ; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, — 

(For in those days we had not got to gas ;) 

XXIII. 

Through this, and much and niore, is the approaclj 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach. 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 

XXIV. 

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
Who vindicates a moment too his stream — 

Though hardly heard through multifarious " dam'mes." 
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, 

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 

In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 

Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 

XXV. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better : 
Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it ? — 

But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter. 
That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 

The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; 

The mansion-house, too, (though some people quiz it,) 

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 

But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection. 



DON JUAN. 



XXVI, 

The line of lights too up to Charing-Cross, 
Pall-Mali, and so forth, have a coruscation, 

Like oold as in comparison to drj=;s, 

Matched with the continent's illinnination, 

Wh05e cities nig'it by no means deigns to gloss: 
The French were not yet a lamp-lightin? na'ion, 

And when they grew so— on their new-found laniern, 

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the streets 

Suspended, may illuminate mankmd, 
As also bonfires made of country-seats ; 

But the old way is best for the purblind : 
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 

A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, 
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

xxvrii. 
But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 

Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 
And found him not amid the various progenies 

Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
'T was not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 

Yet undiscover'd treasure. What /can, 
I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey. 
But see the world is only one attorney, 

XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pail-Mall, 

Through crowds and carriages — but waxing thinner 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long.seal'd spell 
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 

Admitted a small party as night fell, — 
Don .Tuan, our young diplomatic sinner. 

Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 

St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells."* 

XXX. 

They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front door 

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and as usual several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er ; 

Commodious but immoral, they arc found 
Useful, like Malthus, in preventing marriage: 
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage, 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels,' 

Especially for foreigners — and mostly 
For those whom favour or whom fortune swells, 

And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells, 

(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie,) 
Until to some conspicuous square they pass. 
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan, whose was a delicate commission. 

Private, though publicly important, boro 
No title to point out with due precision 

The exact affair on which he wast sent o'er. 
*T was merely known that on a secret mission 

A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 
Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said 
(In whispers) to have furn'd his sovert-ign's head. 

XXXIII. 

Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
And above all, an English woman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 

He foimd himself extremely in the fashion. 

Which servos our tliinking people for a pa.<wioD. 
3 X 



677 



XXXIV. 

I do n't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary ; but then 't is in the head ; 

Yet, as the consequences are as bri"ht 
As if they acted with the heart instead, 

What after all can signify the site 
Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which they start, 

What matters if the road be head or heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place. 

To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 

And was received with all the due grimace^ 
By those who govern in the mood potential. 

Who, seeing a hand:5ome stripling with smooth face, 
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the younaster, 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland son<^ter. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
And by we 'II talk of that ; and if we do n't, 

'T will be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front, 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
Now what I love in women is, they won't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie ? 'T is but 

The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 

A fact without some leaven of a lie. 
The very shadow of true truth would shut 

Up annal?, revelations, poesy, 
And prophecy — except it should be dated 
Some years before the incidents related, 

XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? 

She rinss the world's " Te Deuin," and her brow 
Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 

Is idle ; let us, like most o'hers, how, 
Kiss hands, feet — any ()art of Majesty, 

Afler the good example of "Green Erin," 

Whose sliamrock now seems rather worse for wearing. 

XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, ami his dress 
And mien excited general admiration— 

I do n't know which was most admired or less: 
One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 

Which Catherine, in a moment of " ivresse," 
(In love or brnmiy's fervent fermen'.iiion,) 

Bestow'd upon l.im as the public learn'd ; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XI,. 

Besides the ministers and underlings, 
Who must be courteous to the arcrcdited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
Until their royal riddle 's fully read, 

The very clerks — those son^ewhal dirty spring* 
Of office, or the house of office, fed 

Bv fiiul corruption into ptrenms — even ihey 

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: 



And insoli-nre no doiiht is what they are 
EmployM for, sint-e it is tlieir daily labour, 

Iti the di-ar ofTicrs of peace or wnr; 

And shoiilil voudoulit, pravusl; of your next nei|hbour| 

When for a passport, or sonu- oiln-r Imr 

To freetlom, he appliwl, (ii tjrief and K bore.) 

If he fouiiil not this spawn of lax-horn riehw, 

Like lap-dogs, the loaat civil Hona of 



67S 



DON JUAN. 



But Juan was received with, much " empressement :" — 
These phrases of refinement I must borrow 

From our next neighbour's land, where, like a chessman, 
There- is a move set down fjr joy or sorrow, 

Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 
In islands, is, it seems,, downright and thorough, 

Mare than on continents — as if the sea 

(Sse Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 

XLIII. 

And yet the British * = dam'me" 's rather Attic: 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 

And turn on things which no aristocratic 

Spirit would name, and iherffore even I won't anent' 

This subject quote, as it would be schismatic 
In poHtesse, and have a sound affronting in 't: — 

Bat '• dam'me" 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 

Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
JVbio) you may cross the blue deep and white foam— 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of much you corns 

To meet. However, 't is no time to chat 
On general topics : poams must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 



In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
Meaneth the west or worst end of the city, 
And about twice two thousand people bred 

By no means to be very wise or witty, 
But to sit up while others lie in bed. 

And look down on the universe with pity- 
Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 
Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVI. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 

Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 
'T is also of some moment to the latter : 

A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side. 
Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
The horrid sin — and, what 's still worse, the trouble. 

XLVII. 

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
An air as sentimental as Mozart s 

Softest of melodies : and could be sad 
Or cheerful, without any " flaws or starts," 

Just at the proper time ; and, though a lad, 
Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
And very much unlike what people write. 

XLVIII. 

Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 

Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 
For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 

The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish " drapery misses"* 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Thought such an opportunity as this is. 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation, 

Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit, 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it. 



The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnela, 
And with the pages of the last review 

Line the interior of their heads or bonnets. 
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue : 

They talk'd bad French of Spanish, and upon its 
Late authors ask'd him f.)r a hint or two; 

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? 

And whether in his travels he saw Ilion ? 



Juan, who was a little superficial, 

And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 

Jury of matrons, scarce knew v/hat to answer: 

His duties warlike, loving, or official. 
His steady application as a dancer, 

Had kept him from the brink of HippocrenCi 

Which now he found was blue instead of greenj 

LII. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 
And pass'd for argun)ents of good endurance. 

That prodigy. Miss Araminta Smith, 

(Who at sixteen, translated " Hercules Furens" 

Into as furious English.) with her best look. 

Set down his sayings in her commonplace book., 

Liir. 

Juan knew several languages — as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. , 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime: 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Mcevia Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. . 

LIV. 

However he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and. as in Banquo's glass,' 

At great assemblies or in parties small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass. 

That being about their average numeral; 
Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show it3. 

LV. 

In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 

Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 

Although 't is an imaginary thing. 
Even I — albeit I 'm sure I did not know it. 

Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king- 
Was reckon'd, a considerable time, 
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint- Jean seems Cain ; 
" La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero, 

Now that the lion 's fall'n, may rise again: 
But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
Or to some lonely isle of jailers go. 
With turncoat Souihey for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 

Before and afier ; but now, grown more holy, 
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly ; 
***** 
***** 

♦ * ♦ ♦ ♦ 

* * * * # 



DON JUAN. 



679 



LVIII. 

* ♦ 

* * 



Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 

Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 
He 'II find it rather difficult some day 

To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
Some persons tliink that Coleridge hath the sway, 

And Wordsworth hath supporters, two or three ; 
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, "Savase Lander,' 
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats — who was kill'd off by one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
Poor fellow! his was an untoward fate: 

'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* 

Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 

LXI. 

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will know 

The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders ^ 
His last award, will have the long grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their rhances ; they 're too nimicrous, like the thirty 

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 

LXII. 

This is the literary lower empire, 

' Where the Praetorian bandi take up (he matter ; — 

A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers samphire,' 

The insolent soldiery to sooth and flatter, 
With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I 'd try conclusions with those janizaries, 
And show them what an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 

I think I know a trick or two, would turn 

Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my while 

With such small gear to give myself concern: 
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile ; 

My natural temper 's really aught but stern. 
And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smilo ; 

And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy. 

And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in dcally peril 
Among live poets and blue ladie^i, pass'd 

With some small profit through that field so sterile. 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had l)cen treated very ill ; 

And hcnceforlh found himself nr)re gaily class'd 

Among the higher spirits of the day. 

The sun's true son— no vapour, but a ray. 

I, XV. 

Hi^morn? he pass'd in business— which, dissected, 
Was like all business, a lab )ri()U3 nothing, 

That leads to lassitude, the m()>t iiifecled 

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 

And on our sofas makes us lie dejected. 
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 

All kinds of toil, save for our coiuitry'ti good — 

Which grows no better, though 't is liuio it should. 



His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons. 
Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 

In riding round thcee vegetable puncheons, 
Cali'd '■ Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flovrer 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings ; 
But aficr all, it is the only " bower" 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world I 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar 

Though street and square fast-flashing chariots, hurl'd 
Like harness'd meteors! then along the floor 

Chalk'd mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd ; 
Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 

Which opens to the thousand happy few 

An earthly paradise of " or mo!u." 

LXVIII. 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 

With the three-thousandih curtsy ; there ihe walu-^ 

The only dance which teaches girls to think — 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, all o'erflow beyond their brink. 
And long the la'est of arrivals lialts. 

Mid royal dukes and dames condcmn'd to climb, 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

LXIX, 

Thrice happy he who, afer a sun'ey 
Of the good company, can win a comer, 

A door that's in, or boudoir out of the wav, 

Where he may fix himself like small " Jack Homer« 

And let the Babel round run as it may, 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner. 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator, 

Yawning a little as the night grows later 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by; and he 
Who, like Don .luan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with rare through all that glittering sea 
Of geins and plumes, and pearls and silks, to wher» 

He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 

Or proudlier prancins with mercurial skill 

Where science marshals forth her own quadrill«. 

I. XXI. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress, or his nciffhb-xjr's bride, 

Let him take care that that whicli he purauM 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full many an eager genlenmn oft rues 
His haste ; impatience is a blundering guide, 

Among a people famous for reflection, 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But, if vou can contrive, pet next nt supper; 

Or, if f)restaird, iret opposite and ogle: — 
Oh, y<^ ambrosial moments! alwnvs upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
Which sits for ever ui)nn memory's crupp«r, 

Tiio gliost of vanish'.l pleasures onco in rogue! 
Can tender smiU relate the ri-^e and fall 
Of hope^ and fears which shake a single ball. 
I.XXIII. 

But ihesp precautionary hints can touch 
Oiilv the comni jn run, who miMt pursue. 

An! watch, and ward ; \\hn%o plan* a worJtoo IBUdl 
Or littl'- overturns ; an I nut (he f.-w 

Or manv (for the number '« sonu-iim.-x such) 
Whom a goixl mien, especially if now, 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war. scnic, or non«ri»«, 

1 Perraiu whateW lh«y please, or «««/ not long sinew. 



6S0 



DON JUAN. 



LXXIV. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 

Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 
Like o:her slaves of course must pay his ransom 

Before he can escape from so much danger 
As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 

Talk about poetry, and ' rack and manger," 
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 
I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

LXXV. 

They are youn?, but know not youth — it is anticipated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous ; 
Their vitwur in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 

Their cash comes froiu, their weahh goes to, a Jew ; 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's and the tribune's crew ; 
And, having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, 
The family vault receives another lord. 

LXXVI. 

" Where is the world," cries Young, '•' at eighty ? AVhere 
The world in which a man was born ?" Alas ! 

Where is the world o( eight years past? 'T was there — 
I look for it— 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 

Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on ere 
A silent chans;e dissolves the glittering mass. 

Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 

And dandies, ail are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXVII. 

Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knovvs: 
Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: 

Where Grattan, Carran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell ? 

Where is the unhappy queen, with all her woes? 
And where the daughf^r, whom the isles loved well? 

Where are those martyr'd sain's, the five per cents? 

And where — oh, where the devil are the rents ? 

LXXVIII. • 

Where 's Brummel ? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wel- 
lesley? Diddh-d. [Third? 

Where 's Whi'bread ? Romilly ? Where 's George the 
Where is his will ? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) 

And where is " Funi" the Fourth, our '• royal bird?" 
Gone down it seems to Scotland, to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 
" Caw me, caw thee" — for six months hath been hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That: 
The honourable Mistresses and Misses ? 

Some laid aside like an old opera-l.at. 
Married, unmarried, and re-married — (this is 

An evolution oft perform'd of late.) 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses? 

Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd, as usual. Where 

My friends the Whigs. Exactly where they were. 

LXXX. 

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is — 

Thou Mornmg Post, sole record of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 

Of fashion — say what stream? now fill those channels ? 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent, 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some who once set their cap at cautious dukes, 

Have taken up at length with younger brothers ; 
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks ; (thers ; 

Some maids have been made wives — som.e merely mo- 
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 

In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
There 's little strange in this, but something strange is 
The unusual quickness of these coramoa changes. 



LXXXII. 

Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 

The humblest individual under heaven, 

Than might suffice a moderate century through, 

I knew that naiught was lasting, but now even 
Change grows too changeable, without being new: 

Naught 's permanent among the human race, 

Except the Whigs not getting into place. 

LXXXIII. 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiterf 
Shrink to a Salurn. I have seen a duke 

(No matter which) turn politician stupider, 
If that can well be, than his wooden look. 

But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter," 
And sail for a new theme : I have seen — and shook 

To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 

But don't pretend to settle which was best. 

LXXXIV. 

I have seen the landholders without a rap— 
I have seen Johanna Southcote — I have seen 

The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 
T have seen that sad affair of the late queen— 

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fjol's-cap^ 
1 have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean— 

I have seen some na ions like o'erloadcd asses 

Kick off their burdens — meaning the high classes. 

LXXXV. 

I have seen small poets, and graat prosers, and 
Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and land— 
I 've seen the coun'ry gentlemen turn squeakers— 

1 've seen the people ridden o'er like sand 

By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 

Exchang'd for " thin potations" by .John Bull — 

I 've seen John half detect himself a fool. 

LXXXVI. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe !" 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devoui'd by the same harpy. 

" Life 's a poor player" — then " play out the play, 
Ye villains !" and, above all, keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say: 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, oe 
Not what you seem, but always what you see, 

LXXXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befell our hero, in the land 
Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country ? But I hold my hand— 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 

But 't is as well at once to understand, 
You are not a moral people, and you know it, 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVIII. 

What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, with of course ihe due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction. 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 

Though every scribe, in some slight turn of dictioHi 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when I speak, I don''t hini, but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 
Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting countess. 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling earth. 

Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is— 

Or whether he was taken in for damages, 

For being too excursive in his homages — 



DON JUAN. 



581 



Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
Against the same given quantity of rhvnie, 

For being as much ths subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
Sa much the better I — I may stand alone, 
Bat would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



CANTO XII. 



Op all the barbarous middle ages, that 

Which is most barbarous is the middle ag© 

Of man ; it is — I really scarce know what : 
But when we hover between fool and sage, 

And don't know jus. ly what we would be at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black-letter upon fooUcap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and wc arc not what we were ; — 

II. 

Too old for youth — too young, at thirty-five, 

To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore — 

I wonder people should be left alive ; 

But, since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

Love lingers still, although 't were laie to wive; 
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er; 

And money, that most pure imagination, 

Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 

III. 

Oh gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; 
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures jrreat and small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table, 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. 

IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker ; 

Ambition rt^nds, and gaming gains a loss; 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker. 

And adding still a little tlu-ou<jli each cross 
(Which will come over things,) beats love or liquor, 

The gamester's counter, or llie statesman's dross. 
Oh gold ! I still prefer thee unto pa|)cr. 
Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour. 

V. 

Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
O'er Congress, whether royalist or liberal? 

Who rouse (he shirtless palri;>ls of Spain fall ?) 

(That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber 

Who keep the world, both old and new, in pam 
Or pleasure? Who make po'itics run glibber all? 

The shale of B.)nai)arte's n >l)le daring?— 

Jew Ro'.hschilJ, and his fellow. Christian Baring. 

VI. 

Those, and the truly librral Lafilte, 

Are the true lordii of Eurojie. ICvcry loan 

la not a merely speculative hit, 

But sra's a nation or up-cts a throne. 

Rftpublics also got involved a bit ; 

Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change; .md even ihy silver soil, Peru, 

Must get itsolf discounted by a Jaw. 



Wliy call the miser miserab'.e ? as 

I said before : the frugal life is his, 
Which iu a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise ; a hermit would not miss 
Canonizaiion for tiie self-same cause, 

Andwherefjre blame gaunt wea'th'a austerities? 
Because, you '11 say, naught ca'ls fjr such a trial ;— 
Then there 's more melit in his self-denial. 

vrii. 
He is your only poet ; — passion, pure 

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays 
Pos.tess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 

Nations athwart the deep : the golJen rays 
Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure; 

On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; 
While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes 
Of other stones, to sooth the miser's eyes. 

IX. 

The lands on either side are his : the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 

For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip; 
His very cellars might be kings' abodes; 

While he, despising every sensual call, 

Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 

X. 

Perhaps he hath great projects in his miud, 

To build a college, or to found a race, 
A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 

Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 
Perhaps he fain would libera'e mankind 

Even with the very ore which makes ihem base; 
Perhaps he would be wealihiest of his nation. 
Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 
Mav be the hoarder's principle of action, 

The fool will call such mania a di"iea<c :— 

What is his oun? Go — look at each transaction. 

Wars, revels, loves — do these bring num more case 
Than the mere plodding thro' each " vul;:ar fraction V 

Or do they benefit mankmd ? Lean miser ! 

Let spend. hrifi's heirs inquire of yours — who '« wiser? 

xn. 
How beauteous are rouleaus I how charming chests 

Containing inirots, l)a<;s of dol'ars, mms 
(Not of old victors, all who>c heads an i crests 

\\'tii.'h not the thin ore where their visage shines, 
But) of fine unclipp'd jiold, where dully re .t» 

Sluup likeness which the glitlcrins; cirque confines, 
Of m )dcrn, rei<;ning, sterlinj stupid btamp:— 
Veil ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 

XIII. 

•' Love rules the camp, iho court, the jrore,'*— " farlevt 
Is heaven, an I heaven is love :" — so sings iho bvd ; 

Which it were ral'ur diflicuU lo prove, 
(A thing with poe ry in grnrral hard ) 

Perhaps there may bo someihinj in " the f^mrt" 
Al least it rliyn>"s to '' love ;" b iC I 'm prf ird 

To d.>ubt (u ) Ums ihnn Iniidlordi >f their rctr;r' 

If" courts" and "camps" bo quite so »entiin-ii al. 

XIV. 

But if l.nc Hon'i, cash docn. ani ranh alonp; 

Cd'iU rules the grovr. and fells it t.x> bpii l«»i : 
Without ru!«h, ramps »vcr«» thin, and rouru wert» n90* 5 

Without raih, Miililn. ' lake nobridss." 

So c.ish rules lovo thr r ^n 

llinh (Tround, a* Vii-. - ^>»va ths tides ; 

And, as for " heaven" bring " love." «hy not say hootj 
Is wsA 7 iUavon is not love, 't is inauitaony. 



682 



DON JUAN. 



Is not all love prohibited whatever, 

Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, 
Af er a sort ; but somehow people never 

With the same thought the two words have help'd out : 
Love may exist V'ith marriage, and should ever, 

And marriage also may exist without. 
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 

Now if the " court" and " camp" and " grove" be not 
Recruited all with constant married men, 

Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, 
J say thai line 's a lapsus of the pen ; — 

Strange too in my " buon camerado" Scott, 
So celebrated for his morals, when 

My .TefTrey held him up as an example 

To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 

XVII. 

Well, if I do n't succeed, I have succeeded, 
And that 's enough ; succeeded in my youth. 

The only time when much success is needed: 
And my success produced what I in sooth 

Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 
Whate'er it was, 't was mine ; I 've paid, in truth, 

Of late, the penalty of such success. 

But have not learn d to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery, — which some persons plead 

In an appeal to the unborn, whom they. 
In the faith of their procreative creed, 

Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 
To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 

To lean on for support in any way ; 
Since odds are that posterity will know 
No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Why, I 'm posterity — and so are you ; 

And whom do we remembor ? Not a hundred. 
Were every memory written down all true. 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd: 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few. 

And 'gainst those few your annalists have ihunder'd; 
And Mitford, in the nineteenth century, 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.^ 

XX 

Good people all, of every degree. 

Ye genUe readers and ungentle writers, 
In this twelfih canto 't is my wish to be 

As serious as if I had for inditers 
Malthus and Wilbeiforce : the last set free 

The negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 
While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, 
And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes. 

XXI. 

I 'm serious — so are all men upon paper: 
And why should 1 not form my speculati:n, 

And hold up to the sun my little taper ? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 

On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour ; 
While sages write against all procreation. 

Unless a man can calculate his means 

Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 

That 's noble ! that 's romantic ! For my part, 

1 think that " philo-genitiveness" is — 
(Now here 's a word quite after my own heart, 

Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this 
If that politeness set it not apart ; 

But I 'm resolved to say naught that 's amiss) — 
I say, methinks that" philo-genitiveness" 
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 



XXIII. 

And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life : but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 

XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate, 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
I could send forth my mandate like a primate, 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate : 
All countries have their " lions," but in thtfO 
There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 

But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

" Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
Among the paths of being " taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skaiter glided: 
Whf^n tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have ptided 
Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in tlie end they make 
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 

That even the purest people may mistake 

Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows,* 

And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflowa 

duicksilver small-talk, ending (if you note it) [it ?'' 

With the kind world's amen — " Who would have thought 

xxvii. 

The little Leila, with her orient eyes 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
(Which saw all western things with small surprisOi 

To the surprise of people of condition. 
Who thinli that noveliies are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition,) 
Her charming figure and romantic history, 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

xxviii. 
The women much divided — as is usual 

Among the sex in little things or great. 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all— 

I have always liked you better than I state, 
Since I. 've grown moral : still I must accuse you ftU 

Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
And now there was a general sensation 
Among you, about Leila's education. 

XXfX. 

[n one point only were you settled— and 

You had reason ; 't was that a young child of gracOi 
As beautiful as her own native land, 

And far away, the last bud of her race, 
Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 

Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 
Would be much better taught beneath the eye 
Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition 

To undertake the orphan's educa'ion. 
As Juan was a person of condition. 

It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition ; 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallani's Middle Ages," 



DON JUAN. 



663 



And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to blourn upon thjir withering bo-.i^h — 

Be=rg'd to bring 7/p the little girl, and '■ ow«/' — 
For that 's the phrase that settles all things now, 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough-bred to show: 

And 1 assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money.) 

XXXII. 

How all the needy honourable misters, 

Each ou'-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 

The watchful niotiiers and the careful sisters, 
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 

At making matches, where " 't is gold that glisters," 
Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy. 

Buzz round " the Fortune" with iheir busy battery 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery! 

XXXIII, 

Each aunt, each cousin hath her speculation ; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
" TantcEne !" Such the virtues of high station, 

Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's "Dover!" 
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, but some reject three dozen. 

'T is fine to see them scattering refusals 
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 

(Friends of the party,) who begin accusals 
Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 

Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
To his billets ? fF% waltz with him? Why, I pray, 
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXV. 

"Why?— Why?— Besides, Fred, really was atiach'd; 

'T was not her fortune — he has enough without: 
The lime will come she 'II wish that she had snatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt; — 
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 

As I 'U tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
And afer all poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray, did you see her answer to his letter?" 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
U[)on the sweep-stakes for substantial wive?: 

And when at least the pretty creature gets 

Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives, 

If sooths the awkward squad of the rejected 

To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out willi importunity ; or fall 
But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot, of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure" 

(If 't is not vain examples to recall) 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'cr he got her, I 
See naught more strange in this than l' other lot ery. 

XXXVIII. 

I, for my part — (one " modt;rn instance" more,) 
" True, 't is a pity — pity 'l is, 'l is Iruo" — 

Was chosen from out an ariiatory score, 

Albeit my years were less di creel than few ; 

But th^gh I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon wen* to bo two, 

I Ml not gainsay the generous public's voice — 

That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 



XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon me digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace befjre a fea^t : 
For like an aged aun', or tiresome f.ieud, 

A rigid guardian, or a zialous pries'. 
My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

Ail people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are. 

Not as they ought to be : for I avow, 

That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far 

From much improvement wiih that virtuous plough 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 

XLI. 

But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 

For, like a day-dawn, she was young and pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure, 
Like many people every body knows : 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
A\ ho might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had fonnd out he was no tutor, 
(1 wish that others would find out the same:) 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame: 

So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 

Consulting the " Society for Vice 

Suppression," Lady Pmchbeck was his choice. 

XMII. 

Oldcn she was — but had been very young: 
Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe: 

Although the world has such an evil lon;:ue 
yhat — but my chaster car will noi receive 

An echo of a syllabic that 's wrong : 

In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much griev* 

As that abominable tittle-tattle, 

Which is tlie cud eschew 'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 

Moreover I 've remark'd, (and I was once 

A slight observer in a niodcst way.) 
And so may every one except a dunce, 

That ladies in their youth a little fjay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and lent* 

Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
Are wiser in their warninss 'gainst the wo 
Whicii the mere passionless can never know. 

XI. v. 
While the liarsli prude indemnifies her virtue 

By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 
Seeking fur less to save you than to hurt you, 

Or what 's slill worse, to put you out of fashion,— 
The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 

Entreating you to pause bilorc yon dash on; 
K.'tpounding and illustrating llie riiidle 
Cf epic Love's l)eginning, end, and middle. 

XI. VI. 

Now, whether it be ihus. or that they are itriclW, 
As better knowing why they ithouM br »o, 

I think yt»u 'II fin.l from n'innv a fanulv picture, 
TImt'daughlers of Ml ■ ' *<"0'* 

Thi' world by e\p«"rit>ii ''•» 

Turn out nun h bettri i •^'>'»'* 

Of vestals brought into the marna-i iiiaiI, 

Than llio»o bred up by prudes wiiiwul a heart. 



684 



DON JUAN. 



XLVII, 

1 said that Lady Pinchbeck had been ta-li'd about — 
As who ha? not, if female yoiin?;, and pretty? 

But now no more the gh:).3t of scandal slalk'd abDUt; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and wiuy, 

And several of her best bon-nnts were hawli'd about ; 
Then she was given to charity and [)ity, 

And pass'd (at least the la.ter years of Ufa) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 

xLvni. 
Kijjh in high circles, gentle in her O'.vn, 

She vva3 the miU reprover of the young, 
Whenever — .vhich means every day — ihey 'd shown 

An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 

Or, at the least, would lengthen out my song: — 
In brief, the little orphan of the east 
Had raised an interest in her which increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan too was a sort of favourite with her, 

Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 

A ii'tle spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither: 
Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 

At least entirely — fjr he had seen too many 

Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 

L. 

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; 

For when they happen at a riper age. 
People are apt to blame the fates, fjrsooth, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, slorni, or woman's rage, 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 

LI. 

How far it profits is another matter, — 

Oar hero gladly saw his little charge 
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 

Being long married, and thus set at large, 
Had lefi all the accomplishments she taught her 

To be transmitted, like the lord mayor's barge, 
To the next coiner ; or — as it will tell 
More muse-like — say like Cytherea's shell. 

LII. 

I call such things transmission ; for there is 

A floating balance of accomplishment 
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 

According as their minds or backs are bent. 
Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 

Of metaphysics ; others are content 
With music ; the most moderate shine as wi;s, 
While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

LIU. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays. 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
Of " elegant," et cetera, in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 

But now I will begin my poem. 'T is 
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 

That from the first of cantos up to this 

1 've not begun what we have to go through. 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 



My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 

About what 's call'd success, or not succeedinj: 

Suc!i thoughts are quire b3low the strain ihey 've chosen; 
'T is a " great moral lesson " they arc reading. 

I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
Cantos would do; bu", at Apollo's pleading, 

If that my Pegasus should not be founJer'd, 

1 think to canter gently through a hundred. 

Lvr. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 
Yclept the great world ; for it is the least, 

Although the highest: but as swords have hilts 
By which their power of mischief is increased, 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts. 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 

Must still obey the high — which is their handle. 

Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. 

LVII. 

He had many friends who had many wives, and was 

Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 
Of friendship which you may accept or pass ; 

It does nor good nor harm, bein:^ merely meant 
To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 

And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent: 
And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 
For the first season such a life scarce palls. 



J 



A young unmarried man, with a good name 
And fortune, has an awkward part to play ; 

For good society is but a game, 

" The royal game of goose," as I may say, • 

Where every body has some separa'e aim, 
An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 

The single ladies wishing to be double, 

The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 

LIX. 

I do n't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits: 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 

" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes; 

For talk six times with the same single lady. 

And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you '11 have a letter from the mother, 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd ; 

Perhaps you 'U have a visit from the brother. 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 

What " your intentions are?" — One way or other 
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand ; 

And between pity for her case and yours, 

You '11 add to matrimony's list of cures. 



I 've known a dozen weddings made even /A«.«, 
And some of them high names: I have also ktiown 

Young men who — though they hated to discuss ' 

Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown— 

Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, 
Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 

And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 

In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LXII. 

There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated: 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — ^ 

It adds an outward grace unto their carriage—^ 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 

" Couleur de rose," who 's neither white nor scarlet. 



DON JUAN. 



585 



LXIII, 

Such is your old coquette, who can't say " No," 
And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on and ofT-ing, 

On a lee shore, till it begins to blow — 

Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing ; 

This works a world of sentimental wo. 

And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

" Ye gods, I grow a talker !" Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it sternest, 
Is when, without regard to " Church or State," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou learnest) — 
But in old England when a young bride errs. 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers ; 

LXV. 

For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
Country, where a young couple of the same ages 

Can't form a friendship but the world o'er-awes it. 
Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d — d damages ! 

A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it! — 
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 

Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 

And evidences which regale all readers ! 

LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVII. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick — no, 't was not the word sick I meant — 
But he had seen so much good love before. 

That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white cliflfs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings. 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. 

LXVIII. 

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic. 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for passion, 

And passion's.self must have a spice of frantic, 
Into a country where 't is half a fashion, 

Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation ; 

Besides (alas ! his taste— forgive and pity !) 

At first he did not think the women pretty. 

LXIX. 

I say ai/irst — for he found out at last, 
But by degrees, that they were fairer far 

Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
Beneath the influence of the eastern star — 

A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
Yet inexperience could not be his bar 

To taste:— the truth is, if men would confess, 

That novelties please less than they impress. 

LXX. 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shuflling negroes, Nile or Niger, 

To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 
Where geography finds no one to oblige her 

With snh a chart as may be safely stuck to— 
For Europe ploughs in Afric like <' bos pigor:" 

But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 

No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 
3Y 



LXXI. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You '11 attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I 'm right ; 

Or if I 'm wrong, I '11 not be ta'en aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within 5 and what see'st thou? A dubious spark. 

Lxxir. 

But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, 

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics. 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame : 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame. 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those Polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

Lxxin, 
Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 

Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes; — 
Not that there 's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect for their own wishes, 
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows ' 

Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: 
They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 
As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But this has naught to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides. 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXV, 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefiily as Gauls her garb, 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning ; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those, bravuras (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 

And have, or had, an car that served mc prettily;) — 

LXXVI. 

She cannot do tliese things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off"-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 

Nor settles all things in one interview, 

(A thing approved as saving time and toil ;) — 

But though the soil may give you time and trouble, 

Well cultivated, it will render double. 

I.XXVII. 

And if in fact she takes to a " grando passion," 

It is a very serious thing intlied ; 
Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, 

C(xiuetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
For there 's no saying what tliey will or may do. 

I.X XVIII. 

The reason 's obvious: if there 'h an erial, 

Thry lose their coslo at once. a« ilo the Parias; 

And when the delicacies (»f the law 

Have fillM their papem wiih their commenU vor 

Societv, that china without Ikw, 

(The hyr«>crite!) will banish ihcin like Mariu», 

To Hit amid the ruins of their mult : 
1 For Fame 's a Carliiago not so soon n>buih. 



586 



DON JUAN, 



LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 

A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven :" — ^but upon this 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
An erring woman finds an open door 

For her return to virtue — as they call 

The lady who should be at home to all. 

LXXX. 

For me, I leave the matter where 1 find it, 

Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 
People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 

And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 
And as for chastity, you '11 never bind it 

By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 
But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, 
By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 

Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 

A lady altogether to his mind. 
A little " blase" — 't is not to be wonder'd 

At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
And though not vainer from his past success, 
No doubt his sensibiUties were less. 

rxxxii. 

He also had been busy seeing sights — 
The parliament and all the other houses ; 

Had sate beneath the galleries at nights, 

To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) 

The world to gaze upon those northern lights * 

Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses ; 

He had also stood at times behind the throne — 

But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 

LXXXIII. 

He saw, however, at the closing session, 

That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

*T is not mere splendour makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There too he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
A prince, the prince of princes, at the time 

With fascination in his very bow. 
And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow, 

He had then the grace too, rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid. 

However disciplined and debonnaire : 
The talent and good humour he display'd, 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air. 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why, 

Is not to be put hastily together ; 
And as my object is morality, 

(Whatever people say,) I do n't know whether 
I '11 leave a single reader's eyelid dry. 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither. 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. * 



LXXXVII, 

Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 
Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, 

You '11 find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 't will be when done : 

The plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige j'^ou, reader ! to read on; 

That 's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 

Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear 

LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
Remember, reader ! you have had before 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles 
That e'er were brew'd from elements of gore, 

Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what else : 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But jny best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon " political economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That is your present theme for popularity : j 

Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 

It grows an act of patriotic charity, 

To show the people the best way to break. 

JVIy plan (but I, if but for singularity. 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime read all the national debt-sinkers. 

And tell me what you think of your great thinkers. 



CANTO XIII. 






I Kow mean to be serious ; — it is time, 

Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. 

A jest at vice by virtue 's call'd a crime. 
And critically held as deleterious : 

Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime, 
Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn. 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

' II. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 
I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue : 

I leave them to their taste, no doubt the best : 
An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue. 

Is no great matter so 't is in request : 
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair ; and no main, 
Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain womaui. 

IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full. 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways f^' 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place. 



DON JUAN. 



587 



I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line ; 
But then they have their claret and madeira 

To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
And county meetings and the Parliament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 

And is there not religion and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the " nation ?" 
The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 

The landed and the moneyed speculation ? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 

Instead of love, tlmt mere hallucination ? 
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

VII. 

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd. 
Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater" — • 

The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest ; — 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ; 

VIII. 

But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
It is because I cannot well do less. 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Gtuixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 

Of all tales, 't is the saddest — and more sad, 
Because it makes us smile ; his hero's right. 

And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad. 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight. 

His guerdon: 'tis his virtue makes him mad ! 
But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

X. 

Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 

To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 

Opposing singly the united strong. 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless native ; — 

Alas! must noblest views, like an old song, 
Be for mere fancy's sport a thing creative ? 

A jest, a riddle, fame through thin and thick sought? 

And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Q.uixote ? 

XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 

A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had herons. While Romance could charm. 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore liave his volumes done such harm, 
That all their glory as a composition 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 

I'm "at my old I.unes" — digression, and forgot 

The Lady Adeline Amundnville ; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
But Destiny and Passion sjjrcad the not, 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will,) 
And caught them ; what do they not catch, inrthink^ ? 
But I 'm not Oi^dipus. and life 's a sphinx. 



I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution : " Davus sum I" 
And now I will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amid the gay world's hum. 
Was the queen bee, the glass of all that 's fair ; 

Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb, 
The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 
And since that time there has not been a second. 

xir. 
Chaste was she to detraction's desperation. 

And wedded unto one she had loved well — 
A man known in the councils of the nation. 

Cool, and quite English, imperturbable. 
Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, 

Proud of himself and her ; the world could tell 

Naught against either, and both seem'd secure 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 

It chanced some diplomatical relations, 

Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 

Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 
By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, 

And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends, 

XVI. 

And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 

In judging men — when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foo. 

Had all the pertinacity pride has, 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 

And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 

Becaus«^ its own good pleasure hath decided. 



His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 
Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but :nor« 

His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 

And INIedes, would ne'er revoke what went befjr.*. 

His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, 
Of common likings, which make some dcploro 

What they shouUl laugh at — the mere ague still 

Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 

" 'T is not in mortals to ronmiand success; 

But (to you more, Semproniiis — tlon't di'scrvc it." 
And take my word, you won't have any loss: 

Be wary, watch tlic time, and always serve it ; 
Give gentiv way, where there 's tix> great a press ; 

And for your r(»nsci<-nce, only learn to nerve it,— 
For, lik«' a racer or a IxvVer training, 
"r w ill make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 

As most men do, ihe little or the great; 
The very lowrst find out an inferior. 

At least they think so, to exert their stat* 
Upon : for there are very f«^w tilings wearier 

Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 
Which mortals generously would divide, 
Hy bidding nthtrs carry while they ride. 

XX. 
In birth, inrnnk. in Tirtime likewise equal, 

O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 
In yi-ars he had the advantage of tinu's sequel ; 

And, n^ h«" thought, in country nnirh the »ani«»— 
Hecausc bold Britons have a tongtie and free quill, 

At which all modern nations vamly aim ; 
And the Lord Henry was a gr««i debuter, 
So that few mcmhors kept the House up Ulw. 



588 



DON JUAN. 



These were advantages : and then he thought — 
It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had caught 
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 

He liked to teach that which he had been taught, 
And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir \ 

And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 

Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honour'd him for his docility, 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, 

Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop, — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 

XXIII. 

And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places ; 

Where people always did as they were bid. 

Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 

Of courses also spake they: Henry rid 

Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races; 

And Juan, like a trueborn Andalusian, 

Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 

And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 

And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 

As in Freemasonry a higher brother. 
Upon his talent Henry had no doubts. 

His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother ; 
And all men like to show their hospitality 
To him whose breeding marches with his quality. 

XXV. 

At Blank-Blank Square ; — for we will break no squares 
By naming streets : since men are so censorious, 

And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares. 
Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 

Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, 
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, 

That therefore do I previously declare, 

Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. 

XXVI. 

Also there bin 2 another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous ; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
Which doth not shake some very splendid house 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares. 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly, 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place,'until I 
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, ^ 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : ~^ 

Such are — but I have lost the London chart. 

XXVIII. 

At Henry's mansion then in Blank-Blank Square, 

Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest. 
As many other noble scions were ; 

And some who had but talent for their crest ; 
Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 

Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 
Recommendation, and to be wclldress'd 
Will very often supersede the rest 



XXIX. 

And since '< there 's safety in a muUitude 
Of counsellors," as Solomon has said. 

Or some one for him, in some sage grave mood :— 
Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 

In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 
Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 

Which is the only cause that we can guess 

Of Britain's present wealth and happiness ;— 

XXX. 

But as " there 's safety grafted in the number 
Of counsellors" for men, — thus for the sex 

A large acquaintance lets not virtue slumber ; 

Or, should it shake, the choice will more perple,\— 

Variety itself will more encumber. 

'Mid many rocks we guard more against wrecks ; 

And thus with women : howsoe'er it shock some's 

Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 
For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 

To virtue proper, or good education. 
Her chief resource was in her own high spirit 

Which judged mankind at their due estimation ; 
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it : 

Secure of admiration, its impression 

Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 

XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade ; 

To some she show'd attention of that kind 
Which flatters, but is flattery convey 'd 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 

A gentle genial courtesy of mind. 
To those who were, or pass'd for, meritorious, 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious : 

XXXIII. 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 

Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men 
Who were or are the puppetshows of praise, 

The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
On the most favour'd ; and, amid the blaze 

Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, 

What can ye recognise ? — A gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There also was of course in Adeline 

That calm patrician polish in the address. 

Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
Of any thing which nature would express : 

Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
At least his manner suffers not to guess 

That any thing he views can greatly please. 

Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese — 

XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace; his " JVU admirari^* 
Was what he call'd the " Art of Hap[)iness ;' 

An art on which the artists greatly vary. 
And have not yet attain'd to much success. 

However, 't is expedient to be wary ; 

Indifference certes do n't produce distress; 

And rash enthusiasm in good society 

Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indifferent ; for, 

{Now for a commonplace !) beneath the snow. 

As a volcano holds the lava more 

Within — et cetera. Shall I go on ? — No ! 

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor: 
So let the often-used volcano go. 

Poor thing ! how frequently, by me and others, 

It hath been stirr'd up, till its smoke quite smothers! 



DON JUAN. 



589 



XXXVII. 

I '11 have another figure in a trice : 

What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 

Frozen into a very vinous ice, 

Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 

Yet in the very centre, past all price. 
About a liquid glassful will remain ; 

And this is stronger than the strongest grape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 

And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence, 

And such are many — though T only meant her 
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons. 

On which the Muse has always sought to enter : — 
And your cold people are beyond all price. 
When once you 've broken their confounded ice. 

XXXIX. 

But after all they are a North- West passage 

Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole, 
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage,) 

Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal 5 
For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost, 
(A chance still,) 't is a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; 

While those who 're not beginners, should have sense 
Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon 

With his gray signal-flag ; and the past tense, 
The dreary ^^fuimus" of all things human. 

Must be declined, whilst life's thin thread 's spun out 

Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted : its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind; 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

lias ever puzzled faith withal, or yoked her in. 

XLII. 

The English winter— ending in July 

To recommence in Ai'gust — now was done. 

'T is the postilion's paradise ; wheels fly ; 

On roads cast, south, north, west, there is a run. 

But for posthorses who finds sympathy ? 
Man's pity 's for himself or for his son. 

Always premising that said son at college 

Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. 

XLin. 
Xhc London winter 's ended in July — 

Sometimes a little later. I do n'l err 
In this : whatever other blunders lie 

Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
My Muse a glass of wcalherology, 

For Parliament is our barometer ; 
Let Radicals its olhorarts attack, 
I's sessions form our only almanac. 

XLIV. 

WIk^u its quicUsilver's down at zero, — lo! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, ba;,'gag(!, equipage! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton Pulac-e to Soho, 

And ha[>piest they who horsrH can engage ; 
The turnpikes glow with dust, and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from the chivalry of this biiglit ago: 
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, 
Sigh, as the postboys ftuiten on tiie Iracus. 



XLV. 

They and their bills, " Arcadians both,"' are left 
To the Greek kalends of another session. 

Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft, 

What hope remains ? Of htjpe the full possession, 

Or generous draft, conceded as a gift. 

At a long date — till they can get a fresh one, — 

Havvk'd about at a discount, small or large ; — 

Also the solace of an overcharge. 

XLVI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord, 
Nodding beside my Lady in his carrieige. 

Away ! away ! " Fresh horses I" are the word, 
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage ; 

The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
The postboys have no reason to disparage 

Their fee ; but, ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence, 

The ostler pleads for a small reminiscence. 

XLVII. 

'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey — 
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 

Also my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 

Can paint, " Cosi viaggino i riccJii .'" 

(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 

If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel, 

Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) 

XLVIII. 

The London winter and the country summer 
Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, 

When Nature wears the gown tliat doth become her, 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 

And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
Listening debates not very wise or witty, 

Ere patriots their true country can remember ; — 

But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 

XLIX. 

I've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two tliousand for whom earth was made, 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone, — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade. 
As many guests or more \ bed )re whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality- 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

L. 

Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 

Departed, like the rest of their compeere, 

The peerage, lo a mansion very fine; 
The Gothic Bubel of a thousand years. 

None than themselves could bou.tt a longer line, 

Where time through heroes and ihroughbeautics It eers 

And oaks, as olden as their pedigree, 

Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 



A paragraph in e\er)' paper told 

Of their departure : such is modem fame: 
'T is pity that it takes no further hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 
Wl)en, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cokJ. 

The IMoiniiig Post was Cremasl to proclaim— 
" Departure-, fi>r his country-seat to-day, 
Lord 11. Ainundeville and Lady A. 

Ml. 

" Wc understand the splendid host intends 
To entiTlain, this autiunn. u select 

Anil numerouH porty of l»is ntible fii-'iKls; 

'Mill whom, we hove heard iVoin sources quit* 

The Duke of 13 iIk« hlKK>tinfi season spend* 

With many more by rank and fashion d«di'd 

AUoaforeigncrof high condition, ^^ 

The envoy of the secret Russian roisaion. 



690 



DON JUAN. 



And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post ? 

(Whose articles are like the " thirty-nine," 
Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 

Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, 

With those who. Pope says, " greatly daring dine." 
'T is odd, but true, — last war, the news abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded. — 



As thus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 

Present, lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner: 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column: " Date, Falmouth. There has lately been here 

The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame ; 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
The vacancies are fiU'd up — see Gazette." 

LV. 

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, 

An old, old monastery once, and now 
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 

Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
Few specimens yet left us can compare 

Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, 
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 
To shelter their devotion from the wind. 

LVI. 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 

Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke ; 

And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 
The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 

The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 

To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird. 

LVII, 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake. 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 

Around : the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 

With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 

I. VIII. 

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 

Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
Cluiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet ; and, thus allay'd. 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 

Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blue, 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart 
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 

These last had disappear'd — a loss to art : 
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil. 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march. 
In gazing on that venerable arch. 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone : 
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell 

The annals of full many a line undone, — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. 



But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd. 
The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, 

With her son in her bless'd arms, look'd round. 

Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; 

She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild. 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

LXII. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once"^ could enter, 
Streaming from oflT the sun like seraph's wings, 

Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 

Lxin. 
But in the noontide of the moon, and when 

The wind is winged from one point of heaven. 
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 

Is musical — a dying accent driven 
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 

Some deem it but the distant echo given 
Back to the night-wind by the waterfall. 
And harmonized by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape or form, 

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 

(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower : 

The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 

The fact : — I 've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 

LXV. 

Amid the court a Gothic fountain play'd. 

Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 

The spring rush'd through grim mouths, of granite mad* 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable. 
The cells too and refectory, I ween: 

An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 

The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 

Might shock a connoisseur ; but, when combined, 
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 

Yet left a grand impression on the mind. 
At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 

We gaze upon a giant for his stature. 

Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVIII. 

Steel barons, molten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 

Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation ; 
And Lady Marys, blooming into girls. 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station ; 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely : 



DON JUAN. 



591 



LXIX. 

Judges, in very formidable ermine, 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
The accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right : 
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of the " Star Chamber" than of" Habeas Corpus,' 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armour, of the old 

And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 

Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed ; 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXI. 

But, ever and anon, to sooth your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's : * 

Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shono 
In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

LXXII. 

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite : — 
But lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish ' 
Or Dutch with thirst — What ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

Lxxiir. 
Oh, reader! if that thou canst read, — and know 

'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, 
To constitute a reader; there must go 

"Virtues of which both you and I have need. 
Firstly, begin with the beginning, (though 

That clause is hard,) and secondly, proceed; 
Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 
In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But, reader, thou hast patient been of lalo, 
While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear. 

Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 

That poets were so from their earliest dale. 
By Homer's " Catalogue of Ships" is clear; 

But a mere modern must be moderate — 

I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 

The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 
The com is cut, the manor full of game ; 

The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 
In russet jacket : — lynx-like is his aim, 

Full grows his bag, and wonderful ills feats. 
Ah, nut-brown partridges ! ah, brilliant pheasanta ! 
And ah, yc poachers! 't is no sport for peasants. 

Lxxvr. 
An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 

Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 
The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines 

The rod grape in the sunny lands of song, 
Hath yet a purchased choice of choicost wines ; 

The claret light, and the madiMra strong. 
If Britain mourn her bleakness, wo can toll hor, 
The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 



Lxxvri. 
Then, if she hath not that serene decline 

Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 
As if 'twould to a second spring resign 

The season, rather than to winter drear, — 
Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 

The seacoal fires, the earliest of the year ; 
Without doors too she may compete in mellow, 
As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

Lxxviri. 

And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the chaise, 
So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,* 

And wear the Melton jacket for a space : — 
If she hath no wild boars, she hatli a tame 
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of— we give tlie sex the pas — 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabbey ; 
The Ladies, Scilly, Busey ; Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazecn, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw : 

Also the Honourable Mrs. Sleep, 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet wais a black sheep. 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — but rank ; 

At once the " lie" and the " elite" of crowds ; 
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank. 

All purged and pious from their native clouds 
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the pass[)ort shrouds 
The " passee" and the past ; f<ir good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety : 

Lxxxr. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station ; 

And so that no ex|)lo.sion cry " aroint 

Thee, witch!" or each Medea has her Jason 

Or, (to the point with Horace and with Puici,) 

*' Omne tulit punctum, quic juixniit utile diilci." 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery ; 

I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie: 

Also a Bo-so matron •.)oKlly fight 

Her way l>a<k to the world by dint of plotter)', 

And shine the very Sirin of the sphcron, 

Escaping witli a few slight scarless sneers. 

I.XXXIII. 

I 've seen more than I '11 say : — but wo will see 

How our viUf^^ntura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest easto — the nraminH of iho ton. 
I 've named a few, not foremast in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, seatter'd among the«e, 
There also wore some Irisli alwentc'rw. 

I.XXXIV. 

There was I'^arolles, i.k., the le^-nl bully, 

Who limits all h\» battles to ll>r bar 
And senate: when invitrKl elsewhere, tnilv, 

He shows more a|)|)etite (iir wonis thwi wnr 
There wjuj the young hard Kaekrhvn^e, who had newly 

Come out and glimnwrM as a mn-woelin' nlar. 
There was Lord I'yrrho, too, tlio jjrral free thinker ; 
And Sir John Pottledcep, the inig)ily drinker. 



592 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 
" Ay, every inch a" duke ; there were twelve peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever them mistook. 

There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears ! 

All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXVI. 

There were four Honourable Misters, whose 
Honour was more before their names than after; 

There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 

Whom France and fortune lately deign'd to waft here, 

Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
But the Clubs found it rather serious laughter, 

Because — such was his magic power to please, — 

The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees. 

LXXXVII. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner ; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 

Sir Henry Silver-cup, the great race-winner ; 

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian ; 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 

LXXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman. 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, JefTeries Hardsman, 

In his grave office so completely skill'd. 
That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

Good company 's a chess-board — there are kings, 

dueens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the world 's a 

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings ; [game ; 
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 

My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings, 
Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 

Alighting rarely : were she but a hornet. 

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

xc. 
I had forgotten — but must not forget — 

An orator, the latest of the session. 
Who had deliver'd well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidunly transgression 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 

With this debut, which made a strong impression. 
And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
" The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

xci. 
Proud of his " Hear hims !" proud too of his vote, 

And lost virginity of oratory, 
Proud of his learning, (just enough to quote,) 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
With memory excellent to get by rote, j 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story. 
Graced with some merit and with more eflfrontery, 
♦« His country's pride," he came dowm to the country. 

XCII. 

There also were two wits by acclamation, 

Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, 

Both lawyers, and both men of education ; 

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: 

Longbow was rich in an imagination 
As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 

But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — [Cato. 

While Strongbow's best things might have come from 



XCIII. 

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord ; 

But Longbow wild as an j^olian harp, 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word; 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

xciv. 
If all these seem a heterogeneous mass, 

To be assembled at a country-seat, 
Yet think a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum t6te-a-t^te. 
The days of comedy are gone, alas ! 

When Congreve's fool could vie with Molifere's btte 
Society is smoothed to that excess. 
That manners hardly differ more than dress. 

xcv. 
Our ridicules are kept in the back ground. 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
Professions too are no more to be found 

Professional ; and there is naught to cull 
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, 

They 're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one polish'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

xcvi. 
But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 

The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of truth; 
And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 

You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 
Further I 'd quote, but Scripture, intervening, 

Forbids. A great impression in my youth 
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries 
" That scriptures out of church are blasphemies."'' 

XCVII. 

But when we can, we glean in this vile age 
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist. 

Who, in his commonplace book had a page 

Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, oh listl"- 

" Alas, poor ghost!" — What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 

XCVIII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversation 

By many windings to their clever clinch ; 
And secondly, must let slip no occasion. 

Nor hate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 
But take an ell — and make a great sensation. 

If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 
When some smart talker puts them to the test, 
But seize the last word, which no doubt's the best. 

xcix. 
Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 

The party we have touch'd on were the guests : 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner ! — 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 

c. 

Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk and honey,' 

Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
To this we 've added since the love of money. 

The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sumiy ; 

We tire of mistresses and parasites : 
But oh, ambrosial cash ! ah I who would lose thee ? 
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ! 



DON JUAN. 



598 



The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, 

Or hunt ; the young because they liked the sport — 
The first thing boys like after play and fruit : 

The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 
For ennui is a growth of English root, 

Though nameless in our language ; we retort 
The fact for words, and let the French translate 
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate. 

CII. 

The elderly walk'd through the library. 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 

Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, 
And made upon the hothouse several strictures, 

Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 

Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 

Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 

Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 

cm. 

But none were " gene :" the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion. 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

Where, when, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIV. 

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 

Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale ; 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail; 
And settled bonnets by the newest code ; 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 

To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

cv. 
For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal, 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends. 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

cvi. 
Then there were billiards ; cards too, but no dice ; 

Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays ; — 
Boats when 't was water, skaiting when 't was ice, 

And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days : 
And angling too, that solitary vice, 

Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says : 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it." 

cvii. 
With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione ; the duct. 
Attuned by voices more or less divine, 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glfo would shine ; 

But the two youngnst loved more to bo set 
Down to the harp— because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on fu-ld days, 
For then the gentlemon were, rather tired) 

Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze : 
Then there was small-talk r«-a(iy when requrrod ; 

Flirtation— but decorous ; tiio mere praise 

Of charms tiiat should or should not be admired ; 

The hunters fought their fdx-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly — at tun. 
3 '/ 



CIX. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art, 

To introduce a bon-mot head and cars; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart — 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it, 
And then, even then^ some bore may moke them lose it 

ex. 
But all was gentle and aristocratic 

In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic, 

There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old ; 
And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 

But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 
We 've no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, 
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at an early hour; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
But in the country, ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true colours soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest timers, 
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. 



CANTO XIV. 



If from great Nature's, or our own abyss 
Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the jiath they miss — 
But then 't would spoil much gof>d philosophy. 

One system eats another ii|>. and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort jjave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 
But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 

And eats her parents, albeit llie digestion 
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 

After due search, your faith to any question ? 
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the slake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some nvxk- the best i 
Nothing more true than «o/ to trust yinir senses; 
And yet what aro your other evidences? 

III. 
For me, I know naught ; nothing I deny, 

Admit, rejeet, eonlemn ; and what know yMI, 
P^xrejit perhnjis that you were bom to diet 

And both may afie'r nil turn out untrue. 
An ago muv come, font of eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is n thing which innkr* men 
And yet a tiiird of life i« |>a'w'd >" ■'«•?• 

IV. 

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 

Of toil, is what wo covet most ; and yet ^ 

How clay shrinks bark fro.n nu.re qui.^cnl clar . 
Tlie very «uici«lolliii' ' ''t 

At onco without iiista i ' ^'•y 

Of paying debts, win . rpgrel) 

Lets out inipalientiv hi-* ru^ilm^{ birnUi, 

Loss from di«guM of Ide thai. drr».l of death. 



594 



DON JUAN. 



'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where ; 

And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 

The worst to knovj it : — 'when the mountains rear 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gEize a minute 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

VI. 

'T is true, you do n't — but, pale and struck with terror. 
Retire : but look into your past impression ! 

And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 
Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, 

The lurking bias, be it truth or error. 
To the unlmown; a secret prepossession, 

To plunge with all your fears — but where ? You know not, 

And that 's the reason why you do — or do not 

VII. 

But what 's this to the purpose ? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation, 
For which my sole excuse is — 't is my way. 

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
I write what 's uppermost without delay ; 

This narrative is not meant for narration, 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
To build up common things with commonplaces. 

VIII. 

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 

" Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows ;" 

And such a straw, borne on by human breath, 
Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 

A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws 

And mine 's a bubble not blown up for praise, 

But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is all before me— or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same. 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; — 

Of passions, too, I 've proved enough to blame. 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame : 
For I was rather famous in my time. 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 

X. 

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other: that 's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a few. 

And yet I cant help scribbling once a week, 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

[n youth I wrote because my mind was full, 

A.nd now because I feel it growing dull. 

XI. 

But " why then publish ?" — There are no rewards 
Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. 

I ask in turn, — why do you play at cards ? 

Why drink ? Why read ?— To make some hour less 

It occupies me to turn back regards [dreary. 

On what I 've seen or ponder'd sad or cheery ; 

And what I write t cast upon the stream. 

To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 

I think that were I certain of success, 

[ hardly could compose another line : 
So long I 've battled either more or less, 

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling 't is not easy to express, 

And yet 't is not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing — 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 



1 



Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction ; 

She gathers a repertory of facts. 
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, 

But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
And that's one cause she meets with contradiction ; 

Few too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts ; 
And were her object only what 's call'd glory, 
With more ease too, she 'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 

Love, war, a tempest — surely there 's variety; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
A bird's-eye view too of that wild. Society ; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every staticm. 
If you have naught else, here 's at least satiety 

Both in performance and in preparation ; 
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus. 
Trade will be all the better for these cantos. 

XV. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 

Is one of which there 's no description recent : 
The reason why is easy to determine : 

Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ac^es, 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 

With much to excite, there 's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
A sort of varnish over every fault ; 

A kind of commonplace, even in their crimes ; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'er it shows v/ith truth ; a smooth monotony 
Of character, in those at least who have got any. 



Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade. 

They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill 

But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 
And they must be or seem what they were : still 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 

But when of the first sight you have had your fill, 

It palls — at least it did so upon me, 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 



When we have made our love, and gamed our gamingj 
Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something more ; 

With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming ; 
Seen beauties brought to market by the score ; 

Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taminc ; 
There 's little left but to be bored or bore. ° 

Witness those " ci-devant jeunes hommes " who stem 

The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 



'T is said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde exactly as they ought to paint. 

Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 

And that their books have but one style in common — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now ; for writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: 

I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
Especially when young, for that 's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 
Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, 

The real portrait of the highest tribe? 

'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 



DON JUAN. 



6Si 



" Haud ignara loquor :" these are nugcB, " quorum 
Pars parva/wi," but still art and part. 

Now I could much more easily sketch a haram, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 

ThantRese things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em 
For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 

*' Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit" 

Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 

Lower'd, leaven'd like a history of Freemasons; 

Which bears the same relation to the real. 

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand Arcanum 's not t'or men to see all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons ; 

And there is much which could not be appreciated 

In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
The world, (as, since that history, less polite 

Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held.) 
Has not yet given up the practice quite. 

Poor thing of usages ! cocrctd, compell'd. 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 

Condemn'd to child- bed, as men for their sins, 

Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, whicli, in the aggregate, 
May average on the whole with parturition. 

But as to women, who can }.;enetrate 

The real sufferings of their she condition? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, 

But form good housekeepers to breed a nation. 

XXV. 

All this were very well, and can't be better ; 

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows ! 
So many troubles from her birth beset her, 

Such small distinction between friends and foes, 
The gilding wears so soon from off her ft-lter. 

That but ask any woman if she 'd choose 

(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
Female or male ? a school-boy or a queen? 

XXVI. 

" Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, 

Which even those who obey would fain bo thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 

But, since beneath it upon earth we are brouglit 

By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 

A garment of a mystical sublimity, 

No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored, 

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 

Which holds a treasure like a miser's hoard, 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A "olden scabbard on a Daniasiiuc sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief— for what ran ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ancle ? 

XXVIII. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day, 

With a Sirocco, for example, blowing,— 

When even the sea kmks dim with all its spray, 
And sulkily ihc river's ripple 's flowing, 

And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
The sobei sad antithesis to glowing, — 

'T is pleasant, \(lhc7> any thing is pleasant. 

To catch a glimpse even of a i)rctty peasant. 



XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at. 
Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines, 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's, is all one. 

XXX. 

And in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small, 

To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Embarrass'd somewhat both vvitii fire and water. 

XXXI. 

Juan — in this respect at least like saints — 

Was all things unto people of all sorts. 
And lived contentedly, without complaints, 

In camps, in ship, in cottages, or courts — 
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 

And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 
He likewise could be most things to all women. 
Without the coxcombry of certain a/ie men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 

'T is also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkwarxJ stranger ; 
But Juan had been early taught to range 

The wilds, as dolh an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this iiew field, with some applause, 
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 

jCnii never craned, ' and made but few ^'fausptu," 
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 

He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws 
Of hunting — for tlie sagest youth is frail ; 

Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then. 

And once o'er several country geiiilcmen. 

XXXIV. 

But, on the whole, to general admiration 

He acijuitted both himself and horse; the squires 

MarvcHM at merit of anotlier nation: [Sir* 

Tin- boors cried "J)ang it I who'd have thought it?"- 

The Ni-stors of the sporting generation. 

Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; , 

The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 

And rated him a'most a whipi>er-ii». 

XXXV. 

Such were his tro|>liies;— not of spear ami ahieUI, 
But b-ajjs, and bursts, and somilimes ftixes' bruihet; 

Yet I must own, — although in this 1 yield 
To patriot sympathy a Briton's bhwhos.— 

He thought at heart like courtly C'liestertioki, 

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales. biwlic«, 

Anil what not. though ho rode beyomi nil price, 

Ask'd, n<xt day, " if »"•" ^"ver ImntiHl tuw> V 

XXX» I. 

He also hud a quality muomniou 

To early risers uAer u long chose, 
Who wake in winter ero the cnk can •unrnioa 

December's tlrows*y ilnv to his dull rttco.— 
A quality agreeable to wonum, 

^VIlcn hot sort licjuid w«.riU nm i»n «p*c«, 
Who likes a listener, wbellirr samt or •inn«r,— 
Ho did not fall asleep juM after dumct. 



596 



DON JUAN. 



XXXVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
And shone in the best part of dialogue. 

By humouring always what they might assert, 
And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 

Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer; 

In short, there never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And then he danced ; — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of Pantomime ; — he danced, I say, right well, 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable : 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound. 
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground. 
And rather held in than put forth his vigour ; 

And then he had an ear for music's sound. 
Which might defy a crochet-critic's rigour. 

Such classic ^as — sans flaws — set off our hero. 

He glanced like a personified bolero ; 

XL. 

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, 

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone 
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 

Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 
The " tout ensemble" of his movements wore a 

Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 
And ne'er to be described ; for, to the dolour 
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 

XLT. 

No marvel then he was a favourite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; 
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Such was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved " tracasserie" 
Began to treat him with some small " agacerie.'" 

XLII. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 

Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 

I 'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 

This noble personage began to look 

A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
But such small licenses must lovers brook. 

Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 

'T will but precipitate a situation 
Jilxtremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators, when they count on woman. 

XLIV. 

The cifcle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd ; 

The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd ; 

Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard ; 

Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound ; 
And several pitied with sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 



XLV. 

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke, 
Who, one might think, was something in the affair. 

True, he was absent, and 't was rumour'd, took 
But small concern, about the when, or where, 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gayeties, none had a right to stare : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt. 

Which never meets, and tlierefore can't fall out. 

XLVI. 

But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line! 

Fired w4th an abstract love of virture, she, 
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to think the duchess' conduct free ; 
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 

And Wcixing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve their sensibiUty. 

XLVII. 

There 's naught in this bad world like sympathy : 

'T is so becoming to the soul and face ; 
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, ' 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
Without a friend, what wer* humanity. 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
Consoling us with — " Would you had thought twice ! 
Ah ! if you had but foUow'd my advice !" 

XLVIII. 

Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one 's quite enough, 

Especially when we are ill at ease : 
They 're but bad pilots when the weather 's rough, 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off". 

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 
When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another.^ 

XLIX. 

But this is not my maxim : had it been. 

Some heart-aches had been spared me ; yet I care not — 
I would not be a tortoise in his screen 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not: 
'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen 

That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 
'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, 
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 

L. 

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of wo. 

Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast. 

Is that portentous phrase, " I told you so," 
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last. 

And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " bonos more$^* 

Widi a long memorandum of old stories. 

LI. 

The Lady Adeline's serene severity 

Was not confined to feeling for her friend. 

Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, 
Unless her habits should begin to mend ; 

But Juan also shared in her austerity. 
But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth. 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LII. 

These forty days' advantage of her years— 
And hers were those which can face calculation, 

Boldly referring to the list of peers. 
And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 

Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
For a young gentleman's fit education. 

Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, 

In female dates, strikes time all of a heap. 



DON JUAN. 



This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty — 
- Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 
The strictest in chronology and virtue 

Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 
Oh, time! why dost not pause ! Thy scythe, so dirty 

With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 
Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 
If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

LIV. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 

'T was rather her experience made her sage, 
For she had seen the world, and stood its test, 

As I have said in — I forget what page ; 

My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd 

By this time ; but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 

And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 

LV. 

At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 

She put all coronets into commotion : 
At seventeen too the world was still enchanted 

With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 

A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
She had consented to create again 
That Adam, call'd " the happiest of men." 

LVI. 

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters, 

Admired, adored ! but also so correct. 
That she had puzzled ail the acutest hinters, 

Without the apparel of being circumspect ; 
They could not even glean the slightest splinters 

From off the marble, which had no defect. 
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 



Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her. 
Those little glitterers of the London night ; 

But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her— 
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 

Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profoundcr ; 
, But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 

A women, so she's good, what does it signify ? 

LVIII. 

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle, 

, Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, 

Leaving all claretlcss the unmoisten'd throttle, 

Especially with politics on hand ; 
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle. 

Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand ; 
I hate it, as I hate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 

MX. 

'T is sad to hack into the roots of things. 

They are so much intertwisted with the earth : 
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 

I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
To trace all actions to thinr secret springs 

Would make indeed some nu-lanclioly mirth: 
But this is not at present my concern, 
And I refer you to wise Oxcnsticrn.' 

i,x. 
With the kind view of saving an ocIAf, 

Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's slu^ saw 

That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
'.For foreigners don't know that a fau-x pas 

In England ranks quite on a ditTercnt list 
From those of other lands, unbless'd with juriftB, 
Whose verdict for such sin a certain euro is) — 



697 



LXI. 



The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best imped© 
The further progress of this sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake. 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use those palisades by dames erected. 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

Lxir. 
It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 

His grace was an enduring, married man, 
And was not likely all at once to burst 

Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 
Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 

The magic of her grace's talisman. 
And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 

Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante, 
And somewhat 77? fc'c/jante in her amorous sphere; 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
A lover with caprices soft and dear, 

Thai like to make a quarrel, when th'^y can't 
Find one, each day of the delightful year; 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go ; 

LXIV. 

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 
Or make a Wcrter of him in the end. 

No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 

It were much better to be wed or dead, 
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 

T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 

If that a " bonne fortune" be really " bonne." 

LXV. 

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, 

Which really knew or thoujiht it knew no guile, 

She call'd her husband now and then apart, 
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile. 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

Lxvr. 
Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 

In any body's business but the king's :" 
Next, that " he never judged from what app^ar'd, 

Without strong reason, of thaso sort-s of things:^ 
Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than l)eard, 

An<l was not to bo held in leading-string* ;" 
And fourthly, what need hanily to be said twice, 
" That gotxJ but rarely came from gooil advic«." 

I.XVII. 

And therefore, doubtless, to approve the tnilh 
Of the last axiom, he advised hii spouse 

To leave the parties to thcmsrlvrs, forsooth, 
At least as far as binuu'antT allows : 

That tiui(< would tmipcr Juan's faults of youth ; 
That youii^ men rarely madi> monastic vow» ; 

That op|>osition only more nttnehrs 

Hut lioro a messenger broufjiil in drgpatchw : 

I. XVIII. 

And being of the cmnvW rail'.! " the priry," 

Lord Ilenry walk'd into his rnhinet, 
To furnish iniittrr for s..ni.- fuiur.' I.ivv 

To tell how he r.du.r.l (li,. niili,.n'<. debt ; 
And if thi'ir full contents I do not ;:ivo yr, 

It is because 1 do not kni>w them yp« : 
But I shall add thi«m in a brief Bp|>endix, 
To come between mine epic an<l it" indvi. 



598 



DON JUAN. 



LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 

Another gentle commonplace or two, 
Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, 

And pass, for want of better, though not new : 
Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, 

And having casually glanced it through, 
Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'dher, 
Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 

LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honourable man, 

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing ; 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king ; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when I reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the whole — 
I do n't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 

Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call soul. 
Certes it was not body ; he was well 

Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
A handsome man, that human miracle ; 

And in each circumstance of love or war, 

Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I Ve said— 

That undefinable "je ne sais quoi,''^ 
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaus ; — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIII. 

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 

By turns the difference of the several sexes : 

Neither can show quite how they would be loved. 

The sensual for a short time but connects us — 
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 

But both together form a kind of centaur, 

Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. 

LXXIV. 

A something all-sufficient for the heart 

Is that for which the sex are always seeking ; 

But how to fill up that same vacant part — 

There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart. 

They run before the wind through high seas breaking ; 

And when they have made the shore, through every shock. 

'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 

LXXV. 

There is a flower call'd " love in idleness," 

For which see Shakspeare's ever-blooming garden ; — 

I will not make his great description less, 

And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; 

But though the flower is different, with the French 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, ^^ voil/ila pervenche P' 

LXXVI. 

Eureka! I have found it! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness. 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 



LXXVII. 

^^ Beatus illeprocul!" from " negotiis,'' 
Saith Horace ; the great little poet 's wrong ; 

His other maxim, " Nosdtur a sociis," 
Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company he kept too long ; 

But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXVIII, 

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing ; 

Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — 
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing. 

As far as I know, that the church receives : 
And since that time, it need not cost much showing, 

That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
And still more women, spring fiom not employing 
Some hours to malie the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 

Bards may sing what they please about content ; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 

Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 

rxxx. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen ; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, 

Would some believe that such a tale had been : 
But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

LXXXI. 

" An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and why? 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell. 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
And a propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII, 

Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 

Thou hast struck one immense colossus down. 
Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 

But there 's another little thing, I own, 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, 

And set the other half of earth to rights : 

You have freed the blacks — ^now pray shut up the whites. 

LXXXIII. 

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander ; 

Ship off the holy three to Senegal ; 
Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gander," 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
Shut up each high heroic salamander. 

Who eats fire gratis, (since the pay 's but small ;) 
Shut up — no, not the king, but the pavilion, 
Or else 't will cost us all another million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large ; let Bedlam out, . 

And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
All things pursue exactly the same route. 

As novf with those o{ soi-disant sound mind. 
This I could prove beyond a single doubt. 

Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; ^ 

But till that point d' appui is found, alas ! 
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was. 



DON JUAN. 



699 



LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion ; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 

As she had seen naught claiming its expansion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, 

Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one ; 
But when the latter works its own undoing. 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 

Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 
The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 

No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: 
Their union was a model to behold, 
Serene and noble, — conjugal but cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There was no great disparity of years. 

Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd : 

They moved like stars united in their spheres, 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 

Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best, 
Intense intensions are a dangerous matter : 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run, like growing water, 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen. 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women, 

Whene'er their trium|)h pales, or star is tamed : — 

And 't will perplex the casuists in morality. 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

xc. 
Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 

It had been firmness ; now 't is pertinacity: 
Must the event decide between the two ? 

I leave it to your people of sagacity 
To draw the line between the false and true, 

If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity : 
My business is with Lady Adeline, 
Who in her way too was a heroine. 

xci. 
She knew not her own heart ; then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her anew one: 
She merely felt a cofninon sympathy 

(I will not say it wits a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
Her husband's friend, \\vx own, young, and a stranger. 

XCII. 

She was, or thought six; was, his friend— and this 
VVitliout the farce of friendship, or romance 

Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studieil friendship but in France, 

Or Germany, where people purvhi kiss. 

To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man bo, 

She wn.s as capable as woman can bo. 



XCIII. 

No doubt the secret influence of ihe sex 

Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 
An innocent predominance annex, 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 

And your true feelings fully understood. 
No friend like to a woman earth discovers, 
So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 

xciv. 
Love bears within its breast the very germ 

Of change ; and how should this be otherwise? 
That violent things more quickly find a term 

Is shown through Nature's whole analogies : 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 

Would you have endless lightning in the skies? 
Methinks love's very title says enough : 
How should " the teivder passion" e'er be tough? 

xcv. 
Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 

(1 merely quote what I have heard from many) 
Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a Zany. 
I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
Who were the very paragons of wives. 
Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

xcvi. 
I 've also seen some female /nerufo ('t is odd, 

But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
That faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad, 

At home, far more than ever yet was love — 
Who did not quit me when oppression trod 

Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 
Who fought, and fight, in absence too, my battle*. 
Despite the snake society's loud rattles. 

xcvii. 
Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 

Grew friends in this or any otlier sens©. 
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 

At present I am glad of a pretence 
To leave them hovering, as the eflect is fine, 

And keeps the atrocious reader in nuipentt; 
The surest way for ladies and for books 
To bait their tender or tlieir tenter hooks. 

xcvm. 
Whether they rodo, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 

To read Don (i.ui.\ote in the original, 
A plea.sure before which all others vanish ; 

Whether their talk was of the kind coll'd "•mall,** 
Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next canto ; where, perlia|»8, I shall 
Say something to tlie purjKJSo, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 
xcix. 
Above all, I Ix-g all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about llu* matter: 
They '11 only make mistakes about the fiiir, 

And Juan, tin), especially tlie laller. 
And 1 shall take a inucli more serio»w air 

Than I have yet done in thisepie satire. 
It is not clear tliut Adeline and Jimn 
Will fall ; but if they do, 'l will hv lljeir ruin. 

c. 
But great things spring fn>m little: — would vai think, 

That, in our youth, as danjjenHW a p««ii.»n 
Ah e'er brought man and wouinn to the bruik 

Of ruin, rose fiom »ueh a slii-lil <HTa«uin 
As few would ever dream could furm the hnk 

Of such a seniiment.il ninialitHi .' 
You 'II never jn»<-««. I "'I >>'' >""' 'nilli.iiw. millianb— 
It all sprung fr>»m a hannless ftamo al billiank. 



600 



DON JUAN. 



""*T is strange — ^but true ; for truth is always strange 
Stranger than fiction ; if it could be told, 

How much would novels gain by the exchange I 
How differently the world would men behold ! 

How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
The new world would be nothing to the old, 

If some Columbus of the moral seas 

Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

CII. 

What " antres vast and deserts idle" then 
Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 

What ice-bergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 

What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 

Were things but only call'd by their right name, 

Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 



CANTO XV. 



Ah ! ^what should follow slips from my reflection : 

Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 
As a propos of hope or retrospection, 

As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. 
All present life is but an interjection, 

An "Oh!" or "Ah!" of joy or misery, 
Or a " Ha ! ha !" or " Bah !"— a yawn, or " Pooh ! 
Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 

II. 

But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope, 

Or a singultus — emblems of emotion. 
The grand antithesis to great ennui, 

Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 
That watery outline of eternity, 

Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 
Which ministers unto the soul's delight. 
In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

III. 
But all are better than the sigh supprest. 

Corroding in the cavern of the heart. 
Making the countenance a mask of rest. 

And turning human nature to an art. 
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best ; 

Dissimulation always sets apart 
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who cannot 
Remember, without telling, passion's errors ? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float. 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand, 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 

V. 

And as for love — Oh, Love ! We will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would wish to read, 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
There 's music in the sighing of a reed ; 

There 's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There 's music in all things, if men had ears: 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 



The Lady Adeline, right honourable, 
And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so ; 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 

In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so ! 

They differ as wine differs from its label, 

When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 

But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 

Till old, may undergo adulteration. 

VII. 

But Adeline was of the purest vintage. 

The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 

Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage. 
Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 

A page where time should hesitate to print age. 
And for which nature might forego her debt — 

Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 

The luck of finding every body solvent. 

VIII. 

Oh ! Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, 

Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap. 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 

On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom." 



Whate 'er thou takest, spare awhile poor beauty ! 

She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from duty. 

The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 
Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for your booty, 

You should be civil in a modest way : 
Suppress then some slight feminine diseases. 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 



Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested, (as was said,) 

Because she was not apt, like some of us. 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — points we need not now discuss — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head 

Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent. 

For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 

Some parts of Juan's history, which rumour. 
That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure. 

She had heard ; but women hear with more good humour 
Such aberrations than we men of rigour. 

Besides his conduct, since in England, grew more 
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; 

Because he had, like Alcibiades, 

The art of living in all climes with ease. 

XTI. 

His manner was perhaps the more seductive. 
Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse 

Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose. 

And seem to say, " resist us if you can" — 

Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIII. 

They are wrong — that 's not the way to set about it ; 

As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 

In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 



I 



DON JUAN. 



601 



By nature aoft, his whole address held off 
Suspicion: though not timid, his regard 

Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, 

To shield himself, than put you on your guard: 

Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough, 
But modesty 's at times its own reward, 

Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 

Will go much further than there 's need to mention. 

XV. 

Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud ; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd. 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs ; — without a struggle for priority. 
He neither brook'd nor claimed superiority. 

XVI. 

That is, with men : with women, he was what 
They pleased to make or take him for ; and their 

Imagination 's quite enough for that : 
So that the outline 's tolerably fair. 

They fill the canvass up — and " verbum sat," 
If once their phantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful. 

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 

xvir. 
Adeline, no deep judge of character. 

Was apt to add a colouring from her own. 
'T is thus the good will amiably err, 

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 
Experience is the chief philosopher. 

But saddest when his science is well known : 
And persecuted sages teach the schools 
Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 

Great Socrates ? And Thou, Diviner still,' 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill ? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken. 

How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 

I perch upon an humbler promontory, 

Amid life's infinite variety : 
With no great care for what is nicknamed glory 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straininj; hard to versify 
I rattle on exactly as f 'd talk 
With any body in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

I do n't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there's a conversational facility, 

Which may round off an hour upon a time. 

Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary, 

Just as I feel the " iinprovvisatore." 

XXI. 

"Omnia vult bcUe Malho direre— <lic ali(|uando 
Et bene, <lic nc.nlnun, die aliqiiando /«/»/<,•." 

The first is rather more than mortal can ilo; 
The second mav bf sadly <!<)"»' '«■ t-"».y'.V; 

The third is still more difficult lo stand t(.; 

The fourth w.>, hear, ami see, and say too, daily: 

The whole together is what I could wiuh 

To serve in this conundrum of a diah. 
4 A 



A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
And pride my foible :— let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short, 
But now I can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more ; — but I was bom for opposition. 

XXIII. 

But then 't is mostly on the weaker side ; 

So that I verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride, 

Were shaken down, and " dogs had had their day," 
Though at the first I might by chance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way. 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

xxrv. 
I think I should have made a decent spouse, 

If I had never proved the soft condition ; 
I think I should have made monastic vows. 

But for my own peculiar superstition : 
'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows, 

Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian ; 
Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 
If some one had not told me to forcso it. 

XXV. 

But " laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing, 
Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 

The difficulty lies in colouring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight) 

With nature manners which are artificial. 

And rendering general that which is especiaL 

XXVI. 

The difference is, that in the days of old 

Men made the manners; manners now make men — 
Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 

At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 
Now this at all events must render cold 

Your writers, who must either draw again 
Days better drawn before, or else assume 
The f)resenl, with their commonplace costume. 

xxvii. 

We '11 do our best to make tlu- best on 't : — March I 
March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter 

And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 
Or starch, as are the edicts 8lalesnien utter. 

We surely shall find soniething worth research : 
Columbus fiiund a in-w world in a cutler, 

Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 

While yet Anjerica was in her nonage. 

XXVIII. 

When Ad«"linc, in all hiT jfrowing nens* 

Of Juan's merits aixl his Hiluaiion, 
F<>lt on the whole an interest intei.jie — 

Partly pi-rhaps bi-euusf a fresh sensation, 
Or that Im had an air of inniK'eiKT, 

Which is for inni>Cfiice n sad loniptation, — 
As women hate half im-nsureH.on the whole, 
She 'gan to |>onder how lo save hi« •oul. 

XXIX. 

She had a go<Ml opinion of advice, 

Lik«< nil who iiivi' and i>ko reci-ive it grulin, 

Kor which small llmiiks are -•till th.- in«rkr|.prio», 
Kven when' the arlielo nl hit'heal rmie is. 

She thought upon thi* «tibjert twice or ihrico, 
And morally dr.id.'.l, lli.- bi-m kIuI.- i«. 

For moralM. nmrriniji' ; ami, iliiM)iii»iion carried, 

Sh« ■eriuuily ikdviMi.HJ hun lo gel iiMrrivd. 



602 



DON JUAN. 



XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 

He had a predilection for that tie ; 
But that at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his own preference. 

Or that of her to whom he might apply ; 
That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady, 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself. 

And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
There 's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general: 'tis no sin 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 

Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
Or wed already, who object to this) 

Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
Some drama of the marriage unities, 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They generally have some only son. 

Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end 

A line, and leave posterity undone. 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 

The prospect and their morals : and besides, 

They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select. 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 

For one a songstress who hath no defect. 
For t' other one who promises much duty ; 

For this a lady no one can reject, 

Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty ; 

A second for her excellent connexions ; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 

When Rapp the harmonist embargo'd marriage 2 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 

Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage. 

Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 

Without those sad expenses which disparage 
What Nature naturally most encourages) — 

Why cail'd he " Harmony" a state sans wedlock? 

Now here I have got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 
Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly, 

Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection's to his title, not his ritual, 

Although I wonder how it grew habitual 

XXXVII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
Who favour, malgre Malthus. generation- 
Professors of that genial art, and patrons 

Of all the modest part of propagation. 
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs. 

That half its produce tends to emigration, 
That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
Two weeds which pose our ec<«iomic Catos. 



XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; [ment 

I wish she had: his book's the eleventh commaod- 

Whichsays, " thou shalt not marry" — unless well; 
This he (as far as I can understand) meant: 

IT is not my purpose on his views to dwell, 
Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand" meant ;' 

But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 

Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 

That Juan had enough of maintenance, 
Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd — 

As on the whole it is an even chance 
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'dj i 

May retrograde a little in the dance 
Of marriage — (which might forma painter's fame, 
Like Holbein's " Dance of Death" — but 'tis the same:) 

XL. 

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 

In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman, [ing. 

But then, with whom ? There was the sage Miss Read- 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss 

And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. [Knowman, 
She deem'd his merits something more than common : 

All these were unobjectionable matches, 

And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea, 

That usual paragon, an only daughter, 
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, [water, 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 
With a slight shade of Blue too it might be, 

Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter? 
Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XLII. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 

A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
Whose heart was fixed upon a star of bluestring; 

But whether English dukes grew rare of late, 
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, 

By which such sirens can attract our great. 
She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other. 



And then there was — ^but why should I go on, 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 

Of the best class, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 

XLIV. 

Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; 
But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 

Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 
Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 

By death, when we are left, alas! behind. 
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 

Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? 

XLV. 

Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, she had something of sublime 

In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 

Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 
Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 

She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door. 

And griev'xl for those who could return no mere. 



DON JUAN. 



603 



XLVI. 

She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 

And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear, 

Perhaps because 't was fallen : her sires were proud 

Of deeds and days when they had fiU'd the ear 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 

To novel power; and as she was the last, 

She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XL VII, 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew. 
As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew. 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its own strength — most strange in one so young. 

XL VIII. 

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted. 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited : 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mentioned as well fitted. 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust, 
And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ?" 

L. 

Juan rejoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick. 
And the Pope thunder excommunication, 

If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 



And wherefore not? a reasonable reason. 
If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on 
And amplify : you lose much by concision ; 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route ? 

LII. 

JVfiy Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice, 

With all the added charm of form and feature. 

For me app<!ars a question far too nice, 
Since Adeline was lib<!ral by nature ; 

But nature 's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

Mil. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, 

Which charm most people in their earlier day: 
For there are few things liy mankind less brook'd, 

And womankind too. if we so may say, 

Than finding thus their genius stand rcbuk«d, 

Like " Antony's by Ctcsar," by the few 

Who look upon them as they ought to do. 



It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place tias far beyond it, and her mind. 
It was not scorn — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 

Following the " ignes fatui" of mankind. 

It was not but 't is easier far, alas I 

To say what it was not, than what it was. 

LV. 

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 

Of such discussion. She was there a guest, 

A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 

Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 

Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 

Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 

She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 

The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 

Juan was something she could not divine. 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 

Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 

Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 
Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 

Faults which attract because they are not tame; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind : — 

These seals upon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

LVIII. 

Juan knew naught of such a character— 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
Was nature's all : Aurora could not be 

Nor would be thus; — Uie ditference in thorn 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 

Methinka we may proceed u[>on our narrative, 
And, as my friend Scott says, "I sound my Wari»on;" 

Scott, the superlative of my companilive — 
Scott, who can paint your (.'hrisiian knight or Saracen, 

Serf, lord, man, witli such skill as none would »harc it, it 
There had not been one Shakspeare and VoltAiro, 
Of one or botli of whom he seems tlic heir. 

i.x. 
I say, in my slight way I niay proceed 

To play upon the surface of Immunity. 
I write the world, nor care if the world rrad, 

At least for this 1 cannot spare its vanity. 
My Muse luilh bred, and still perhaps may brrc*l 

Mi>re foes by this sume scroll : when 1 bri^un it, I 
Thought that it mij;lii turn out m>— noie I htotv it, 
But Hl"ill I am, or was. a jiretty poi'l. 

LXI. 
Th.^ coniVrence or ronj-rrwi (for it cndrd 

As eongr.sm's of lale do) <.f the I.ady 
Adelme and I >on Juan rather blriMl.ii 

S.Mne a. ids with the ,weel^— for she wm heady ; 
Hut, ere tkc mutter e..uKI b« inarrM or mended. 

The silvery bell r-M - •• dumer re.dy, 

Hut lor that hour. . t'^-n lo 

Though lailio* rol».> - ' «•"»»«»» ^ 



604 



DON JUAN. 



Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks 

For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer 's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 

Than witches, b — ches, or physicians brew. 

LXIII. 

There was a goodly " soupe h la bonne femme,'' 

Though God knows whence it came from ; there was too 

A turbol for relief of those who cram, 
Relieved with dindon a la Perigueux ; 

There also was — the sinner that I am ! 

How shall I get this gourmand stanza through ? 

Soupe h, la Beauvcau, whose relief was dory, 

Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail, 

My Muse would run much more into excess, 

Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. 

But, though a " bonne vivante," I must confess 
Her stomach 's not her peccant part: this tale 

However doth require some slight refection, 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 

LXV. 

Fowls a la Conde, slices eke of salmon. 

With sauces Genevoise, and haunch of venison ; 

Wines too which might again have slain young Ammon, 
A man like whom I hope we sha'n't see many soon ; 

They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on. 
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison ; 

And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 

As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows what " k I'Allemande," 
" A I'Espagnole," " timballe," and " Salpicole"— 

With things I can't withstand or understand. 

Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 

And " entremets" to piddle with at hand, 
Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 

While great LucuUus' robe triomphale muffles [truffles.''^ 

(Tliere 's fame) — ^young partridge fillets, deck'd with 

LXVII. 

What are the JiUeis on the victor's brow 

To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below? 

Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march ? 
Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 

Further I shall not follow the research : 
But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
When will your names lend lustre even to partridges ? 

LXVIII. 

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
FoUow'd by " petits puits d'amour," — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies. 
So every one may dress it to his wish, 

According to the best of dictionaries, 

Which encyclopaedise both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 

There 's pretty picking in those '* petits puits." * 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 

Of intellect expended on two courses," 
And indigestion's grand multiplication 

Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 
Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration. 

That cookery could have call'd forth such resources. 
As form a science and a nomenclature 
From out the commonest demands of nature ? 



LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 

The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
Also the younger men too ; for a springald 

Can't like ripe age in gcurmandise excel, 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

txxi. 
Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier. 

The salmi, the coneommee, the puree. 
All which I used to make my rhymes run glibber 

Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way : 
I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

" Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay; 
But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
The chaste description even of a " becasse," 

LXXII. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the goflt, — 

Taste or the gout, — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do; 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the goiU ? I have not had it — 

But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 

I.XXIII. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine. 

Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 
I must, although a favourite " plat" of mine 

In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: 
On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, 

The grass my tablecloth, in open air, 
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

i,xxiv. 

Amid this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl. 

And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
The guests were placed according to their roll, 

But various as the various meats display'd : 
Don Juan sate next an " a I'Espagnole" — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
But so far like a lady, that 't was drest 
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance too he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
A situation difficult, I ween. 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine ; 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him. 

LXXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears; 

This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 
Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, 

Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs ; 
Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 

Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. 
'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
Long dialogues which pass'd without a word ! 

LXXVII. 

Aurora sat with that indiflference 

Which piques a preux chevalier — as it ought: 
Of all offences that 's the worst offence. 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence. 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught ; 
Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
And after so much excellent advice. 



I 



DON JUAN. 



605 



LXXVIII. 

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride, 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 

Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it;" — 
A kind of triumph I '11 not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as I 've seen or read it, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit. 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 

For all men prophecy what is or was, 

And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions. 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions. 

That he would rather make them more than less. 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 

Though probably much less a fact than guess) 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 

As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

CXXXI. 

From answering, she began to question : this 
With her was rare : and Adeline, who as yet 

Thought her predictions went not much amiss. 
Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette — 

So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 

In motion ; but she here too much refined — 

Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

LXXXII. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be. 
Which show'd such deference to what females say. 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact too temper'd him from grave to gay. 

And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawing people out. 
Without their seeing what he was about. 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flutterers, though she doem'd he had more sense 

Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud, — 
Commenced (from such slight things will great commence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than com|jliment, 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXIV. 

And then he had good looks ; — that point was carried 
Nem. con. among the women, which I gritivo 

To say, leads oft to crim. con. with tlnr married — 
A case which to the juries we may It-avc, 

Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 
Now though we know of old thai looks deceive. 

And always have done, somehow these good looks 

Make more impression than the best of books. 

LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sago, 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a printed |)age. 

But virtue's self with all Iht lightest laces, 
Has not the natural stays of strict old ago ; 

And Socrates, that model of all duly, 

Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 



LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innoceiiiy so, as Socrates : 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
In virgins — always in a modest way. 
Observe ; for that with me 's a " sine qua."* 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 
(See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 

Perhaps I have a third too in a nook, 

Or none at ail — which seems a sorry jest ; 

But if a writer should be quite consistent, 

How could he possibly show things existent ? 

LXXXVIII. 

If people contradict themselves, can I 
Help contradicting them, and every body. 

Even my veracious self? — but that 's a lie ; 
I never did so, never will — how should I ? 

He who doubts all things, nothing can deny ; 

Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are muddy, 

And cut through such canals of contradiction, 

That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 

Are false, but may be reiider'd also true 
By those who saw them in a land that 's arable. 

'T "s wonderful what fable will not do ! 
'T is said it makes reality more bearable : 

But what 's reality ? Who has its clue ? 
Philosophy ? No ; she too much rejects. 
Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects ? 

xc. 
Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear ; 

Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
God help us ! Since we 've need on our career 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
'T is time that some new prophet should appear 

Or old indulge man with a second-sight. 
Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 

xci. 
But here again, why will I thus entangle 

Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 
So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 

And yet such is my fully, or my fute, 
I always knock my head against some angle 

About the present, past, and future slate; 
Yet I wish wtll to Trojan and to Tyrian, 
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 

xrii. 
But though I am a tcmpornte theologian, 

And also meek as a n>ola|>hysirian, 
Impartial between Tyrian atul Trojon, 

As Kldon on a lunatic eouHuissiiMj, — 
In iM)lilics, my duty in l«> sliow John 

Bull something of llu« lower worl.l'n roi»dilion. 
It mokes my blotxl boil like the spriiigw of llecla, 
To see mon let those scoundrel suveroigiis break law. 

XCIII. 

But politics, and |M)liry. and piety, 

Are lopieH whi< h I Homrtinien inlnKluce, 
Not only for the suko of their variety, 

But o-s sulworvient lo a moral uiw ; 
Because my busmesn is to lirrw m«ciely, 

And slulfwilli .ou'f thai very venlani |^w••. 
And now, thai we iniiv fiirnuh wiih m>mc malttr ul 
Tastow, wo uro gomg to ifv the Bupcroalufai. 



606 



DON JUAN. 



And now I will give up all argument : 
And positively henceforth no temptatiofi 

Shall " fool me to the top of my bent ;" 
Yes, I '11 begin a thorough reformation. 

Indeed I never knew what people meant 
By deeming that my Muse's conversation 

Was dangerous; — I think she is as harmless 

As some who labour more and yet may ctiarmless. 

xcv. 
Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 

No ; but you 've heard — I understand — be dumb ! 
And do n't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
That source of the^sublime and the mysterious: — 
For certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious? You laugh : — you may ; that will I not ; 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
I say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — and where ? That shall I not recall, 
Because I 'd rather it should be forgot. 

*' Shadows the soul of Richard" may appal : 
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms, very 
Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.' 

XCVII. 

The night (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattles around me her discordant hymn: 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 

I think too that I have sate up too late : 

XCVIIT. 

And therefore, thought 't is by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 

To think of, if I ever think, — I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 

And prudendy postpone, until mid-day. 
Treating a topic which, alas! but brings 

Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

xcix. 
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and mom, upon the horizon's verge: 
How little do we know that which we are ! 

How less what we may be I The eternal surge 
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 

Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves 
Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 



CANTO XVI. 



The antique Persians taught three useful things,- 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 
, This was the mode of Cyrus — best of kings — 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two sti ings ; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 

But draw the long bow better now than ever. 



The cause of this effect, or this defect, 
" For this effect defective comes by cause,"— 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 
But this I must say in my own applause, 

Of all the muses that I recollect, 
Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction 

The most sincere that ever dealt in ficti(Ni. 

III. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From any thing, this Epic will contain 

A wilderness of the most rare conceits. 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain^ 

'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets. 
Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain, 

But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

" De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aiiis." 

IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she is about to telL 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 
What then ? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast 

Where all the dwellers of the eaith must dwell? 

'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The skeptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle ; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible, 

Because H is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Q,uiets at once with " quia impossibile." 

VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 

Believe : — if 't is improbable you must ; 
And if it is impossible, you shall: 

'T is always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely to recall 

Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted. 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed. 

VII. 

I merely mean to say what Johnson said, 

That in the course of some six thousand years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears ; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head. 
Is that whatever bar the reason rears 

Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still 

In its behalf, let those deny who wiL 

VIII. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done, 

The supper toodiscuss'd, the dames admired, 

The banqueters had dropp'd off one by one — 
The song was silent, and the dance expired : 

The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone, 
Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, 

And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon 

Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled wifh a doubt; 
Or like a so< la-bottle, when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind : 



<r 



DON JUAN. 



607 



Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest, 
Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 

Except itself; — such is the human breast ; 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness, — like the old Tvrian vest 
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 

If from a shellfish or from cochineal.' 

So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal ! 

XI. 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 

Undressing is a wo ; our robe-de-chambre 

May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. 

Titus exclaim'd, " I 've lost a day !" Of all 
The nights and days most people can remember, 

(I have had of both, some not be disdain'd,) 

I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 

And Juan, on retiring for the night, 

Felt restless and perplex'd, and compromised ; 

He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 

If he had known exactly his own plight, 
He probably would have philosophized ; 

A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 

Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full moon, 
Where all sighs are deposited ; and now, 

It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow; 

And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 

To hail her with the apostrophe — " Oh, thou!" 

Of amatory egotism the tuism. 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 

XIV. 

But lover, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold. 

Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 

Great tlioughts we catch from thence, (besides a cold 

Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err ;) 
Deep secrets to her rolling light are fold ; 

The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, 

And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow ; 

The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow. 

With all the mystery by midnight caused ; 

Below his window waved (of course) a willow ; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 

XVI. 

Upon his table or his toilet— which ^ 

Of these is not exactly asccrtain'd— 
(I state this, for I am cautious to a i)itch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) 
A lamp burn'd high, while ho leant from a niche. 

Where many a Gothic ornament remuin'd, 
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 

Then as the night was clear, though cold, ho throw 
His chamber-door wide open— and went forth 

Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, 

Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should be people of high birth. 

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 

Have something ghaally, desolate, and dread. 



XVIII. 

The forms of the grim kni'^hts and pictured saints 
Look living te the moon ; and as you turn 

Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps — voices from the um 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence their aspects stem, 

As if to ask how can you dare to keep 

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 
The charms of otlier days, in starlight gleams 

Glimmer on high ; the buried locks still wave 
Along the canvass; their eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spais within some dusky cave. 
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability, 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 

No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 

When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 

Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 

Most people, as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, 

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 

But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by, 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 
But thought, like most men, iIuto was nothing in 't 

Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, 
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
And did he see this ? or was it a vapour? 

XXIII. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd. n-pass'd — the thing of air, 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or 'l other place; 

And Juan gazed upon it with a siaro, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a knot of snakes arountl liis face ; 

He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not eranirj. 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXiV. 

The third time aflcra still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'il away — but where ? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there wiui no great cause 
To think his vaiii>hiiig iiiiii.ilurnl : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the law» 
Of physic*. b<H.iies, whether sthort or tall. 

Might come or go ; but Juaii etHiH ii«»t ntalo 

Through which tJic spectre neeni'd lo ovapormtc. 

XXV, 

Ho bIckhI, how long he knew not. but it srrm'd 
An ajje — i<x|K'CtaiU. |M»werles!i. with hm eyra 
Strain'd on llie upot wliere (irst the U^wt> ((Iram'd ; * 
1 Then bv degrees riM-nllM hi* enrrgio, 
And would have pnWd the whJc off wt h drrani, 

But coulil nut wake; hr> wa-j.hpdiil mrnntM, 
Waking already, and return'.! at Irnjfth 
Bock tohia choiHU'r, sl>i»rn of hall" hi» itrengUi. 



608 



DON JUAN. 



XXVI, 

All there was as he left it ; still his taper 
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour ; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their office ; he took up an old newspaper ; 
The paper was right easy to peruse ; 

He read an article the king attacking, 

Ajid a long eulogy of " Patent Blacking." 

XXVII. 

This savour'd of this world ; but his hand shook — 
He shut his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he 'd seen his phantasy he fed, 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXVIII. 

He woke betimes ; and, as may be supposed, 

Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision. 
And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 

At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed; 

In the mean time his valet, whose precision 
Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dress'd ; and, like young people, he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather spent less time upon 't ; 
Aside his very mirror soon was put: 

His curls fell negligently o'er his front, 

His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut, 

His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 

XXX. 

And when he walk'd down into the saloon. 

He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea. 
Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon. 

Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, 
Which made him have recourse unto his spoon ; 

So much distrait he was, that all could see 
That something was the matter — Adeline 
The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 

She look'd and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 
Herself; then hastily look'd down and mutter'd 

Something, but what 's not statsd in my tale. 
Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill butter'd ; 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil. 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 

Aurora Raby, with her large dark eyes, 

Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him all cold and silent still, 
And every body wondering more or less, 

Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill ? 

He started, and said, " Yes — no— rather — ^yes." 

The family physician had great skill. 

And, being present, now began to express 

His readiness to feel his pulse, and tell 

The cause, but Juan said, " he was quite well." 

XXXIII. 

" duite well ; yes, no." — These answers were mysterious, 
And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 

However they might savour of delirious ; 
Something like illness of a sudden growth 

Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious 
But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 

To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted. 

It was not the physician that he wanted. 



XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
Also the muffin, whereof he complain'd, 

Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate. 
At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd ; 

Then ask'd her grace what news were of the duke of latei 
Her grace replied, his grace was rather pain'd 

With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 

Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state : 

" You look," quoth he, " as if you 'd had your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 

" What friar?" said Juan ; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate. 

Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVI. 

" Oh ! have you never heard of the Black Friar? 
The spirit of these walls?" — " In truth not I." 

" Why fame — but fame you know sometime 's a liar- 
Tells an odd story, of which by the by: 

Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, 
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 

For such sights, though the tale is half believed, 

The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

" The last tinie was " " I pray," said Adeline— 

(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 

And from its context thought she could divine 
Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend,) — " if you but design 
To jest, you '11 choose some other theme just now, 

Because the present tale has oft been told, 

And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 

" Jest !" quoth Milor, " Why, Adeline, you know 
That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon — 

Saw " " Well, no matter, 'twas so long ago; 

But come, I '11 set your story to a tune." 

Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow. 

She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon 

As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 

The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Gray." 

XXXIX. 

" But add the words," cried Henry, " which you made. 

For Adeline is half a poetess," 
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, 
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation — 

Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation. 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 



Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone. 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman Church his prey. 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 



DON JUAN. 



609 



Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, 

To turn church lands to lay, 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay, 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 

And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, 

Though he is not seen by day. 

3. 
And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say ; 
But still in the house of Amundeville, 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said. 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 
And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes — but not to grieve. 

4. 
When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'T is shadow'd by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul. 

5. 
But beware! beware of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway, 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day. 

But the monk is lord by night. 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 

6. 
Say naught to him as he walks the hall, 

And he '11 say naught to you : 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar ; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul. 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XLI. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound 

And the pause foUow'd, which, when song expires 
Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 

And then of course the circle much admires, 
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound. 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 

To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XLII. 

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 

As if she rated such accomplishment 
As the mere pastime of an idle day, 

Pursued an instant for her own content. 
Would now and then as 't were without display, 

Yet ivith display in fact, at times rrlcnt 
To such performances with haughty smile. 
To show she cmild, if it were worth her while. 

XLIII. 

Now this (but wo will whisper it aside) 
Was — [)ardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater prido, 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would bo much mortified, 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 

For a spoil'd carpet— but the " Attic Bee" 

Was much consoled by his own repartee." 
4 B 



Thus Adeline would throw into the shade, 

(By domg easily, whene'er she chose, 
What dilettanti do with vast parade,) 

Their sort o( half profession ; for it grows 
To something like this when too oft display'd, 

And that it is so every body knows 
Who 've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T' other, 
Show off — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 

Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 

The admirations and the speculations ; 
The " Mamma Mias 1" and the " Amor MiosI" 

The " Tanti Palpitis" on such occasions : 
The " Lasciamis," and quavering " AddiosI" 

Among our own most musical of nations ; 
With " Tu mi chamas's" from Portingale, 
To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail.' 

XLVI. 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
The calentures of music which o'crcome [lands, 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
No more to be beheld but in such visions, — 
Was Adeline well versed as compositions. 

XLVII. 

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue,^ [wrote ; 

Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
Made epigrams occasionally too 

Upon her friends, as every body ought. 
But still from tliat sublimcr azure hue. 

So much the present dye, she was remote ; 
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet. 
And, what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 

Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
By whose degrees all characters are class'd— 

Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing ^-asta 

Had more of her existence, for in her 
There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space. 

XLIX. 

Not sober gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whoso mind, 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 
Also thereon, — but that '.s not much ; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven. 

For fear we should suppose us quite in hoafea. 

L. 

I have not heard she was at all poetic, 

Though once she was seen reaiiing the " Bath Guide,' 
And " Ha) ley's Triumphs," which she dcem'd pathetic, 

Because, she said, her tnnprr had been tried 
So much, the bard had really been prophetic 

Of what she had gone tliroii};h with,— »inco a brido. 
But of all verso what most insured her praJM 
Were sonnets to herself, or " bouts rinu'«»." 

LI. 

'T were dillieuU tosay whtti u i *' ' '■ 

Of Adeline, in bringing il'i 
To bear on what appeur'd to i. i 

Of Juan's nenoiw feeliii);s on iiwi dav. 
Perhaps chc merely !»»<! the Minpio projrn't 

To laugh him out of Iuh nup|iw.tl dismay ; 
Perhaps slio might wi»l» to rontinu him m il, 
Though why I cojinot nav— nl leji«t this minule. 



610 



DON JUAN. 



But so far the immediate effect 

Was to restore liim to his self-propriety, 

A thing quite necessary to the elect, 

Who wish to take the tone of their society ; 

In which you cannot be too circumspect, 
Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 

But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy. 

On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And therefore Juan now began to rally 
His spirits, and, without more explanation, 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her grace too also seized the same occasion, 

With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more delail'd narration 

Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 

About the present family's deaths and wooings. 

LIT. 

Of these few could say more than has been said ; 

They pass'd, as such things do, for superstition 
With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 

But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision. 
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 

And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 

The company prepared to separate : 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none ; 

Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
There was a goodly match, too, to be run 

Between some grayhounds on my lord's estate, 
And a young racehorse of old pedigree, 
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 

LVI. 

There was a picture-dealer, who had brought 

A special Titian, warranted original. 
So precious that it was not to be bought. 

Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 

The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 

The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner, 

With motives the most classical and pure. 
So that he would have been the very donor 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
So much he deem'd his patronage an honour. 

Had brought the capo d' opera, not for sale. 

But for his judgment, — never known to fail. 

LVIII. 

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, 
Brought to survey these gray walls, which, though so thick, 

Might have from time acquired some slight defect ; 
Who, after rumaging the Abbey through thick 

And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
New buildings of correctest conformation. 
And throw down old — which he call'd restoration. 

LIX. 

The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
Set to some thousands, ('t is the usual burden 

Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 
The price would speedily repay its worth in 

An edifice no less sublime than strong. 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in 

Its glory, through all ages shining sunny. 

For Gothic daring shown in English money.* 



There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase ; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage. 

And one on tithes which sure are discord's torches, 

Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 

" Untying" squires " to fight against the churches 5"* 

There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman. 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXI. 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence ; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 
And scarlet cloak, (I hate the sight to see, since- 

Since — since — in youth I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily I 've paid few parish fees since.) 

That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigour, 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

LXII. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery. 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out. 
Therefore the present piece of natural history 

I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt. 
And merely state, though not for the consistory, 

Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 
The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, . 
Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 

LXIII. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the country from caprices 
Of those who 've not a license for the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 

Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 

LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale, 
Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale, 

'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail. 
Poor soul ! for she was country bom and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than to wax white — ^for blushes are for quality. 

rxv. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espi^gle eye 
Had gather'd a large tear into its comer, 

Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner. 

Parading all her sensibility. 
Nor insolent enough to scorn the scomer, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXVI.^ 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, 

Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
The lawyers in the study ; and in air 

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 
From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 

Both busy (as a general in his tent 
Writing despatches) in their several stations. 
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

LXVII. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the " small") 
A mighty mug of moral double ale : 

She waited until Justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale. 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child*s father. 



DON JUAN. 



611 



LXVIII. 

Tou Bee here was enough of occupation 

For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses, 

There was much bustle too and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses, 

Because, as suits their rank and situation, 

Those who in counties have great land resources, 

Have " public days," when all men may carouse, 

Though not exactly what 's call'd " open house" — 

LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, uninvited, 

(Thus we translate a general invitation,) 
All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 

May drop in without cards, and take their station 
At the full board, and sit alike delighted 

With fashionable wines and conversation, 
And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion, 
Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election. 

LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer. 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit, 

But country contests cost him rather dearer. 

Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit 

Had English influence in the self-same sphere here ; 
His son, the Honourable Dick Dice-drabbit, 

Was member for " the other interest," (meaning 

The self-same interest, with a different leaning.) 

LXXI. 

'•^ Courteous and cautious therefore in his county. 
He was all things to all men, and dispensed 

To some civility, to others bounty. 

And promises to all— which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But, what with keeping some and breaking others, 

His word had the same value as another's, 

LXXII. 

A friend to freedom and freeholders— yet 
No less a friend to government— he held 

That he exactly the just medium hit 

'Twixt place and patriotism— albeit compell d. 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,)^ 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd. 

But that with them all law would be demolish d. 

LXXIII. 

He was " free to confess"— (whence comes this phrase? 

Is 't English? No— 't is only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit now-a-days 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a factious path to praise. 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture high ; 
As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 
Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife 

Which threaten'd the whole country with peroition . 

When demagogues would with a butcher's knifo 

Cut through and through, (oh! damnable incision!) . 

The Gordian or the Gcordian knot, whoso strings 

Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner " come place into the civil list, 

And champion him to the utmost"-hc would keep it 
Till duly disappointed or dismns'd : 

Profit he cared not for, lot others reap it ; 
But should the day come wlu-n place coaled to cx.s 

The country would have far more cause to weep it . 
For how could it go on ? Explain who can 
He gloried in iho name of Englishman. 



LXXTI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 

Than those who were not paid for independence, 

As common soldiers, or a common shore 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore 

Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

Lxxvir. 
All this (save the last stanza) Henry said. 

And thought. I say no more — I 've said too much ; 
For all of us have either heard or read 

Of — or upon the hustings — some slight such 
Hints from the independent heart or head 

Of the official candidate. I '11 touch 
No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 
And grace is said ; the grace I should have sung — 

Lxxvrii. 
But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

T was a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 't was a public feast and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And every body out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 
My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 

The very servants puzzling how to hand 

Their plates — without it might be too much bending 

From their high places by the sideboard's stand- 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending ; 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both men and masters too — ihe'n places. 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 

Whose hounds ne'er crr'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to 

Some deadly shots too, Soptembrizers, seen [lurch ; 

Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
There were some massy members of the church, 

Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, 

And several who sung fewer psalms tlian catches. 

LXXXI. 

There were some country wags, too, — and, alas \ 
Some exiles from the town, who had been driveo 

To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 
And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven. 

And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhclming son of heaven, 

The very powcrfiil parson. Peter I'iih, 

The loudest wit I e'er was dealVn'd with. 

LXXXII. 

I know him in his livelier London day», 
A brilliant diner-out, Uioiigh but a ctirate ; 

And not a joke ho cut but cnrn'd its praise, 
Until pnfermcnt, rotning at a surfl rate, 

(Oh, Providi-nri' ! how wondrous are thy w«y«, 

Who would suppose thy gift" somctimos olKJur«t«7) 

Gave him. lo lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 

A fat fen viearage, and naught to thin!* on. 

1.XXXIII. 

His iuki'9 were <«»rmnn«, and his sermons jokes ; 

Hulboihw.-i. n-lhrfon*; 

Kor wit hath .. ^^f^^*- 

No long.T r. .1 .uuJpeiw 

Imbibed the gay bon-ino«, or IwppV hoM • 



The poor priest was rrdnced lo ( 
Or to coarse cfTorts verv loud ami long, 
To hammer a hoarso laugh from the thick throng. 



612 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, " between 
A beggar and a queen," or vxis (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we 've seen — 
But we '11 say nothing of affairs of state) — 

A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
A difference between crockery-ware and plate, 

As between English beef and Spartan broth — 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

I,XXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 

Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town, 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those who 've few resources of their own, 
And only think, or act, or feel with reference. 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But " en avant !" The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles : 

Temperajice delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 

Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place he knew not where, 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair ; 
Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fray, 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin offish. 

LXXXVIII. 

On which, at the third asking of the bans, 
He started ; and, perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he coloured more than once, 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound. 

And with such hurry that, ere he could curb it. 

He 'd paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot. 

LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd. 

The supplicator being an amateur ; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third. 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 

xc. 
They little knew, or might have sympathized. 

That he the night before had seen a ghost ; 
A prologue, which but slightly harmonized 

With the substantial company engross'd 
By matter, and so much materialized, 

That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 
Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 
Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

xci. 
But what confused him more than smile or stare 

From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, 
Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 

Especially as he had been renown'd 
For some vivacity among the fair. 

Even in the country circle's narrow bound — 
(For little things upon my lord's estate 
Were good small-talk for others still less great) — 



Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his. 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss : 

In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive ; and in this 

Smile of Aurora's there was naught to pique, 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIII. 

'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 

Which was not very wise and still less witty, 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 

xciv. 
But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn. 

Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary ; 
Her aspect was, as usual, still — not stern — 

And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
Yet grew a little pale — with what ? concern ? 

I know not ; but her colour ne'er was high — 
Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 
But Adeline was occupied by fame 

This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 

And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, son's, and similar connexions' 
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 

xcvi. 
Though this was most expedient on the whole. 

And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 
On Adeline while playing her grand role. 

Which she went through as though it were a dance, 
(Betraying only now and then her soul 

By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
Of weariness or scorn,) began to feel 
Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; 

xcvii. 

So well she acted all and every part 

By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 

Which many people take for want of heart. 
They err — 't is merely what is call'd mobility,' 

A thing of temperament, and not of art, 

Though seeming so, from its supposed facility ; 

And false — though true ; for surely they 're sincerest. 

Who 're strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCVIII. 

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 
Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never ; 

But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 
Littie that 's great, but much of what is clever ; 

Most orators, but very few financiers, 

Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour, 

Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours. 

And grow quite figurative with their figures- 

xcix. 
The poets of arithmetic are they, 

Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
Five, as they would do in a modest way. 

Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
Judging by what they take and what they pay. 

The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea. 
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 



DON JUAN. 



618 



While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease ; 

Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces, 
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 

The ridicules of people in all places — 
That honey of your fashionable bees — 

And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 

And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 

However, the day closed, as days must close ; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came. 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame. 
Retired : with most unfashionable bows 

Their docile esquires also did the same. 
Delighted with the dinner and their host, 
But with the lady Adeline the most. 

cii. 
Some praised her beauty ; others her great grace ; 

The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
Was obvious in each feature of her face, 

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. 
Yes: she was truly worthy her high place ! 

No one could envy her deserved prosperity : 
And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity 1' 

cm. 
Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation, 
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces. 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses. 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 

CIV. 

True, she said little — 't was the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram : 
But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's " faint praise" so wont to damn, 
Her own but served to set off" every joke. 

As music chimes in with a mclodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 

I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 

cv. 
There were but two exceptions to this keen 

Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 

And Juan too, in general behind none 
In gay remark on what he 'd heard or seen, 

Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone : 
In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 
He would not join them in a single sally. 

cvi. 
'T is true he saw Aurora look as though 

She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 
Its motive for that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 
Further -, it miglit or it nii<![ht not be so : 

But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 
Observing little in his reverie, 
Yol saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much good, 

In making him as silent as a ghost, 
If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
And certainly Aurora had rencw'd 

In him some fcelini^s ho had lately lost 
Or hardcn'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
Are so divine, that I must deem thorn real : — 



The love of higher things and better days ; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways , 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise. 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own. 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

cix. 
Who would not sigh At ai rav KvOvpeiav ! 

That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 
Alas I her star must wane like that of Dian, 

Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
Anacreon only had the soul to tie on 

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
Of Eros ; but, though thou hast play'd us many tricks, 
Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Genitrix I" 

ex. 
And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 

Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 
Don Juan, wlien the midnight hour of pillows 

Arrived, retired to his; but to despond 
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 

Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

cxi. 

The night was as before: he was undrest. 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : 

Completely " sans culotte," and without vest; 
In short, he hardly could be clothed witli less ; 

But, apprehensive of his spectral guest. 
He sate, with feelings awkward to express, 

(By those who have not had such visitations,) 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 

And not in vain listen'd — Hush ! what 's tiiat ? 

I see — 1 see — Ah, no! 't is not — yet 't is — 
Ye powers ! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! the cat ! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his ! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again what is 't? The wind ? No, no, — this time 

It is the sable friar as before, 
Witli awful footsteps, regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again, through shadows of the night sublime, 

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her like a pirdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood curdle. 

cxiv. 
A noise like to wet fingers tlrawn on glass,* 

Which bots the teeth on edj;e ; and a sli;;ht rlatter, 
Like showers which on the midni;;ht guests will pus, 

Sounding like very supernatural water, — 
Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 

For immaterialism 's a serious mnttcr : 
So that even those whosr fiiilh i» the most gr«al 
In souls immortal, slum them tiVe-h-(tMc. 



Were his eyes open? — Yes! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has tins olTect — to make one dumb, 
Vot leave the j?at« which cl<»<iurnco iiii|M through 

As wide as if a lonn Kpercii were lo come. 
Nijjh and more nij;h the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mi>rlnl lympaniim: 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouih. What open'd oMt ?— Uw door. 



14. 



DON JUAN. 



CXVI. 

open'd with a most infernal creak, 

Like that of hell. " Lasciate ogni speranza, 
Vio che entrate !" The hinge seem'd to speak, 

Dreadful as Dante's riraa, or this stanza ; 
Or — but all words upon such themes are weak : 

A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 
Hero — ^for what is substance to a spirit ? 
Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it? 

CXVII. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly — ^but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And then s\vung back ; nor close — but stood awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light. 

Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 

And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable friar in his solemn hood. 

CXVIIl. 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 

The night before : but, being sick of shaking, 
He first inclined to think he had been mistalcen. 

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 
His own internal ghost began to awaken 

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking — 
Hinting, that soul and body on the whole 
Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

cxix. 
And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce : 

And he arose — advanced — the shade retreated ; 
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

Follow'd ; his veins no longer cold, but heated. 
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 

At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone stiU. 



Juan put forth one arm — Eternal Powers ! 

It louch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall. 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers 

Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall: 
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.' 

CXXI. 

But still the shade remain'd ; the blue eyes glared, 

And rather variably for stony death ; 
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared — 

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. 
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 

A red lip, with two rows of pearl beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 

CXXII. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder ! 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 

\Vhich beat as if there was a warm heart under. 

He found, as people on most trials must. 
That he had made at first a silly blunder. 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the wall instead of what he sought. 

CXXIII. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul, 

As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and blood 
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 

And they reveal'd, (alas ! that e'er they should!) 
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bull<, 
The phantom of her frolic grace — ^Fitz-Fulke. 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



4 



CANTO I. 

Note 1. Stanza V. 
Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 

" Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona," &c.— Horace. 

Note 2. Stanza xvii. 
• Save thine " incomparable oil^'' Macassar I 

" Description des vertus incomparables de I'huile de 
Macassar." — See the advertisement. 

Note 3. Stanza xiii. 
Although Longinus tells tis there is no hymn 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. 

See Longinus, Section 10, Iva ijlti cv ti irepit airfiv ira- 
Oos <pa[vr]Tai, nadoiv 6e crtivoSos- 

Note 4. Stanza xliv. 
T^ey only add them all in an appendix;. 
Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
the end. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxxviii. 
JTie bard I quote from does not sing amiss. 

Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming; (I think) the 
opening of Canto II. but quote from memory. 

Note 6. Stanza cxlviii. 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely 7 



Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count G'Reilljr 
did not take Algiers — but Algiers very nearly took him , 
he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and 
not much credit, from before that city, in the year 17- 

Note 7. Stanza ccxvi. 
My days of love are over, me no more. 

" Me nee fosmina, nee pner 

Jam, nee spes animi credula mului ; 

Nee certare juvat mero, 
Nee vincire novis terapora floribug." 



CANTO III. 

Note 1. Stanza xlv. 
For none likes more to hear himself converse. 

Rispose allor Margutte : a dirtel tosto, 
lo non eredo piu al nero, eh' a raziurro ; 
Ma nel eappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto ; ' 

E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro, 
Ne la eervogia, e quando' io n' ho nel inoito ; 
E molto pill ne I'aspro che il mangurro ; 
Ma sopi-a tutto nel buon vino ho fede ; 
E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede. 
PULCr, Morganie Maggiore, Canlo 18, Stanza 115. 

Note 2. Stanza Ixxi. 
That e'er by precious metal was held in. 

This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are 
worn in the manner described. The reader will per- 
ceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee was of 
Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



615 



Note 3. Stanza Ixxi. 
A like gold bar, above her instep rolVd. 
The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sove- 
reign rank in the women of the famihes of the Deys, 
and is worn as such by their female relatives. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxiii. 
Her person if allowed at large to run. 
This is no exaggeration ; there were four women 
whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their 
hair in this profusion ; of these, three were Enghsh, the 
other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that length 
and quantity that, when let down, it almost entirely 
shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a su- 
perfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair; the Ori- 
ental's had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four. 

Note 5. Stanza cvii. 
Oh Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things. 

$£p£6S oivov, 0£p£ts atyo, 
icgtis fiarcgi iraiSa. 

Fragment of Sappho. 

Note 6. Stanza cviii. 
Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and mells the heart. 

" Era gii 1' ora che volge '1 di3io,i 

A' navii»anti e 'ntenerisce il cuore 
Lodi ch' ban detto a' dolci amici addio, 

E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore 
Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano 

Che paja '1 giorno pianger che si muore." 

DANTE'S Purgatory, Cauto viii. 

This last line is tne first of Gray's Elegy, taken by 
him without acknowledgment. 

Note 7. Stanza cix. 

Some hands unseen strewed ^/lowers upon his tomb. 

See Suetonius for this fact. 



CANTO IV. 

Note 1. Stanza xii. 
" Whom the gods love, die young," was said of yore. 
See Herodotus. 
Note 2. Stanza lix 
A vein had burst. 
This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of 
conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
Foscari, on his deposition, in 1457, hearing the bell 
of St. Mark announce the election of his successor, 
"mourui subitement d'une hemorrhagic causee par unc 
veine qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine," (see Sismondi and 
Daru, vols. i. and ii.) at the age of eighty years, when 
" who vjould have thought the old man had so much blood 
in him?" Before I was sixteen years of age, I was wit- 
ness to a melancholy instance of the same effect of 
mixed passions upon a young person ; who, however, 
did not die in consequence, at that time, but fell a vic- 
tim some years afterwards to a seizure of the same 
kind, arising from causes intimately <:onnected with 
agitation of mind. 

Note 3. Stanza Ixxx. 
But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 
This is a fact. A few years ago, a man engaged a 
company for some foreign theatre ; embarked them nl 
an rialian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold 
them all. One of the women, returned from her cap- 
tivity, I heard sing, by a strange coincidonct-, in Ros- 
sini's opera of " L'ltaliana in Algicri," at Venice, in 
the beginning of 1817. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
From all the Pope makes yearly, '< would perj)lcx. 
To find three perfect pipes of the tiiird sex, 
It is strange that it should be tht^ i)ope and the sultan 
who are the chief encouragcrs of this branch of Inidc— 
women being prohibited as singers at St. Peter'.s, uikI 
not deemed trustworthy a.s guardians of the harain. 
Note 5. Stanza ciii. 
Wliile wcedf and ordure rankle round the base. 
The pillar which records the battle of Ravpnnn, is 
about two miles from the city, on the opposite sido of 



the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, 
who gained the battle, was killed in it; there fell on 
both sides twenty thousand men. The present slate 
of the pillar and its site is described in the text. 



CANTO V. 

Note I. Stanza iii. 
The ocean stream. 
This expression of Homer has been much criticised. 
It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, 
but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the 
Bosphorus, with the .^gean, intersected with islands 
Note 2. Stanza v. 
« The Giants Grave.'' 
"The Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic 
shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
parties ; like Harrow and Highgate. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 

And running out as fast as I was able. 

The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth 

of December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, not a 

hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The 

circumstances were as described. 

Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
KilTd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, 
sawn half off": it had just been discharged, and was 
still warm. 

Note 5. Stanza liii. 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
In Turkey, nothing is more common, than for the 
Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by 
way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as 
six of raki before dinner, and swear that they dined 
the better for it ; I tried the experiment, but was liko 
the Scotchman, who having heard that the birds called 
kittiewiaks were admirable whets, ate six of them, and 
complained that "/»e was no hungrier than when he 
began." 

Note 6. Stanza Iv. 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where drooping, 
A marble fountain echoes. 
A common furniture. — I recollect being received by 
Ali Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin and 
fountain, &c. &c. &c. 

Note 7. Stanza Ixxxvii. 
The gate so .'^plciulid was in all its fialures. 
Features of a gate — a ministerial mctanhor; "the 
feature upon which this question hinges.' —See the 
"Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 
Note 8. Stanza rvi. 
Though on more tJiorough-bri'tl «r fairrr fingrra. ^ 
There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birtlT 
than the hand : it is almost tiio only nign of blood 
which aristocracy can generate. 

Note 9. Stanza rxlvii. 
Save Solymati, th,- iilory if thnr litte. 
It may not be uiiworthv of remark, lh.it Baron, in 
his essay on " Empire," hints that Solyman wnsi the 
last of his line ; on what aiilhorilv, I know not. Thoae 
are his words: "The destruction of Mustnpha wb« no 
fatal to Solyman's line, as the surcrssion of llio Turks 
from Solyman, until tliisdnv, is simpeelr.i to hr uiiini**, 
and of strange blo<Ml : for thai S»lymii!« lh<- > 
thought to bo Rup|)osilitious." Hut Hnroii. 
rical authorities, IS ..n.-n iiiareurnti'. I r.>, i 

a tlo/.m instances from his apopluhogms only. 

H.'ing in the humour of rrilirwm, I »h«ll proceed, 
aflcr having vrnturrd upon the slips of n,«.on. to touch 

ou one or two ns trifling in ih hlion »\ thr nmish 

Pools by thr lustlv rrl.'bmlo.i ( 'uMipl>«-ll.— Hill I do 
tins in "ood will, and trust it will b.- so lakm. — If any 
thing could add to inv opinion ..f tho taloni* ami eni« 
IVrliiig of that goiiilrman, it would be Ins rlaoairal, 
honest, and triuiuplianl doL-nco of Poiio, OKainat th« 
vulgar cant of the day, and its existing Orub.iU»«t. 



616 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



, The inadvertencies to which I allude, are, — 

Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses of 
having taken " his leading characters from Smollett." 
Anstey's Bath Guide was published in 1766. Smollett's 
Humphry Clinker (the only work of Smollett's from 
which Tabitha, &c. &c. could have been taken) was 
written during Smollett's last residence at Leghorn, in 
1770. — " Argal,'^ if there has been any borrowing, 
Anstey must be the creditor, and not the debtor. I 
refer Mr. Campbell to his own data in his Uves of Smol- 
lett and Anstey. 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says, in the life of Cowper, 
(note to page 358, vol. 7,) that " he knows not to whom 
Cowper alludes in these Unes : 

" Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born, 
Built God a church, and laugh'd his name to scorn. 

The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of Fer- 
ney, with its inscription, "Deo erexit Voltaire." 

Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes Shak- 
speare thus, — 

To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
Or add fresh perfume to the violet." 

This version by no means improves the original, which 
is as follows : 



" To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. 
To throw aperfume on the violet, &c. 



King John. 



A great poet, quoting another, should be correct ; he 
should also be accurate when he accuses a Parnassian 
brother of that dangerous charge "borrowing:" a poet 
had better borrow any thing (excepting money) than 
the thoughts of another — they are always sure to be 
reclaimed ; but it is very hard, having been the lender, 
to be denounced as the debtor, as is the case of Anstey 
versus Smollett. 

As there is " honour among thieves," let there be 
some among poets, and give each his due, — none can 
afford to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, 
with a high reputation for originahty, and a fame which 
cannot be shaken, is the only poet of the times (except 
Rogers) who can be reproached (and in him it is indeed 
a reproach) with having written too little. 



CANTO VI. 

Stanza Ijjxv. 
A " wood obscure,^^ like that where Dante found. 
" Nel mezio del cammin' di nostra vita 
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, &c. &c. d.c. 



CANTO VII. 

Stanza li. 
IVas teaching his recruits to ttse the bayonet. 
Fact: SouvarofF did this in person. 



CANTO VIII. 

Note 1. Stanza viii. 
All sounds itpierceth, ''Allah! Allah! HuP' 
"Allah! Hu!" is properly the war-cry of the Mus- 
sulmans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which 
gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 

Note 2. Stanza ix. 
" Carnage {so Wordsworth tells you) is GocTs daughter." 

" But thy most dreaded instrument 

In working out a pure intent. 
Is man array'd for mutual slaughter ; 
Yea, Carnage is thy daughter I" 

WORDSW^ORTH'S Thanksgiving Ode. 

To wit, the Deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 

Sedigree for murder" as ever was found out by Garter- 
ling-at-arms. — What would have been said, had any 
free-spoken people discovered such a lineage ? 



Note 3. Stanza xviii. 

Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 

A fact: see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect re 
marking at the time to a friend : — " There is fame ! a 
man is killed — his name is Grose, and they print it 
Grove." I was at College with the deceased, who was 
a very amiable and clever man, and his society in great 
request for his wit, gayety, and " chansons ci boire." 

Note 4. Stanza xxiii. 

As any other notion, and not national. 

See Major Valiancy and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 

Note 5. Stanza xxv. 
''T is pity ''that such meanings should pave hell." 
The Portuguese proverb says that "Hell is paved 
with good intentions." 

Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon J 
Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this 
friar. 

Note 7, Stanza xlvii. 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 

They were but two feet high above the level. 

Note 8. Stanza xcvii. 

That you and I will win Saint George's collar. 

The Russian military order. 

Note 9. Stanza cxxxiii. 

(Powers 
Eternal ! such names mingled !) " Ismail 'a ours !" 
In the original Russian — 

" Slava bogu ! slava vam ! 
Krepost Vzala, y ia tam." 

A kind of couplet ; for he uias a poet. 



CANTO IX. 

Note 1. Stanza i. 
Humanity would rise, and thunder " ^ay !* 
Query, Ney ? — Printer's Devil. 
Note 2. Stanza vi. 
And send the sentinel before your gate 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals. 

"1 at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with four 
others. — We were sent to break biscuit, and make a 
mess for Lord Wellington's hounds. I was very hun- 
gry, and thought it a good job at the time, as we got our 
own fill while we broke the biscuit, — a thing I had not 
got for some days. When thus engaged, the Prodigal 
Son was never once out of my mind ; and I sighed, as 
I fed the dogs, over my humble situation and my ruined 
hopes." — Journal of a Soldier of the list Regt. during 
the war in Spain. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
Because he could no more digest his dinner. 
He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had 
been exasperated, by his extreme costivity, to a degree 
of insanity. 

Note 4. Stanza xlvii. 
And had ju^t buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
He was the " grande passion" of the grande Cathe- 
rine. — See her Lives, under the head of "Lanskoi." 

Note 5. Stanza xlix. 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry'' sj\larquess show 
His parts of speech. 
This was written long before the suicide of that per- 
son. 

Note 6. Stanza Ixiii. 
Your "fortune" was in a fair way " to swell 
A man^^ as Giles says. 



i 



I 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



617 



" His fortune swells him, it is rank, he 's married." — 
Sir Giles Overreach; Massinger. — See "Jl New 
Way to Pay Old Debts:' 



CANTO X. 

Note 1. Stanza xiii. 
Would scarcely join again the " reftmnadoes?' 
"Reformers," or rather "Reformed." The Baron 
Bradwardine, in Waverley, is authority for the word. 

Note 2. Stanza xv. 
The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt. 
Query, suit ? — Printer's Devil. 

Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
Balgounie's Brig^s black wall. 

The brig of Don, near the " auld toun" of Aberdeen, 
with its one arch and its black deep salmon stream be- 
low, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, 
though perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which 
made me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a 
childish delight, being an only son, at least by the 
mother's side. The saying, as recollected by me, was 
this — but I have never heard or seen it since I was nine 
years of age ; — 

" Brig of Balgounie, black 's your wa' ; 
Wi' a wife's ne son auda rnear's ae foal, 
Down ye shall fa'!" 

Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant 
Thy praise, hypocrisy 1 
A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power" of 
a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend Sidney 
Smith, sitting by a brother-clergyman at dinner, ob- 
served afterwards that his dull neighbour had a " twelve 
parsonpower" of conversation. 

Note 5. Stanza xxxvi. 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes like tanners. 
•*Hyde." — I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate 
word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble. 
Note 6. Stanza xlix. 
Was given to her favourite, and now bore his. 
The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied by 
the Emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which. 
Note 7. Stanza Iviii. 
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of'^Biron^^ 
In the Empress Anne's time, Biron her favourite as- 
sumed the name and arms of the " B irons" of Franco, 
which families are yet extant with that of England. 
There are still the daughters of Courland of that name; ; 
one of them I remember seeing in England in the bles- 
sed year of the Allies — the Duchess of S. — to whom 
the English Duchess of Somerset presented me as a 
namesake. 

Note 8. Stanza Ixn. ' 
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 
The greatest number flesh hath ever known, 
St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins worn Btill 
extant in 1816, and may bo so yet as niucn as ever. 

Note 9. Stanza Ixxxi. 
Who butchered half the earth, ami bullied Cothcr . 
India. America. 



CANTO XI. 

Note 1. Stanza xix. 

Wlio on a lark, with black-eyed Sid {his hlonunti) 

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing f 

The advance of science and of language has rm- 

dered it unnecessary to translate the above good und 

4C 



true English, spoken in its original purity by the select 
nobility and their patrons. The following is'a stanza of 
a song which was very popular, at least in my early 
days : — 

" On the high toby-gpice flash Uie muule, 
In spile of each gallowi olU scout ; 
If you at the spellkeii c^n'l hu»ilf , 
You 'II be hobbled in making a Clout. 
" Then your blowing will wax gallowt haughty, 
When she hears of your scaly mist:ike, 
She '11 surely turn snitch for the foriy, 
That her jack may be regular weight." 

If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal 
pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq. Professor of 
Pugilism ; who I trust still retains the strength and 
symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good 
humour, and athletic as well as mental accomplishments. 

Note 2. Stanza xxix. 
St. Jame^s Palace and St. James's ^Hells.^ 

" Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may 
now be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age I 
knew them pretty accurately, both "gold'' and'* silver." 
I was once nearly called out by an acquaintance, be- 
cause when he asked me where I thought that his 
soul would be found hereafter, I answered, " In Silver 
Hell." 

Note 3. Stanza xliii. 

and therefore even I won't aneni 

This subject quote. 
"Anent" was a Scotch phrase, meaning " concerning," 
— " with regard to." It lias been made English bv ino 
Scotch Novels ; and, as the Frenchman said — " if it 6e 
not, ought to be English." 

Note 4. Stanza xlix. 
TTie milliners who furnish " drapery misses.^* 

" Drapery misses" — This term is probably any thing 
now but a mystery. It was however almost so to me 
when I first returned from the East in 1811-1812. It 
means a pretty, a high-born, a fashionable younj; female, 
well instructed by Tier friends, and furnished by her 
milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
when married, by the husband. The riddle was first 
read to me by a young and pretty heiress, on my prais- 
ing the "drapery" of an ^^ untocheraC^ but "pretty vir- 
ginities" (like Mrs. Anne Page) of the then day, which 
has now been some years yesterday : — she a.ssured ino 
that the thing was common in London ; andashor own 
thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicitv of 
array, put any suspicion in iier own case out of the 
question, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. 
If necessary, authorities mii;lit be cited, in which case 
I could quote both " drapery" and the wearers. Let u« 
hope, however, that it is now obsolete. 

Note 5. Stanza \x. 
'T/.s strange the mind, that very Jlery particle, 
Should let itself be smif'tl otU by anarticU. 
' Divinx* particulam aurtc." 



CANTO xn. 

Note 1 . Stanza xix. 
Gitrs, uith Greek truth, tht nooi old Grmk |A« Ui. 

S('C MiTroKn'.i f/rrrrr. •'GrnM-ia Verax." Hi 
pleasure ronsists in praising tyranln, abiuini; Ph 

spclliiifj oddiv, and writing iiutt'inllv ; and, wf 

ufti-r all, /iMis till' best in««|rrii history ol < 
Ianj,Minf;e, nml he is perhaps the b.-'itnf a 
torians whatsoever. Hiiviii:' 
fair to stale hiti virHirs — !■ 
wrath, and partiality. 1 < i 
writer, because ihny make hmi wrn«« itieiuiif«L. 
Note 2. Stanra xxxvii. 
A hiuy wUlowrr tum'd of forty 'j lurt. 

Tins line nmy ptixxlr iJie commentators more tJ 
the present generation. 



618 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



Note 3. Stanza Ixxiii. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows. 

The Russians, as is well known, run out from their 

hot baths to plunge into the Neva : a pleasant practical 

antithesis, which it seems does them no harm. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxxii. 

TTie world to gaze upon those northern lights. 

For a description and print of this inhabitant of the 
polar region and native country of the aurora borealis, 
see Parry's Voyage in Search of the North-West Pas- 
sage. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
As Philip^s son proposed to do with Athos. 

A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a 
statue of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I be- 
lieve, a river in his pocket, with various other similar 
devices. But Alexander 's gone, and Athos remains, 
I trust, ere long, to look over a nation of freemen. 



CANTO Xill. 

Note 1. Stanza vii. . 
Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater.'" 
" Sir, I like a good hater." — See the Life of Dr. 
Johnson, &c. 

Note 2. Stanza xxvi. 
Also there bin another pious reason. 

" With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet arise." — Shakspeare. 

Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
TTiey and their bills " Arcadians both," are left. 
" Arcades ambo." ^ 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxi. 
Or vnlder group of savage Salvatore's. 
Salvator Rosa. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxii. 
His beU-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish. 
Jf I err not, "Your Dane" is one of lago's catalogue 
of nations " exquisite in their drinking." 

Note 6. Stanza Ixxviii. 
Even Nimrod^s self might leave the plains of Dura. 
In Assyria. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
" That Scriptures out of church are blasphemiesJ" 

" Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blas- 
phemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This 
dognia was broached to her husband — the best Chris- 
tian in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the latter 
chapters. 

Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb,in his gullet 
Should have a hook and a small trout to pull it. 

It would have taught him humanity at least. This 
sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (among 
the novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent 
sports and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and 
break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the 
art of angling, the cruelist,the coldest, and the stupidest 
of pretended sports. They may talk about the beau- 
ties of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish 
of fish ; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the 
streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than all 
the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a 
rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery 
have somewhat of noble and perilous in them ; even 
netfishing, trawling, &c. are more humane and useful 
— ^but angling ! — No angler can be a good man. 

" One of the best men I ever knew — as humane, deli- 
cate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as 



any in the world — was an angler : true, he angled with 
pamted flies, and would have been incapable of the 
extravagances of I. Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
over the MS. — " Audi alteram partem" — I leave it to 
counterbalance ray own observation. 



CANTO XIV. 

Note 1. Stanza xxxiii. 
And never craned, and made but few " faux pas." 
Craning. — " To crane''' is, or was, an expression used 
to denote a gentleman's stretching out his neck over a 
hedge, "to look before he leaped:" — a pause in his 
" vaulting ambition," which in the field doth occasion 
some delay and execration in those who may be imme- 
diately behind the equestrian skeptic. " Sir, if you 
don't choose to take the leap, let me" — was a phrase 
which generally sent the aspirant on again ; and to good 
purpose : for though " the horse and rider" might fall, 
they made a gap, through which, and over him and his 
steed, the field might follow. 

Note 2. Stanza xlviii. 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 

In Swift's or Horace Walpole's Letters, I think 
it is mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of a 
friend, was answered by a universal Pylades : " When 
I lose one, I go to the Saint James's Coffee-house, and 
take another." 

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same 
kind. Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in 
one day to the club of which ne was a member, he 
was observed to look melancholy. " What is the mat- 
ter. Sir William ?" cried Hare, of facetious memory. 
"Ah!" replied Sir W. "I have just lost poor LadyD." 
" Lost! What ! at — Quinze or Hazard T was the con- 
solatory rejoinder of the querist. 

Note 3. Stanza Hx. 
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiem. 
The famous Chancellor Oxensliern said to his son, 
on the latter expressing his surprise upon the great 
effects arising from petty causes in the presumed mys- 
tery of politics : " You see by this, my son, with how 
little wisdom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 



CANTO XV 

Note 1. Stanza xviii. 
Arui Thou, Dviner still, 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 

As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity^' 
say, that I mean, by "Diviner still," Christ. If 
ever God was Man — or Man God — he was both. I 
never arraigned his creed, but the use — or abuse — made 
of it. Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to 
sanction Negro Slavery, and Mr. Wilberforce had little 
to say in reply. And was Christ crucified, that black 
men might be scourged? If so, he had better been born 
a Mulatto, to give both colours an equal chance of free- 
dom, or at least salvation. 

Note 2. Stanza xxxv. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage 

In his harmonious settlement. 
This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 
"Shakers" do; but lays such restrictions upon it as 
prevent more than a certain quantum of birtns within a 
certain number of years ; which births (as Mr. Hulme 
observes) generally arrive "in ahttle flock like those of 
a farmer s lambs, all within the same month perhaps." 
These Harmonists (so called from the name of their set- 
tlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, 
pious, and quiet people . See the various recent writers 
on America. ^ 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



Note 3. Stanza xxxviii. 
JVor canvass what "so eminent a hand^ meant. 
Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accu& 
tomed to call his writers "able pens" — "persons of 
honour," and especially " eminent hands." Vide corre- 
spondence, &c., &c. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixvi. 
While great Lucullus' robe triumph ale muffles — 
( There's Cdime)— young partridge JiUets, deck'd with truffles, 

A dish "a la Lucullus." This hero, who conquered 
the East, has left his more extended celebrity to the 
transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into 
Europe) and the nomenclature of some very good 
dishes; — and I am not sure that (barring indigestion) 
he has not done more service to mankind by his cookery 
than by his conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh 
against a bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to 
earn celebrity from both. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixviii. 
But even sans "conjitures" it no less true is. 
There 's pretty picking in those '^ petits puits. 
"Petits puits d'amour garnis de confitures," a classi- 
cal and well-known dish for part of the flank of a 
second course. 

Note 6. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
For that with me's a'^ sine qua.^ 
Subauditur '^ Non," omitted for the sake of euphony. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
In shorty upon that subject I 'ue some qualms very 
Like those of the Philosopher of Malmsbury. 
Hobbes ; who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
<cornpliment to the souls of other people as to decline 
.their visits, of which he had some apprehension. 



619 



Note 3. Stanza ilv. 
fViih « Tu mi chamax' s" from PortingaU, 
To sooth our ears, lest Italy shouUlfail. 
I renriember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 
similar display from foreign 



somewhat surfeited with 



CANTO XVI. 

Note 1. Stanza x. 

If from a shellfish or from cochineal. 

The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
from a shellfish, or from cochineal, or from kcrmes, 
is still an article of dispute ; and even its colour — some 
say purple, others scarlet : I say nothing. 

Note 2. Stanza xliii. 

For a spoiVd carpet — but the '* Attic Bce'^ 
Was much consoled by his own repartee. 

I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes (rod, 
with — "Thus I tramnle on the pride of Plato I" — 
"With greater pride," as the other replied. But as 
carpets are meant to be trodden upon, my memory pro- 
bably misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tajn'siry, 
or a tablecloth, or some other expensive and uncynical 
piece of furniture. 



parts, did rather indecorously break through the ap- 
plauses of an intelligent audience— intelli<ient, I mean 
as to music —for the words, besides being m recondite 
languages (it was some years before the pcarp ere all 
the world had travelled, and while I was a colu'<rian)— 
were sorely disguised by the performers ;— this mayor- 
ess, I say, broke out with, "Rot vour Ilalianos! for my 
part, I loves a simple ballat !" Rossini will ho a good 
way to bring most people to the same opinion som*- dav. 
Who would imagine that he was to be the successor of 
Mozart ? However, I state this with diffidence, as a 
liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and 
of much of Rossini's: but we mav sav, as the connois- 
seur did of painting, in the Vtrar aflVnkefeld, " ihat 
the picture would be better painted if the painter had 
taken more pains." 

Note 4. Stanza lix. 
For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
" Ausu Romano, sere Veneto" is the inscription (and 
well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls be- 
tween the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a re- 
publican work of the Venetians ; the inscription, I be- 
lieve, imperial, and inscribed by Napoleon 

Note 5. Stanza Ix. 
« Untying'' squires " tofght against the ckurdie$*' 
" Though ye untie the winds, and bid them fight 
Against the churches.'' — Macbeth. 

Note 6. Stanza xcvu. 

They err — 't is merely what is called mobility. 

In French " mobilite." I am not sure that mobility 

is English ; but it is expressive of a quality which 

rather belongs to other climates, though it is sometimes 

seen to great extent in our own. It may be defined as an 

excessive susceptibility of immediate' impressions at 

the same time without losing the past ; and is, though 
sometimeApparcntly useful to the possessor, a most 
painful mM unhappy attribute. 

Note 7. Stanza cii. 

Drapcried her form u-ith airioiu felicity. 

"Curiosa felicitas.'' — Petromus Arbiter. 

Note 8. Stanza cxiv. 

A noise like two wclfSngers drawn on gla*s. 

See the acrotint of the ghost of the unrlo of Prince 

Charles of Saxony, raised by Schrocpfer — "Karl 

Karl — was — wait woll micii ?" 

Note 9. Stanza cxx. 
Ifoiv odiL, a sini;le hobgohlin'a nonentity 
S/ujuld cause more fear Vuin a whole hont'g identity ! 



Have struck more terror to lli. 
Than can ihc substance of ten tli 



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